This morning we were visited by a woman we met through #mitchellsjourney as Mitch was beginning to die. Her son passed away a few years prior and because of her hardship, she was uniquely prepared to help us navigate the process of death and dying. I spoke of her in my funeral address and described her as a lamp unto our feet as the path before us was dark and very scary.
In town from her home state of Alaska, she had visited us once before about, a year after Mitchell passed away. That, also, was a tender exchange.
Today was a reunion just as sweet as these two mothers joined hearts in loss and love. Laurel, this kind stranger-turned-friend gave Natalie a children's book that had a most beautiful message about the love a mother has for her child. The book is entitled, "Mamma, do you love me?"
As she read the book to Natalie they both cried, and I sat on the couch next to them and cried with them. I will always marvel at the beauty and power of motherhood.
Mitch had just finished having an annual checkup at Shriners Hospital. I was there with my wife to let Mitch know I loved and supported him. With very few exceptions, I was always there. I never wanted my son to turn around and see and empty chair where his daddy should have been. I wanted him to know I was with him every step of the way. It has always been that way … until his very last day.
As we were leaving the hospital I asked young Mitch if he’d like to go to work with me. He smiled softly and nodded yes. My heart leapt from my chest.
While driving to the office an old friend and colleague who owns a simulation business asked if I could stop by his office to discuss some upcoming projects. I told him I had my son with me but that I’d be glad to. He was not at all bothered to have my little one around – in fact, he welcomed it. This good man was a father, too, and had the same family values I held so dearly.
We met briefly in his conference room and discussed some matters at hand. Sensing business could wait and that there was more important things to do, Reg leaned forward toward Mitch and said, “Hey Mitch, do you want to drive a real simulator?” Mitch was shy and didn’t want to intrude – but the little gamer in him desperately wanted to drive a real simulator. With that, my colleague and friend escorted Mitch to a warehouse attached to the back of his office. This was where he built prototypes. This good man and successful entrepreneur recognized an opportunity to lift a little boy’s heart and expand his horizons.
To think he took time for Mitch, to let my boy know he mattered enough to take time out for him … that warms my heart and soul. It stirs within me a desire to do more of that for others. He didn’t just give Mitch a gift that day … Reg gave me a gift; a gift that still comforts me to this day. I can still see in my mind the smile on my son’s face as we drove out of his parking lot. Mitch said, “Dad, that was awesome!”
Fast-forward a few years and I received an email from this good man … almost exactly a year after my son had passed. He said he felt prompted to send me a message that might bring comfort to my heart – a heart he knew was weary with grief.
“Dear Chris,
I hope I am not trespassing on your privacy. I have been thinking of you this month and was prompted to write this that it may offer some comfort to you to know that your well-being is thought of by others …”
The letter continued to offer compassion and then he recounted some of his own experience with grief and loss.
He described how he was in Heathrow Airport after completing a project in England and was about to begin his journey home. Prior to his flight, Pan Am located him and told him to call home immediately. He then learned his youngest twin daughter, Valerie, had passed away. I wept as I read his words … how he described his feelings of helplessness, guilt, vulnerability and so many other emotional horrors I knew all too well. My tears didn’t spring because of my own loss … I cried because of his. I knew his heartbreak and I was so sorry to hear how much he hurt. My tears were tears of empathy and compassion. Yet, in his very message, he was doing the same for me.
Once again, I experienced the supernal doctrine of mourning with those that mourn. What a powerful principle of hope, healing and a taste of heaven above … to care enough to feel another’s hurt and love.
The more I examine my life, the more I’m convinced everything matters. From trivial pursuits to things of deep importance … everything matters. The key is in knowing and pursuing what matters more. The most trivial of pursuits matter, not because they are important, but because they have the potential to keep us from things that matter more. Even still, when I consider all the things I feel are important, they are not all equal: the fact is, some important things matter more than others.
I hope to always have discerning eyes – so I can know the difference. I am grateful for good friends, like Reg, who have compassionate hearts and good souls … who remind me to take time for things that really matter. In the end, that is all that really matters.
At about 8:15 last night we had a special visitor at our door. This was the woman from Alaska I spoke of in my funeral address. We were excited to meet her in person, for she played an unexpected but important role during our darkest hours. Once a lamp unto our feet, as the path we tread was dark and treacherous, this compassionate woman was now a light to our weary hearts.
After we spoke for while we showed her Mitchell’s room which has been relatively untouched since the time of his passing. I stood in deep reverence of these two mothers who loved and lost their boys. While my heart cries out in agony over the loss of my son, I recognize that a mother’s pain is different and deeper than that of a father’s. For they gave their child life and carried them in ways only a mother knows.
A little over a year ago I sat at the foot of this very bed, trembling and in tears as my son was sick and dying. It was in this very place we received emails from this inspired woman who offered insight and council that came from her own experience.
It seemed rather poetic that this woman, once a stranger to us; a woman who spoke peace to our hearts during the darkest time in our lives was finally in that same room. The thought of such a reunion had never entered my heart or crossed my mind. Yet there she was, once again, like a gift from heaven.
Why do we suffer? Why do we stumble and fall? So we can learn the deeper meaning of love, compassion and service. For without such, we wouldn't know much at all.
My heavy heart once hung by a single tattered thread. Now it hangs by a thousand threads of light. A thousand tender mercies … a thousand things that give me sight.
Yesterday I was with the people I love, honoring a little boy I love.
My in-laws and extended family met at the cemetery to honor and remember little Mitch. I was glad to see everyone – and it was nice to see them go out of their way to show they cared – but my heart was tender. I think it will always be tender for as long as I live. It always seems that tears are just a thought away. I guess that’s part of grief and I’m learning to accept it.
We gathered around Mitchell’s headstone and my father-in-law passed around a bag of salt & vinegar chips (Mitchell’s favorite). To each was given a chip and then shared something they remembered about our son. We all laughed and cried as we reminisced about this neat little boy that had found his way into everyone’s heart. I quietly put my sunglasses on to hide my eyes that had become red and filled with tears. I didn't want anyone to stop sharing for fear they were upsetting me. I wanted to hear what people remembered.
My sweet wife smiled and was gracious to everyone, but I could see beneath her smile a broken heart that missed her baby boy. My heart broke for her, too. But we kept our chins up and we remembered the sweet times.
At some point two of Mitchell’s aunts, Sonya and Mindy, reminded me of our last Thanksgiving with Mitch. We had all gathered at the grandparents’ home and sat around their living room, each sharing what we were thankful for. When it was Mitchell’s turn he said in his quiet and humble voice, “I’m thankful for life.” The moment they reminded me what my son said, everything came back to me and I remembered it, too … and my heart fell to the grass.
I think somewhere deep down Mitch knew his life would be shorter than most. Actually, I know Mitch knew it, but he didn't realize what he knew. Perhaps that is why he valued life so much. If my son valued life, I will value it, too.
I wish I could have learned some of life’s lessons a different way … I wish my broken son didn't have to teach me what it means to be whole. Although I miss my son, I have so much to be thankful for and I will not waste another moment of my life. I will live for my family. I will live for my son.