It was cold and snowy outside when we heard a tap on our front door. It was Rodney Thornell, a neighbor and friend who lived just a few blocks away. Standing beside him was his own puppy whose face peered upward with the innocence of a sweet child. Rodney and his family named their dog Dragon. Mitch thought that was neat because he loved dragons … and puppies. Mitch later told me, “Dad, what a cool idea. If I get another dog, I want to do the same thing.”
This good man, knowing our son was home on hospice and running out of time, came to our home to cheer Mitch up and offer a smile or two. Mitch laughed and laughed as he watched his tiny puppy bark and jump about as if she were a credible match to her much larger play friend. In Marlie’s mind, she was as big as or bigger than Dragon. It didn’t matter that Dragon’s head was about as big as Marlie’s entire body – she had made up her mind and that was it.
Unaware of his size and relative strength, Dragon’s playful paw would knock Marlie over and she would summersault forward a time or two. Like a snowflake or tiny ninja, Marlie would bounce back to her bitty paws as if nothing happened and go at it again with her adorable little bark. She was a fighter. Just like Mitch.
Mitch loved to watch those dogs play – and so did we.
I don’t think this good man knows what he did for our family and especially little Mitch. He could have sat on the other side of his computer screen, watching our posts and feeling after us. He might have also offered a prayer or two on our behalf. Instead, this good man, who happened to also be our family dentist and had cared for our son’s teeth in previous years, cared also for his heart and soul. He served our family with love and compassion. It is amazing how a little love can lift a broken heart and soul.
Rodney was always kind and considerate to our family. He never stayed too long; just enough to lift our son’s spirits, then he was on his way. He came a few times – which really meant a lot to our family - especially Mitch.
I remember walking him to the door on his last visit before little Mitch passed away. I had a sinking feeling in my heart that would be the last time little Mitch would see them. I swallowed the lump in my throat as my friend walked away. Later that night I prayed that his family would be blessed 1,000-fold for the goodness he showed us.
There is a saying (there are many variations) that goes something like this: “In all things, teach others about [God], and when necessary, use words.” I am grateful for my neighbor, friend and family dentist who taught me heavenly things… not through words, but quiet deeds.
When Mitch was a chubby little boy he injured his hand. It wasn't serious, but tiny Mitch thought it was so Natalie lovingly wrapped his hand in cotton wraps to let him know she cared and that everything was going to be okay. These bandages were to his hand what his blankies were to his heart and soul.
I remember sitting on the floor in Mitchell’s room watching his dimpled fingers move carefully to make sure everything was okay. I marveled at the miracle of life – for there was a little boy I helped create. How could it be? Just a few years prior he didn’t exist and my heart was none the wiser. Yet there he was – this miracle of life and love. I marveled how this little child could come into my life and not divide my love, but multiply it. Not a day passes I don’t thank my God for my children … for trusting me with His children.
Mitch was so concerned about the pain he felt and whether he would even heal. As his father, I could tell he was young and didn't know what I did. To my sweet baby boy, his injury was the end of the world … for all he knew at that moment was pain. But, having a little more life experience than my son, I could see things he couldn't and I assured him the pain would pass and that he would look back and be better because of it.
Sure enough, a few hours passed and the throbbing pain that had him so concerned disappeared like a cloud on a summer day. All was sunny and well. Mitch, too, understood the importance of not putting his hand in things that could hurt him. He was, indeed, wiser because of that experience. Though it pained me to see my son in sorrow, I did my best to help him learn from that experience and assure him things would be okay.
Losing my son has introduced a pain that goes far beyond the reach of man and medicine. I wish there were mortal bandages to soothe the pains of death. Suddenly the tables have turned and I find myself in a great deal of pain, carefully moving here and there to make sure everything is going to be okay. Like Mitch was back then, I am the child this time, learning lessons from my Father. I hope I’m listening. I hope. And though I stumble and fall a million times, though I may disappoint Him because of things I should have done better or known better, I keep trying. I know He still loves me as I loved my son.
When I see this photo of Mitchell’s little hands my heart swells with great love and deep sorrow. I remember that I, too, am a child learning how to be a better person tomorrow.
I had no idea a few years from the time of this tender photo, years that would pass by in the blink of an eye, that I would hold these same, tender hands in the quiet of night and whisper into my son’s ear to not be afraid. That I would softly tell him how proud I was of the young man he had become … and that one day, when I grow up, I want to be like my son.
These tender hands, so innocent and pure, were put through hardship I wouldn’t understand for a few more years. Looking back now I know, my son was here to teach me how to learn and grow … to worry less about the body and more upon the soul.
I cannot help but think about what it means to hurt and to heal. It is a painful process and oh, so real. But like I tried to teach my son, and my Father is now teaching me, that the pain I feel shall one day pass and soon I shall see.
About a year ago I was on a flight to some place. I remember looking out the window and taking this photo of the arid landscape I called home. I then looked forward into the cabin of the plane and I saw over a hundred people sitting in their chairs flipping through magazines, scrambling with digital devices, working through puzzles, watching movies and engaging in various conversations.
There was no way to know what personal challenges each passenger was dealing with, but my guess was many of them worried and struggled because they’re human, but few of them were in crisis. Many of them seemed anxious to get to their destination so they could move on with their life. I then looked out the window again and wondered how my life could continue. I missed my son and the weight of grief loomed heavy on my soul. It felt like the weight of a million planets tugging with sorrows pull.
The once familiar desert 30,000 feet below felt foreign. The passengers all around me felt like strangers from a distant land. The world around me seemed so provincial. The mad dash for wealth, material things and the endless distractions that turns life into a numbing dream … all of it rang hollow. The meaning of life was suddenly monumental. I didn't care about anything but my wife and family and my heart ached deeply for my fallen son.
Yesterday I spoke with a man who runs the world’s largest grief organization. He asked me to be one of their keynote speakers at their next conference a few months from now. As we spoke he asked me how I was holding up and I responded that the answer to that question depends on the day, and sometimes the moment. He, being no stranger to grief, said he understood exactly what I was saying.
Today I find myself between two worlds: Earth, the world I once knew before losing my son … where the gravity of everyday life was tolerable and familiar; and the world after, where I found myself walking on Jupiter, struggling to live and breathe under the crushing gravity of grief. I live somewhere between those two places. Neither are home and I don’t sense they ever again will be, but I frequent them often.
At least for me, grief has evolved … more accurately, I have evolved. My grief hasn't changed ... it is still very difficult. The pain of my son’s death is just as soul crushing today as it was the day I lost him. It isn't difficult because I think about it, you see – it is difficult because it happened and he is no longer with me. In many ways, I miss him even more today than I did a year ago. However, my ability to carry grief has changed. I don’t know how or why, all I know is my grief journey is entering a new phase.
In 2015 I will be writing more stories of Mitch and his journey, for I have many, many to share. I will also be writing about the evolution of grief and our family’s journey through the shadows of death and how we are learning to find a new normal.
I am no longer afraid of going to sleep or waking into feelings of terror – though I regularly experience moments of terror. I no longer cry every day – though I still have frequent, intense moments of weeping. And though at times my eyes may seem dry, rest assured that my soul still cries.
For as long as I love my son, grief will be my constant companion - so I am learning to co-exist.
While he was living, I don’t think little Mitch knew how much his life meant to me. I've discovered it isn't possible for our children to know how much they are loved. It seems one has to become a parent to truly understand the depths of that kind of heavenly love.
As I find myself between two worlds, I am learning to take up residence here. I can see things today that I have never before seen … for grief has changed my sense of being. Strangely, though I ache for my son, I find this new place, though painful at times, a heavenly one. Now, if only I could hold my son …
A few years ago our extended family had a reunion in Mexico. Our generous step-father and grandfather sponsored the trip as a means to spend time together and create memories.
On this occasion, we were at the Cenote in Chichén Itzá, Mexico. Imagine a giant underground pool of water several hundred feet beneath the surface and surrounded in the hardest stone. Were you to look upward you would see the sky, jungle trees and vines draping downward to the water. The water below was exceedingly deep and dark, but it was fresh water and a nice break from the intense heat.
We helped Mitch descend a stair path until we reached a stone platform about 10 feet from the waterline. Natalie, wanting Mitch to have a life full of experience asked if he wanted to jump into the water, she said, “I’ll go with you.” Mitch gladly accepted the invitation. Mitch was afraid of nothing, save dying. I think he only feared death, not because of what would happen over there, but because he didn't want to miss out on everything happening here. Mitch loved life. He often commented how glad he was to be alive. And to think how oft I have lived and never really been alive. Because of my sweet son, I am changed.
I'll never forget the look on Mitchie’s face after he came out of the water. He had the biggest smile because he conquered another one of life’s challenges. Fellow swimmers helped Mitch and Natalie climb the rope ladder so he could jump in once more. Mitch loved this experience. He was so happy to have dove into the water with his mom and he talked about it for a long time.
I love this image because it is symbolic of how my wife and son lived. Mitch loved life and was always up for an adventure. My dear wife postponed any convenience, if necessary, to teach our children discipline, a sound work ethic and to enjoy everything life has to offer. This image exactly depicts my noble, loving wife seeking ways to help our disabled son drink life in; always by his side, always holding his hand.
The night Mitch passed away I remember my wife holding his hand in a similar manner – it was firm and loving, tender and assuring. Only that time she couldn't jump with Mitch. She stood beside our little boy on the edge of a different dark water … a place wherein one cannot see, at least with mortal eyes. Natalie loved our little boy and let him know he would be okay – for soon he would jump to that other place.
It wasn't but a few days earlier Natalie wept at the side of his bed, thinking Mitch was asleep when he awoke and said, “It’s okay Mommy.” I will forever be in awe of the strength and nobility of this little boy … who set aside his own fears to comfort his mother. I am quite certain that was a jump he did not want to make – but he loved his mommy enough to help her feel better.
Mitch lives. He doesn't live because I write of him and that his memory is in the hearts and minds of people. He is not an idea or a memory. He lives as an actual being, a person of consciousness: a child of God who lives on – as will all of us after we leave this mortal state. I know this. I only wish such knowledge took the pain of separation and loss away – but it doesn't. It gives context to loss and sorrow, but it doesn't give us immunity from pain. I miss my 10-year-old son. I want him back and I cannot have him and my heart is greatly pained therewith.
Yet, to look upon this image gives me fresh courage to live a full life and drink the moments in the best I can. I want to live a life like Mitch lived – fearlessly facing life’s adventures and doing it with those I love. If my little son could face all manner of unknowns with such bravery, so can I. And then there’s my sweet wife … a woman I will always love and honor because of the way she lives and loves.
I am grateful for these two beautiful examples in my life: my wife for endlessly severing and loving and my son for his bravery and selflessness – which selflessness at the end of his life was a bravery of a much nobler sort.