Baby Marlie waddled up to Mitch and begin to kiss his face. The chief cardiologist allowed her to be smuggled past security so she could perform some puppy therapy. It worked every time.
This little boy and puppy had only met about two weeks prior and were already the best of friends. To look at video footage of these two reveals something that was hiding in plain sight; though she was a baby pup herself, she seemed to recognize something was different with Mitch. She treated him with a tenderness and care that was unique and startlingly obvious. Almost maternal. The circumstances of adopting this puppy were heaven-sent, and I’ll write of that another day. But one thing was clear: this little dog was on a mission of mercy … and not a day passes that I don’t thank my Father for it.
Until that sacred evening of my son’s passing, this little dog played an important role in comforting my son. This little puppy was a tender mercy to our boy. Today, Marlie serves my dear wife, who has a broken heart of a different kind. When Natalie is especially sad, Marlie seems to notice, just like she did with Mitch, and makes a visible effort to comfort her. Often, I can’t help but cry tears of gratitude when I see the little mercies in my life and in the lives of those I love.
Tonight, as I lay my head to sleep, I will greet the night unafraid ... my heart overflowing with gratitude. Gratitude for the little mercies and the big ones, too. For we have a Father who cares about the little things - evidence He loves me and you.
Mitch lowered his head into his lap, tired of hospital visits and anxious to go home to his friends and family. My son looked to his future with youthful enthusiasm; yet, what he thought was a beautiful sunrise on the horizon of his life was in reality, a darkening sunset. As his parents, we knew time was running out … we saw the sunset but didn’t want to frighten our son. So, we just held him and loved him the best we knew how and kept that terrible reality from his tender mind as long as we could. Medicine was failing us. Medical bureaucracy and antiquated transplant policies failed us. We hoped and prayed something might slow the destruction of his heart from DMD – but such was not the case. Last minute interventions were too little, too late.
I suppose there are a million and one reasons I could be angry with people, medical systems and God for all that has happened. But I am not. I am only grateful. I am grateful for what I did have; for I had a chance to love my little child for 10 amazing years. He became my friend and I became his student. Though I was his father, he taught me more than I ever hoped to teach him.
On my son’s journey through life and death there were many times I cried out in my mind and heart, “Oh, Father, this hurts. Where are you?” After my son passed away, my world darkened by a veil of grief and sorrow – such that I wondered when the night might end. I wondered if it would ever end … for I had never known a darkness so pitch. A grief so heavy. Behind my smile was a broken, weary soul stumbling over pebbles.
Two years later I can say with confidence the darkness fades and strength returns. In fact, light and life return. That is not to say I am over grief - because I’m not. Some days are as dark with sorrow as any day I’ve ever known. Grief is a chronic condition that I’m learning to live with. Yet, I’ve learned to carry grief in ways that won’t injure other parts of me. For that I’m grateful.
The question I hear over and over from others on Mitchell’s Journey is “Why?” I’m not sure it’s entirely possible to know why we experience what we do. When hardships come some people get swallowed up in rage and self-destruct. Others blame God for their suffering – as though they should be the only human exception from pain and sorrow. And there are others who insist a loving God wouldn’t let us hurt – therefore He must not exist, or that He is cruel and unkind. There are so many ways to look at pain and suffering. So many ways to learn from it, or run from it.
I shared this in an earlier post: “Whether we settle the question ‘Is God the author of our suffering?’ or not, is immaterial. If our suffering is caused by other means … be it our own poor judgement or the bad choices of others, or perhaps our suffering is just a result of life in motion … the fact of the matter is God could stop our suffering if He wanted to. That He doesn’t sends the most important message of all.”
There is an ancient account of three God-fearing men who were to be thrown into a fiery furnace if they didn’t denounce their faith before an unscrupulous king. They boldly replied they would not. They also told the king (Nebuchadnezzar) that they believed God would protect them, but if not, they would remain true.
But if not … those are easy words to say in Sunday School, Shabbat, or from a pulpit or stage. It is only when we utter those words in our own wilderness of afflictions that the true lesson and test begins. What I’ve learned is we cannot escape hardship: but we can learn and grow from it or we can revile and shrink because of it. I will not shrink.
I believe life is hard because we are meant to become strong as well as good. Despite my heavenward pleas to spare my son, a little boy I loved with all of my heart, I now find myself on the other side of that phrase “but if not.” What I do next with my reality matters. I can shake my fist at the heavens in anger – but that won’t change heaven, it will only change me … for the worse. Or, I can take a knee and plead for understanding and wisdom. I can pray for a soft heart and discerning eyes … to see past mortality’s deceiving guise. For when I hear the terrible ring of death’s loud toll, I am reminded to worry less about the body and more about the soul.
About to speak to another medical community. My address is entitled: What Happens on the Other Side of Medicine.
Without realizing it, my sweet wife often put her hand on Mitchell’s chest as if to somehow read, like fingers tumbling over braille, the fatal secrets his body held. We were waiting to learn the news about Mitchell’s heart and expecting to hear all was well and that the therapies put in place earlier that spring were working.
A few minutes after this photo Mitchell’s mild-mannered cardiologist entered the examination room and invited our daughter to take Mitch on a stroll down the hall so we could have a conversation. He would then tell us he was gravely concerned Mitch was at risk of sudden death because his heart function was dangerously low. We immediately petitioned the medical board for Mitch to qualify for a heart transplant. A few weeks later he would be denied because it was thought his diagnosis of DMD was a contraindication to transplant.
It was Halloween that night and Mitch was excited to trick-or-treat. He would only visit a few close neighbors before he became too weary to carry on. Mitch was always careful to ration his candy and never ate it in excess. In my estimation, restraint is a hallmark of maturity – and Mitch had a great deal of restraint and self-discipline. In truth, Mitch was most excited to go home and give candy to kids who came to our door – for he much preferred giving than receiving. To me, that was a beautifully quite measure of this young boy’s heart – for he would rather give than receive.
When I think of my dear wife and son, both with broken hearts – I change a little on the inside. I care less about things of the world and outward appearances and I ponder deeply on matters of the heart. For matters of the heart are also matters of the soul. In the end, those are the only things that matter.
A few months later, as Mitch began to slip into the abyss while at the hospital, then home on hospice; Tyson Breckenridge an old High School friend, collaborated with another old friend, Tyler Streeter, who has become a talented artist. Together they selected a photograph of my son and Tyler began the labor of love by paining my son’s likeness. Our family was so wrapped up in the calamity of our son’s failing heart and then his death we didn't know they were performing such a kind gesture of love and service. Then, one day, a not long after my son had passed I received a package in the mail with a handwritten letter. Tyler wrote, “It is so ironic to me that a young boy with a malfunctioning heart could fill so many other hearts with so much love.” He continued to describe how painting my son was an emotional experience for him and that he cried many times while painting my boy.
I wept when I read his letter. I even wept today when I read his words again. This gift from these two great men was more than an original painting … it was a gift from the heart and soul. I will forever be indebted to them for their kindness. The original paining, so artfully crafted by Tyler and lovingly orchestrated by Tyson, now hangs in our home on a very special wall, in a very special room. Tyler entitled the painting, “The Gift.” You can see a beautiful time-lapse video of the painting here: www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nxsptlwyk8E
A title aptly given … for if none else, Mitchell was at least a gift to me. As a young child I never considered that a gift might hurt. It never entered my mind that a hardship as heavy as losing my son might break me in places I didn't know existed, yet still be a gift. Who would have thought such strange things? Indeed, heavens ways are not our ways … and as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are God’s ways higher than our ways … His thoughts, than our thoughts.
Heaven’s gifts aren't always easy to see; they hide in plain sight or obscured by our vanity. What’s more, our Father’s gifts aren't always comfortable or easy – sometimes they hurt or bring us to our knees. That’s the gift! That’s what I've learned, you see: sometimes heaven is only as far away as our knees. A gift my son and broken heart would painfully teach me.