Over the Christmas break I took some time off … pretty much everything. I didn't post much here or anywhere. I still captured a lot of photos – but my mind and attention were on my family.
Natalie prepared a fabulous candlelight meal Christmas Eve. As we sat in our dining room I noticed a place set for Mitch, right next to me … where he always sat. Never a chair felt as empty as that chair did that night. I didn't say anything, but I noticed it. I think everyone quietly noticed it. Sometimes, in the rush of routines, we forget and set six places at the dinner table. This time it was deliberate. This time it was quiet act of love, a yearning of the heart, that somehow our little son might join us, sight unseen. And if not, it served as a memorial to a little boy we all loved and missed – and whose company we dearly wished.
As we ate our meal, everyone took turns telling each other what we loved about one another. It was a tender time and I loved to hear my kids talk so kindly about their siblings. Sometimes when our children fight or argue, I worry. But alas, my heart swelled when I heard Laura-Ashley sincerely compliment her younger brothers; I was proud of Ethan as we listened to him offer thoughtful observations and gestures of love toward his siblings; and I loved to hear Wyatt express his love for everyone in his young, unique way. Natalie and I both took turns, too, telling our kids what we admired and loved about them. Of all the gifts we shared that holiday, the gift of love was chief among them.
At the end we all took turns saying what we thought Mitch might have said about each one of us. We giggled a lot and cried a little. It was a beautiful night. I took a photo of the candle at the table and thought about Mitchie's last Christmas, two years prior. I then began to think about how fast, yet slow, time has already passed and how grief is no less punishing today as it was the day of his passing.
The truth about grief is it is a flame that cannot be extinguished. As long as I love, there will be fire. The difference is found in how I carry it. How I channel it.
Grief can either burn me or help me see. I choose to see.
We had a special visitor over the weekend whose circumstances in meeting us are more than coincidence. I have long wanted to do something special with Santa and Mitchell's Journey, and as providence would have it, the opportunity presented itself. I'll post this project before Christmas Eve.
When Santa entered Mitchell's room Marlie jumped on his bed, curious and cautiously protective ... for this was the sacred place she comforted Mitch when he passed away. To our family, there are few places more hallowed than this special room where I lost my son.
Santa was gentle and kind to this little tender mercy ... this little puppy, unaware the profound gift she was to our son and remains to our family.
As I watched this tender exchange I had to fight back the tears because Mitch loved Santa and he loved Marlie. Somewhere between these two kind souls was my son: a gift I once held in my arms and now hold in my broken heart.
In the two years leading up to Mitchell's death, he would come up to me and say, "Dad, can I help you make a Christmas video?" He didn't know how to make graphics or edit video, so he would just sit next to me and talk while I put things together. Mitch would help direct the flow and wanted each video to end with a magic Christmas tree. I miss him being my co-pilot.
I wish I had more time to do things like this, not because they're terribly interesting but because they're fun to make and they remind me of the time I spent with Mitch. Though clunky, this less-than-polished piece will have to do.
In this video you'll see a short update on our family.
The opening narrative in the video reads:
Let me tell you a story this cold winter's eve ...
About a little family huddled together, long after the fallen leaves.
It's a simply story.
Not very profound.
Just a story of a family
And where love can be found.
So cuddle up and listen close,
and well share some things we love the most.
At approximately 1:40 you will see clips and photos of Mitchell's last Christmas and the wonderful things people did to lift his heart and let him know he was loved. Those gifts of compassion and love were also gifts to our hearts, already in mourning. So, to all of you who reached out to him, we sincerely thank you.
After that short piece on Mitch the video shifts attention to a much larger contemplation. It begins with the concept of darkness and grief and remembering to look past the darkness and to the heavens. For the heavens are vast and they are deep ... and many secrets do they keep. If we can scarcely comprehend the heavens we CAN see, perhaps we could have faith in the heaven we cannot yet see.
The video concludes with a few more thoughts and an invitation to come with us on the journey ahead.
Our most sincere prayer this holiday season is that each of you who follow Mitchell's Journey, whether you comment or join conversations ... or simply watch and quietly listen; our prayer is that each of you will find joy in your life and that your own journeys will be blessed.
Though we grieve the loss of Mitch, we have found joy despite the pain. We are grateful for all that remains.
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For those who are curious to see the earlier videos you can visit our Christmas Channel here: vimeo.com/channels/852236
2014 Video: vimeo.com/114511333
2013 Video: vimeo.com/81968479
2012 Video: vimeo.com/55333684
2011 Video: vimeo.com/43011694
A few weeks ago I stumbled into an old 2004 Christmas card I made with my little family. Each card was a chocolate bar covered by custom wrapper with a short update on our family. I don’t recall any companies making such things back then but that never stopped me from trying something new. Natalie and I printed, cut and adhered each wrapper to every bar.
I wasn't a designer and this was my first crude attempt at doing this. It wasn't very sophisticated and was more a labor of love than anything. We got better at it over the years but I learned early on it is never really the thing we give that matters; but rather the meaning behind the thing that makes our heart sing. So, when I saw this chocolate bar my mind was awash with memories and warm feelings of a time long gone; a time my children used to crawl over me and wrestle me to the ground when I came home from work. A time before Mitchell’s diagnosis. A time before grief, disappointment and darkness.
When I saw that clunky little card I was grateful I had the gift of my children and felt a glimmer of hope there will be gentler days ahead.
On the back of the chocolate bar was something that looked very much like any chocolate bar you might purchase, only the words were about our family.
There was a block of text that read:
Laura-Ashley (6 years old) is an artist. She spends a great deal of her spare time drawing pictures and constructing stapled paper books for us to read. She is the top student of her Kindergarten class.
Ethan (4 years old) is an absolute sweetie. Very kind to others and has become quite an entertainer of adult audiences. He likes to sing and build things with blocks and Legos and is rather proficient with a computer.
Mitch (2 years old) is a wonderful cuddler. Mitch has learned to stand up for himself and often provokes his older brother by slapping his back and running off laughing. We’ll have to keep an eye on him. ;)
Where you might ordinarily see “Nutrition Facts” I replaced with the following “Spiritual Facts”
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SPIRITUAL FACTS
Serving Size 1 Child (between 15 & 30 lbs.)
Amount Per Serving
Joy & Rejoicing ………………….100%
Love ……………………………... 100%
Patience
- On a good day …...….……. 50%
- On a bad day …...……...…. 100%
Laughter ………………………… 100%
Compassion …………………….. 100%
Fulfillment ………………………. 100%
Happiness ………………...……... 100%
Heartache ……………..………… 20%
Empathy ………………………… 100%
_____________________________
FAMILY IS GOOD FOR THE SOUL
We replaced the actual ingredients with the following:
INGREDIENTS: MILK CHOCOLATE, A LOT OF LOVE AND APPRECIATION FOR FAMILY, SOME GOOD MEMORIES, A COUPLE OF BUMPS AND BRUISES, AND A LOT OF LAUGHTER.
There were a few other things on it, but you get the idea. Knowing what I know now, I might change a few things: heartache, for example, would go from 20% to 2,000,000%. Love, from 100% to infinity and far beyond.
We only made 100 of these and I kept 2. The chocolate has no doubt gone bad by now and lost its savor; a reminder that everything material has a shelf life. Unlike the chocolate, however, the sweetness of family gets better and better over time. A reminder, too, everything that matters only gets sweeter if we are true.