When our kids were younger, Laura-Ashley would hold make-shift classes on Saturday morning. Instead of playing with toys or calling friends to hang out, she would gather up old stools and turn them into ad hoc desks. Within minutes she would transform her bedroom into a classroom. My sweet daughter would spend an hour writing up some form of curriculum, drafting handouts and preparing homework assignments for her younger brothers. And when class started, she would teach the boys about math, science, english and other topics. At the time, Wyatt was a tiny toddler and had no idea what was going on; he just sat patiently in his chair because his brothers were there.
Ethan and Mitch, being older, would always walk away with a homework assignment in hand, only to return later and have it graded. Most of the time Ethan and Wyatt attended her class - but Mitch always showed up. Always.
This is a photo of Mitch showing up. In truth, he didn't need to be there. He had already finished his chores, completed his real homework and was entitled to play time. But because showing up was important to his sister, it was important to him. I love that about him.
When I stumbled upon this photo series recently I was reminded of the power of showing up. He never had an agenda for personal gain – he simply offered his love and support. And that is a powerful thing.
So, when I look at this photo of an ordinary Saturday morning, when Mitch decided to show up, I feel a deeper resolve to be there for my wife and kids in every way I know how. I am flawed. I struggle to do the very things of which I write – but I try. God knows that I try. I am getting a little better at it each day.
Sometimes for those who wrestle with grief or struggle in other ways, just showing up and offering love and support is all that is needed. I receive thousands of private messages from people asking for advice, so they might help their friend or family member who is struggling. They almost always worry about saying the right thing in the right way – carefully treading an invisible minefield of words and unknowable emotions.
In my experience words of consolation, while comforting at times, do very little in the end. My advice to those who seek to comfort another is to worry less about the words you use and think more about how you cause the other person to feel. Sometimes showing up and saying, “I want you to know I care” is enough … and more.
I remember when my neighbor, Nate Copling, came to the hospital when Mitch was in the cardiac intensive care unit, on the verge of dying. He simply showed up, just like little Mitch did for his sister, and offered love and support. That meant a lot to me. But it was what he didn’t say … what he didn’t need to say … that made all the difference.
After this gentle, good man said goodbye to Mitch I walked him out of the CICU into a darkened hospital hallway. He turned to me with tears in his eyes and said nothing. He didn’t need to. I felt that he cared deeply. I knew that he mourned with me – which was more powerful and consoling than any arrangement of words.
Mitch and my friend Nate taught me how to show up in body, heart and soul. And when we do that, everybody grows.
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For those interested, I just posted a few extra photos of this moment on instagram.com/mitchells_journey
“Oh, little child, how I watched you while you slept. So sweet and soft … it was my heart that you kept. Now you live in that place beyond the hills … on the far side of the sea … a place I hope to visit in the quiet of my dreams. ”
When I was a young child I remember being awoken by light emanating from the hallway as my parents opened my bedroom door to check on me. Sometimes they would quickly shut the door, afraid to wake me. Other times they lingered a moment and looked on as if to ponder. As far as I can remember, I always awoke when they checked on me but pretended to be sleeping.
I remember wondering why my parents did such a strange thing. After I became a father I finally started to understand. When my children were infants, my wife and I would gush and fawn over the crib as we saw our tiny baby breathe so softly. “What miracle is this?” I would think to myself, humbled at the beauty of life and family. As they grew from toddler to child, that tradition of looking at our sweet children while they slept evolved; we would often giggle at how they passed out with toys in their hands or books on their faces. I have a photo of Laura-Ashely passed out at the top of our staircase, face smashed against the carpet. I still giggle when I look at that photo.
We loved to look at our children while they slept because they were our creation and in every way that matters, they had become an extension of our heart and soul. As exhausting as parenting can be, I have discovered a certain renewal happens when we know they are safe at home.
After Mitch was diagnosed with Duchene Muscular Dystrophy, I found myself almost nightly kneeling at his bedside as he slept, pleading to my Father for my son’s well-being. My tradition of checking on my children turned into a nightly, tear-drenched ritual of prayer and pleading to my Father … for I knew that I, too, was a child who was loved and hoped that He might hear my trembling words. I pleaded for a miracle, that I might trade places with my son, and that somehow I might suffer for him. If only my son knew how often I poured out my heart and soul heavenward while he slept. If only he knew how oft I watched over him at night and begged that this bitter cup might pass under the canopy of a dim starry light.
In this photo Mitch was home on hospice, unaware his days were numbered. He asked me to tuck him in, so I decided to cuddle with him for a bit. We talked for a while. He told me about a fort he made in Minecraft and he wanted to show it to me, I smiled and told him I couldn’t wait. I told him I loved him 100 times that night and that I was so proud of him. He would smile and say, “I wuv you too, Dad.”
Soon I began to drift to sleep – I wasn’t sleeping much and I was so very tired. At some point Natalie came to check on us and she took this photo with her phone. Little Mitch was still awake, cuddled under my arm. Only this time he was watching me while I slept. I wonder what he was thinking. More importantly, I hope he felt loved. Though he sensed mortal danger was near, I hope he felt a little safer in the clasp of my arms. I hope.
Oh, little child, how I watched you while you slept. So sweet and soft … it was my heart that you kept. Now you live in that place beyond the hills … on the far side of the sea … a place I hope to visit in the quiet of my dreams. And if Heaven will be so kind, my heart will open up and you will read what’s on my mind. You will know that I would have fallen for you, if I had the opportunity … it is true. I fought to save your life, you see. But then I realized it was you who was saving me. I am different now. At least I hope to be. One of Heaven’s strange ironies.
One of Mitchell’s favorite treats was hot chocolate. When it snowed around the holidays he always asked me to make my ‘famous hot chocolate’ (at least Mitch thought it was famous) so he could sit by the window and watch the snow fall and enjoy a warm treat. Our family has many good memories surrounding this activity – so I thought we’d share it with all of you.
There is nothing original about it; in fact, I’m sure Pinterest is filled with a hundred thousand variations. But this was our simple recipe and it was something Mitch loved. Some of you might like it, too.
It is fairly simple to make:
1) Warm milk to a boil over the stove.
2) Add chocolate shavings (Mitch really liked Lindt Milk Chocolate)
He would often take candy bars and use a cheese grater to make the shavings
Generally, 3 ounces of chocolate for every 2 cups of milk works well.
3) Slowly stir chocolate shavings into simmering milk and whisk until completely dissolved
4) Add chocolate to preferred taste
5) Whipped cream, with a puff of cinnamon and sprinkled graham cracker crumbs on top always made it feel extra special. Sometimes Mitch even wanted crushed candy cane on top.
As with so many things, what we do is often less important in life than how we do it. Having hot chocolate was fun, but making it together as a family made both a treat and a memory. And memories are infinitely sweeter and last much longer.
We have several other things we made as family traditions I will share over the next few weeks/months. Tonight, as Ethan and Wyatt helped me take this photo of some ingredients, we remembered the fun times and the sweet times … and our hearts grew in gratitude.
I was reminded that while we might give each other gifts this season … love, time and attention are some of the greatest gifts we can give each other.
It had only been a few short hours from the time little Mitch passed away. I felt like I had been thrown overboard into a vast sea of grief – how deep and violent that sea would become I never imagined. I had clung to a little raft of hope for so long – and in a moment, that hope for one more day … one more moment with my son was suddenly submerged in terrible waves of sorrow.
It was that realization he was gone (I mean really, really gone) that was terrifying. My soul experienced a new, darker form of grief as what little hope I had was dashed and absolute. Like wading in the ocean; one moment surrounded in warm water then suddenly the water went cold, then warm again … our emotions were no different. One moment we felt peace, the next moment unimaginable horror. The nightmare I was terrified to imagine became a suffocating reality.
My dear wife sat on the edge of our bed quietly weeping when my oldest sister came into our room and began to console her, mother-to-mother. This is the same sister who knew Natalie and I sat in the hall outside Mitchell’s bedroom and wept while he slept and brought us cushions to sit on just days earlier. I made mention in a post how hard the ground felt and this good woman offered the only relief she could.
As a father, the death of my son stripped me of everything. I was no longer the protector of my children but instead a helpless, terrified bystander to the implacable force of death. I loved my son and wanted to save him – but I failed. My wife and I were terrorized by feelings of doubt, frustrated that medical interventions presented themselves too late, and panicked by an endless list of “what if’s.” Although the morning sun had risen, night had scarcely begun.
Then entered my sister, an angel made mortal. Like heavenly wings of comfort, she wrapped her arms around my broken wife and wept with her. I wept at this very sight – grateful for compassionate souls. Today, when I look at this image of my sister mourning with my wife, my heart is softened and my soul soothed. I don’t know much, but I have come to know we are comforted, as if by a whisper, by those who have gone before us. Though they want for our happiness, they mourn with us … not out of pity or disappointment that we are sad, but empathy. They understand that we hurt and they hurt with us. Sorrow over loss is nothing to be ashamed of. It is an evidence of love. I can see Mitch holding my wife, sight unseen, whispering to her soul, “I know mommy, I miss you too. I am sorry that you hurt so much. I understand.”
I recently had lunch with a good man and colleague. He is an ecclesiastical leader and a man of great faith. He asked the question, “Why do some people really suffer by the loss of a loved one while others seem to accept it as a fact of life and mortality and move on?” I was a little surprised by his question and didn’t quite know how to answer it at the moment – I only said when my father passed away, that was hard. But when my young son died, it was life altering and soul shattering.
Grief is hard. It is the hardest thing I’ve ever experienced. Ever.
Sometimes grief comes barging into my heart at the most unexpected moments. I was on a business trip last Friday and everything went better than expected. I was excited about the future and my heart was filled with hope and anticipation. Then at about 10:30 PM, on the flight home, I dozed off. I began to dream of my dear son and somewhere between sleep and consciousness I realized Mitch was gone and my soul panicked. I awoke in a terror and my heart was pounding. I felt the pains of loss anew – with the same intensity as this very morning when I lost my son.
So, what is the point to all this suffering? The answer lives deep within - where secrets of the soul are ours to win. They do not come easy - in fact they often come at a cost ... sometimes at the hand of a terrible loss. But when we learn to look and see, our hearts will be healed by a most heavenly scene. Perhaps, after all, when we felt most alone, we were comforted by arms unseen and wings unknown.