On the corner of my wife’s dresser is a worn-out eraser that Mitch carried with him the year he passed away. His name carefully inscribed by his school teacher – a good woman who cared for her students and grew to love little Mitch. Next to the eraser is a framed photo of my son – which frame was given to my wife as a gift by a compassionate soul. And next to that, a little statue of a boy holding a golden heart. As a very young boy Mitch thought gold was pretty special, so this little statue has become deeply symbolic on many levels.
In the frame is a photo from one of my favorite memories with Mitch. It was a warm summer day and we had taken our kids to the park. Mitchell’s hair was long and floppy and twirled as he rolled down a grassy hill. When I see that image my heart swells with love and my eyes fill with gratitude. This little boy was mine to love and raise. And in a strange way, he kind of raised me. However much losing him hurts, having him in my life was worth every tear … every drop of agony.
Love and grief are identical in at least one respect. I remember when I first had a child, I would tell my still-single male friends how amazing it was … the love that I felt. I would sit on the edge of my seat and passionately try to describe fatherhood … the love that I felt, how my heart had multiplied and soul enlarged. My friends would step back and give me a strange look from the corner of their eye and say something like, “Okay, now you’re being weird.” Suddenly I remembered my life before children and thinking the same thing.
I came to realize that it is impossible understand the depth of parental love until you become a parent. I cannot transfer, describe or in any way, share that kind of love; it is knowledge that comes only from experience. In like manner, one cannot know the hellish depths of parental grief until one has lost a child. There exist no arrangement of words or song that can cause someone to understand. It, too, must be experienced. That is how love and grief are identical. Both are spiritually seismic events that change the landscape of our souls forever.
Both must be experienced: love and grief. Then and only then do we begin to understand the true value of peace. Each in order and in their special way: love first binds us, grief then grinds us, and peace eventually makes right and refines us. They must be experienced. There is no other way.
“Grief tells our heart things like, “How can I possibly find joy again when so much was lost?” Gratitude responds softly, “Yes, it hurts, but what a blessing it was, even if only a short time.”
Grief screams. It commands and demands. Gratitude whispers. It is soft and subtle.
Grief sees only what was lost, while gratitude sees what was gained. ”
Mitch loved his puppy so very much and it seemed as if Marlie loved him just the same. For almost 6 weeks Mitch had the very thing his young heart always wanted, a puppy to call his own. They bonded instantly … and differently. While she was cute and loving to us … when it came to Mitch she was almost maternal.
When I think of the many tender mercies in my son’s life, I can’t help but think this little girl one of the big ones. She knew just what Mitch needed at a time he needed comfort most.
The afternoon before Mitch passed away tiny Marlie, still a baby-of-a-pup, wobbled up to him and then pushed herself under his lifeless hand. Mitch, whose body was shutting down and unable to open his eyes, began to softly move his fingers through her hair. Marlie didn’t move a muscle – it was as though she knew he needed her … and she was not going to leave his side. Not for anything. I took photos of his hand softly caressing his little friend. I still cry when I see that photo sequence because I know just what was happening. As midnight drew near, and as Mitch was about to leave us, Marlie curled around his head as if to comfort him. I cry when I think of that image, too. I feel the strangest blend of grief and gratitude.
I have often wondered about the relationship between grief and gratitude. At first glance, they would seem polar opposites … as different from each other as oil and water, fire and ice, love and hate. Yet the more I come to experience grief and gratitude, the more I begin to see they play an important and symbiotic role.
Grief tells our heart things like, “How can I possibly find joy again when so much was lost?” Gratitude responds softly, “Yes, it hurts, but what a blessing it was, even if only a short time.”
Grief screams. It commands and demands. Gratitude whispers. It is soft and subtle.
Grief sees only what was lost, while gratitude sees what was gained.
What I have found most interesting about managed grief is that can lead to more gratitude; and where there is gratitude, there is healing. It is not easy. In fact, grief is one of the hardest forms of work we will ever perform in this life. So, as strange as it sounds, I am grateful for gratitude, for I have discovered that is a key to healing.
I am grateful for my wife and kids and that I was blessed with Mitch in my life. I am grateful for a broken heart, for it has taken me to my knees and taught me deeper things. This puppy … what a blessing she has been, then and now. I am grateful for this most unexpected place called Mitchell’s Journey.
Though I have come to know the pains of grief and loss, tonight my heart is overflowing with gratitude for the many good things in life. I am happier than I have ever been since I lost my son. Grief still screams inside me – and there are moments where grief is deeper than deep …. and I weep and weep. But I am also listening to the quiet whispers of gratitude. That gratitude is turning a once barren wasteland of sorrow into a garden of goodness. An invisible place of peace, not seen with the eye but a place where my mind and heart meet. Grief and gratitude are not so separate; at least for me, they’ve become one piece.
Mitch was home on hospice when we heard a soft tap on our front door. It was Carter, one of Mitchell’s best friends accompanied by his loving mother, also a dear friend to our family. In his arms was a valentines box he carefully made at school filled with all manner of treats kids love to eat. The kids at school had just done their candy exchange and not even Carter knew what yummy treats were in his box. I remember how much I treasured those things as a kid – and I saw that same look of treasurement in Carter’s eyes.
We escorted this young boy downstairs where Mitch was playing a game. Carter knelt down and opened his box of sweet treasures for the first time. Before even looking at what was inside Carter said, “Mitch, take whatever you want.”
Mitch was shy and looked through his box of candies. Carter’s quiet smile was magnanimous. My eyes filled with tears as I witnessed two giant souls clothed in the small bodies of young children. I saw my son who was fighting for life and his dear friend giving Mitchell’s life a little joy and happiness. Whatever Carter lost in sweet candies that day, he made up for in sweeter memories – which last longer and taste sweeter than anything I know.
A few years ago I wanted to travel the earth to explore the world’s wonders. I realized in this moment the world’s greatest wonders were already before me. They weren’t marked by vast canyons, lush terrains or majestic waters. Instead, the world’s greatest wonders wore small, worn-out shoes. They had grass-stained knees, played with plastic toys and built cities with their young imaginations. They laughed and played and sometimes tried their parent's patience ... but in the end, they wanted nothing more than to make their parents happy. The world’s greatest wonders were children. I always knew this – but at this moment I knew it a little more than the times before.
A few weeks later Carter would visit Mitch again … but this time at his funeral, sobbing in ways only a young child can know. His sweet smile was exchanged with deep, childhood grief. My heart went out to Carter and I was pained he had to experience such grief. I knelt down, swallowing my own sorrows, and gave Carter a father-like hug and thanked him for being such a dear friend to my son. I told him, “Because of you, his life was blessed.”
I have had many people ask me how I’ve learned to cope with grief. My answer is that I’m really no different than anyone who grieves – and that I still have moments, sometimes agonizing hours where the gravity of grief is so great death would be a sweet release. It is a terrible burden. At the same time it is also a paradoxical blessing – for those same burdens that brought me to my knees, bruised in sorrow, have also lifted my heart and mind heavenward.
In my loss I have gained new perspective and a deeper relationship with my own Father. He is eternally kind and patient with me as I stumble in my own ways. If I could just learn to be like these young boys …
One thing I have discovered about grief and learning to live again is that if I can set aside my own sorrows to lift and love another, just like Carter did in this photo, then my broken heart heals a little. At least to me, a key to grieving well is learning to give.
A few weeks ago we had our annual Cousins Camp; a family reunion-style gathering dedicated to the cousins in the family. The evening of the camp, just before the opening ceremony, I was asked to take some photos of the group and individual families. I remember taking this photo of my wife and kids with a quiet lump in my throat. The lump was part love and part longing. I adore my family, my tribe, but I also wanted my little boy to be in this photo, too.
I shared this photo with my wife (and another photo with me in it) and she said, “I love these … but they feel incomplete. Our family photos will always feel incomplete.” I knew exactly what my dear wife was saying. Together, our hearts sank a little on the outside, and a lot on the inside.
This grief journey has been most surprising. I was recently in a room where a man described how he used to teach others how to deal with hard things. He was a motivational speaker who had read a great many books on life and how to master it. He had all the right soundbites arranged in the perfect order – like chairs to a royal wedding. By all accounts, he had mastered the craft of publically motivating others through toils of life. For everything he seemed to have a bold answer. Yet, there he sat, sobbing and trembling over a personal catastrophe – which hardship was significant. My heart went out to him and I prayed in my heart that his back would be made strong so that he might carry his burdens with ease. I cared about his sorrows and felt great empathy for him.
This wasn’t the first time I have heard an expert lament that to talk about a thing and experience it are two entirely different things. It occurred to me that evening, with great clarity, that all of the soundbites, books, motivational talks, and seminars will never teach us what experience teaches us. I’m grateful, however much it pains me at times, that our Father knows this and allows us to grow by experience.
There are other aspects of my grief journey that have surprised me. For example, I never imagined there would come a day I wouldn’t weep. For a little over two years I wept every single day. Every single one. For two years it felt like an elephant was standing on my chest and breathing was difficult. To my surprise, at least for now, I feel like my grief has evolved. I weep – but not every day. I still think about little Mitch – a thousand and one times a day. But I don’t always weep. Maybe this is just a phase and the hard stuff will return – but I don’t think so. What was once painful agony has turned into deep longing – there is still a measure of agony … but it isn’t what it used to be. I miss little Mitch in ways that are difficult to describe. I miss his humor, sweetness and love. I yearn for his company in a most curious way – and I hope to describe it one day.
Other surprises along this grief journey have been to see how some people can be so callused and uncaring, while others are vile and seem to foam at the mouth as they share their own hate toward me and my family. They seem to go out of their way to try and hurt us; but we ignore them – for with each effort they grow ever smaller and weaker.
So this year’s Cousin’s Camp theme “Have Courage & Be Kind” seems especially fitting. I will not shrink by the smallness of others. I’ll keep writing of my little boy because I love him and miss him deeply. I’ll try to help others become aware of DMD and its fatal outcomes. I’ll always look heavenward. I may stumble from time-to-time, I will always look up. And though I am human … riddled with weakness and prone to mistakes … I love my Father and all of his children try to see everyone as He sees them.
Most of all, I love these 4 people and 1 little boy … a little boy who is waiting somewhere in that place beyond the hills. I yearn to be there with him – but it is my duty as husband and father to help my family get there. When my son first died, part of me wanted to die; to escape a suffering I never imagined would be so dark and deep. Nothing was so alluring as those dark woods and that eternal sleep.
But death and reunion can wait – for there is a work to do before I die, when the hour will draw too late. And when that time comes I hope to see my Brother and my Son. I will fall to my knees, eyes bathed in tears, and hope my work was done.