Mitch was home on hospice for a few days and was anxious to play a new video game that had just been released. We wanted him to enjoy what little time he had left, so we paved the way for him to play. The thunder of crashing sounds and music filled the air. Mitch was audibly in awe of the game’s graphics and I could hear him down the hall saying, “Oooooh, that is so cool!”
Suddenly there was silence.
“Oh … no. Not now. Please, not now.” I cried inside.
Panicked, I ran down the hall with the speed of an Olympian to see if Mitch was okay – after all, his cardiologist said he was at risk of instant death. He was sitting strangely quiet on the couch when I said in a worried tone, “Mitch, are you okay?”
Mitch smiled softly and whispered, looking toward his hand, “Dad, look.” I then saw baby Marlie who had rested her head softly on his hand and began to sleep. Mitch didn’t move a muscle.
In this very moment my heart burst with love and gratitude. I loved my son with all of my heart and was grateful he was entrusted to me. I loved this puppy for what she did for my dying boy’s heart and soul. I loved my father-in-law for becoming an instrument of love and mercy – for finding this puppy for my sick child before he passed away. And most of all, I loved my Father for the many tender mercies that were in my life – however undeserving I may have been.
Though we were hurting deeply, we were also being helped by an influence unseen – and that is no small thing. Yes, Mitchell’s Journey is a story of love for a sick child … but it is also a story of Heavenly love. Somewhere in all my heartbreak, deep in the shadows of sorrow, I have discovered that Heavenly love anew.
I lost track of the many winter nights when I wept and pled for my son – that somehow Heaven would make things right. Eventually an insight, like a flash of light, broke through; “Be patient, my child, death is not the end, and there is something I want you to learn about you.”
Slowly time passed – and I found myself in agony over moments lost. Days turned into weeks and months turned into years. Over time I have learned to walk again and see far past my tears.
It’s microscopic moments like this, between a baby dog and a sick little Mitch, that change the way I see. Instead of focusing on grief and hardship I’ve learned to appreciate our many, many tender mercies. If we’re not watchful, we could complain about the pain and sorrow all day – blinded by grief, unaware of the blessings and heavenly helps along the way.
I look for microscopic moments to be grateful, because they all add up. And before I know it, those little blessings fill my empty cup.
We just finished swimming at a local recreation center with a handful of cousins who were summoned by their benevolent grandfather. Like a wise herdsman, this good man knows how to gather his flock and tend for his children and grandchildren. He is keen to pass down to his children and grandchildren experiences, not things. A philosophy I can get behind.
The kids each smelled vaguely of chlorine, the color of their eyes ranged from pink, to red, to bloodshot. And each child was on the verge of needing a nap from playing in the water for hours. After our swimming adventure, Dee (my father-in-law) invited everyone over to Panda Express, one of Mitchell’s favorites. Orders were taken and cousins quickly scattered across the restaurant claiming their tables. Mitch, wanting to sit by me, sat across the table. I loved how Mitch always wanted to sit by my side – because I very much wanted to sit beside him. There was something different about him. Something quite special.
My father-in-law, seeing Mitch not with the other kids, decided to sit by him and start a conversation. This old man, seasoned by life and experience, leaned toward my young son and wove a fantastical story about some fictional character he created in his mind. A master storyteller, he is. Mitch gazed into the distance, swept away by his story.
I, too, was swept away as I watched these two lovely souls, divided by generations of experience, interact so softly. I thought to myself, “What an inheritance this is ...” I began to think about what we pass on to the next generation … the things they inherit from us.
My father-in-law seems to model that old proverb that says, “Give a man a fish and he has food for a day. Teach a man to fish and he has food for a lifetime.” In his own special way, he teaches his family how to fish; how to smile at an old pair of shoes and save what we might otherwise spend foolishly. He teaches his grandchildren how to be entertained without electronics and to enjoy the lost art of storytelling. That, and so much more does this good man pass down. The true value of his inheritance is a gift that cannot be counted or measured today.
When my father died, I inherited a little over $2,000. I was young and on my own; a first-year college student who didn’t know his place in the world and would have traded all the treasure of earth to have his father by his side. The world was big and I was small – a pebble in a vast sea of humans who always seemed to be in a hurry, tossed to-and-fro by the tides of culture. I didn’t care about any financial inheritance - instead, as a young man I pondered deeply on the greater inheritance – what my father really passed on to me. I wanted to live up to his good name and great heart.
So when I saw my son and his grandfather I thought how lucky they were to have each other – and I began to think back on the things we inherit. The things that really matter. In this moment I saw my son inheriting one of life’s richest treasures: a loving grandfather passing down an experience of the mind, heart and soul and my little boy drinking in the moment and every word that was told. Though he was young, my son’s soul felt old.
The longer I live the more I have come to see that age is a mirage … it is simply illusory. How old is our soul, really? One day we will see.
When I was young I imagined living to a ripe old age ... passing down an inheritance for generations yet to be. Now broken-hearted and bereft … I’m finally beginning to see an inheritance my son passed down to me.
Going home, to that place I love to be.
Yet there is another home ... a place I cannot yet see. I wonder what it's like... a sacred grove, a grassy knoll, or perhaps a place so filled with light we cannot imagine it, not even in our dreams.
Somewhere out there my little child waits for me.
I think that nightmare scenario crosses every parent’s mind at one point or another and we ask ourselves: “What would I do if I lost my child?” In every way that matters, we are asking ourselves what would happen if we lost part of ourselves – for that is what our children are to us. That’s what our children will never understand until they have children of their own: they become more important to us than we are to ourselves.
Just after we were told Mitch had days to live, Natalie’s mother and father came rushing to the hospital to offer love and support. Over the next few weeks, my wife and I would keep the knowledge of our son’s impending death from Mitch. Peace of mind and childhood was our gift to our son – at least for a little while. You see, we didn’t know if he was going to die in an hour, or a day, or in a month and we wanted to help Mitch make the most of what time remained.
“I know that I cannot take their troubles away. But, like this good father I will walk beside them … even with bare feet and broken bones. Until my dying breath, I will walk beside them and try to lead them home.”
Palliative care workers circled our room and visited daily asking for permission to talk to Mitch about his death. Each time we told them no. Knowing our time with Mitch was short weighed heavy on our souls. We hid our broken hearts behind a soft smile and we put away our dashed hopes and shattered dreams under a blanket of hugs and loves. Though we didn’t know how to protect him from death, we could protect him from worry and fear. And that is what we tried to do. That was all we knew to do.
When these good parents arrived, Natalie and her father found an empty room in the cardiac intensive care unit. A curtain was drawn and a tender conversation between a daddy and his little girl ensued. Tears of deep grief and anguish fell to the earth. I wonder if the heavens wept just a little that day – not out of sorrow, but empathy. I don’t know what they talked about. I only know that empty room became hallowed ground between a good father and his little daughter.
I stayed with Mitch and his grandmother in his CICU room. My mother-in-law is as good a woman as there ever was. Her heart was broken for Mitch and her daughter and our family. I’ll write of her another day.
After some time had passed Mitch asked me to get Natalie. When I went to get her I stumbled into a most tender and beautiful scene. I saw a good father embrace his daughter as she wept. In her trembling hand was a pamphlet about how to talk to your child about death and dying. That impossible scenario we couldn’t imagine living suddenly became a harsh reality.
When I saw my wife and her good father I sensed something similar between our Father. I thought of those times I knelt by my bed with bruised knees pleading for a way out for my son; the nights seemed to stretch out into infinity as I wet my pillow with tears. I felt the words in my heart, “I cannot take your troubles from you, but I will walk with you and lift you when you fall.”
Somewhere out there lives my son. And when I see him next I will drop everything and I will run … boy, will I ever run. The heavens will weep once more – but this time out of joy – for a family will be reunited with their young, fallen boy.
When I think of my own children, two of whom are teenagers and my youngest now ten, I know that I cannot take their troubles away. But, like this good father I will walk beside them … even with bare feet and broken bones. Until my dying breath, I will walk beside them and try to lead them home.