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.
“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.
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.