I just returned from a father-son trip with Ethan and Wyatt. We went to Bryce Canyon and the Escalante National Park to explore the outdoors and make memories. One thing I’ve discovered along my grief journey is I must make new memories if I’m to heal and grow.
On our first night, I took my boys to the edge of a tall ridge where we could see deep into the stone carved wonders of Bryce Canyon. As the sun cast its evening light across the sky, nature’s handiwork seemed to stretch out into infinity. Millions of years of erosion had left behind a most beautiful display of stone and color. At one point I asked my boys, “Wouldn’t it be neat if we could stand here in a bubble and watch 200 million years pass in a matter of minutes? What do you think we would see? How would the world change?” My boys seemed to think deeply over that question. So did I.
All the wondrous landscape at our feet was a testament that change and beauty take time. Sometimes I think grief is like the seasons. There are cold seasons and warm seasons and there are the times of change in between. With each season of grief, I am beginning to see a subtle erosion of the old and a beautifully unexpected shaping of the new.
The second night we drove deep into the woods to take photos of the stars. Before long the sky grew pitch black and the evening breeze calmed and became strangely still. Ethan and I peered heavenward and saw more stars then in a single gaze than I've ever seen at any one time in my life. The air was so cold it felt like we were marooned on a small rock floating in outer space – even the air seemed thin. Cute little Wyatt sat cozily in my truck with the heater roaring as if he were stationed in a life capsule waiting for us to return from our space exploration.
As we peered into the vast night sky, we felt infinitesimally small. In an instant the world, with all its sound and fury, seemed insignificant as compared to the mind-boggling vastness of space. I told Ethan that scientists believe there are roughly 70 billion trillion stars in space. We know so little of the universe – and the deeper we probe the more bizarre the universe seems. All of humanity are but infants, cradled in heaven’s lap. We know about as much about the universe as those old geographers who once thought the world was flat.
Ethan was sensitive to light pollution and wanted to make sure we were as far away from civilization as possible so that he might see deeper into space. Ethan knew that the darker the skies, the brighter the stars.
So, as we sat in the cold of night looking deeper into heaven than we ever imagined, Ethan and I contemplated the relative nothingness of mankind. It was a humbling moment. Often, when Ethan and I shoot the night sky, he wonders out loud about Mitch; he asks questions about where he is, what he might be doing, and he wonders if Mitch might be near us at times. I know Ethan misses his brother and that grief weighs heavy on his heart. So, I try to be a strong shoulder for him to lean on and a listening ear and understanding heart. If I cannot take his hurt away, I can at least hold him while he hurts. And, when the skies draw black, I hope he learns to get away from life pollution – so that his spiritual eyes might see heaven’s stars more clearly. Stars one cannot see in the light of day ... stars that will surely point the way.
I will never forget when Mitch sat at the bottom of our steps, struggling to catch his breath after playing one of his last Nerf gun battles. He said to me, “Dad, why can’t I be like a regular kid? I know I will not get better. I know I will die.” In that very moment, keeping my composure consumed what little strength I had left. I was a broken father, stumbling over pebbles and powerless to rescue my son. Still, I hid away a river of tears so that I might comfort my little boy and not frighten him. Though the prospect of losing Mitch frightened me deeply. “Mitch, my son, I don’t know why we have to do hard things. I only know that our Father loves us and that we are on this earth to learn and grow.”
I don’t know how much those words comforted my son in that moment of childhood grief – but I do know he thought deeply about life and death and what happens on the other side. As his father, I did my best to teach him – not to believe my words, but rather I tried to give him the tools so that he might learn for himself … so that he didn’t need to simply believe on my words, but that he might have a knowledge of things for himself. After all, that is the greatest gift we can give our kids … “Don’t believe me. Let me show you how to find out for yourself.” As he neared the end, Mitch came to know (in sacred and undeniable ways) there was more to life than what we saw with our mortal eyes.
So many of the experiences my tender wife and I had leading up to (and during) our son’s death are the kind of life traumas that you never get over. They are not the stuff of nightmares … they are the stuff beyond nightmares. I have discovered that you don't set it aside and move on. That is impossible. Instead, we have to learn to live with those memories and decide what meaning they have for us.
Though I often write of hard things in this place, I don’t live in a constant state of grief. I have grief moments, but thankfully they don’t last as long as they used to. In a manner of speaking, I no longer see a light at the end of the tunnel – for I believe I have passed through the tunnel. That doesn’t mean all is well and that things are as they used to be. I am forever changed over the loss of Mitch. I will miss him the remainder of my mortal days and I have learned to live with chronic grief.
At least for me, Mitchell's Journey is like cleaning a deep wound. It's not for everybody. What's more, because my wound is deep, I tend to go deep and it hurts a lot. But that deep cleanse is necessary so as to not allow sorrow to infect my soul.
As I continue down this path of reflection over my son’s journey, I don’t write to wallow. I write to examine. To think deeply. To discover the meaning of suffering and other things. I write because I don’t ever want to be that person who forgets the lesson. I think that’s a universal human struggle: to remember and to see clearly. For when pain passes, we tend to forget and go to what’s easy. Mitchell’s Journey, at least for me, is a place to remember and a place to see.
I write so that I might remember what I’ve learned at such a terrible price. I write lest I forget and become what I used to be. For where I was yesteryear is no place for me.
Mitchell’s cardiologist placed a stethoscope gently on his chest. Suddenly he closed his eyes and disappeared into a state of deep meditation as he listened closely to the fumbling, tumbling sounds of our little boy’s failing heart. There wasn’t much time left and this doctor knew it. Unaware of his fate, little Mitch just wanted to go home. At the end of the day, I believe that’s where our heart yearns to go. Home. Back to that time and place where we felt safe and surrounded by the ones we love.
Just a few days prior this same cardiologist, fighting back his tears, told us our son only had days to live. This good man spoke to us as a medical professional first and as a father second. The doctor in him told us the medical truth bravely and unfiltered – which we wanted and desperately needed. The father in him told us what he would do if he were in our situation. As far as I’m concerned, he practiced perfect medicine – for he was professional and human.
I cannot get this image out of my mind. I have many such photos of this doctor performing this same act of listening to my son’s heart – each time with the same degree of intensity.
In this image is a metaphor that I can’t put away. Little Mitch once said to me while dealing with a hard thing someone had done to him, “Dad, if you see with your heart, you see everything that matters.” Mitch instinctively knew that old adage “hurt people, hurt people.” Someone was mean to him, yet he didn’t see a mean person, he just saw a good person who was broken and hurting on the inside. Listening to the heart and soul sometimes takes just as much focus and intent as this good doctor applied to my son’s physical heart.
I don’t know that I’ve ever shared this, but my son was named after a dear friend of mine who unexpectedly passed away several years ago. One night, over 20 years ago, my friend and I were in the heart of Kentucky. I remember that night like it was yesterday … the sky was clear, the stars were bright and there were fireflies nearby. We were talking about things that changed us from the inside out. We were only 19 and 20 at the time, but we had already experienced a change of heart that was significant and we were sharing our experiences. He shared with me something that changed everything for him. In high school he was rebellious and did everything his parents told him not to. One night, well after midnight, he smashed through the front door drunk, high, and belligerent. He then passed out and fell down the stairs and on to the basement floor. The next thing he remembered was his father holding him at the foot of the steps, weeping and telling his son how much he loved him. It was his father’s act of love and compassion that changed my friend for good. When Mitch told me this story, we both wept and discovered a spiritual truth.
Over the years, time and circumstance created distance between us. We attended different universities and our lives did as they must … go on. But I never forgot my friend. So, on that fateful day my wife and I had our 3rd child, we named him Mitch because of what this good man taught me about love and compassion. I finally reconnected with my friend a few years before he passed and told him how we named our son after him. He was humble and kind and I was reminded of the kind of person I hope to be.
I wonder how the world might change if everyone started to see and listen with their hearts. That’s not to say we become illogical and foolish, driven to-and-fro solely by emotions; but how might things change in our own lives if we truly listened to the intent of others? I can say with confidence that almost every single conflict I have been a part of stemmed from a misunderstanding of the heart. Most people aren’t bad, they’re just a little broken and don’t know what to do with their jagged pieces.
It is my experience that people change because they are loved, not because they are shamed. I hope to follow my son’s example and see (and listen) with my heart – for when I do, I see everything that matters.
That’s what Mitch taught me … at the heart of things is everything.
The warmth of the evening sun wrapped our bodies like a thick quilt. Tiny Mitch stumbled to the ground, scraped his knee badly and it began to bleed. Immediately he picked himself up from the sidewalk and ran to his mother’s arms for comfort. Mitch had just been diagnosed with DMD and suddenly all of his trips, stumbles and spills began to make sense. His little legs, although they looked healthy, were already demonstrating signs of catastrophic muscle wasting.
I’ll never forget how tiny Mitch snuggled into his mother’s arms, holding his baby Nerf football. He cried little and wished he didn’t hurt. Mitchie just wanted to run and play with the strength of healthy kids – but hard falls and bruised knees were what he came to know all-too-well. My angelic wife held our baby boy with love in her arms and healing in her wings. She couldn’t take the scrapes and bruises away, but she could carry his heartache and wipe his little tears – and that seemed to make everything okay again. Euripides was on to something when he said, “Oh, what a power is motherhood …” , for I have seen the nurturing power of motherhood with my own eyes.
I remember taking this photo and falling in love with this moment; not because my son was hurt but because love was made visible. It was brighter than the evening sun and warmed my soul from the inside out.
Natalie has always had a quiet dignity about her and never shared her love to get attention or accolades. Instead, she has lived a life of hushed service and deep love for others. Wherever she goes her love is made visible – not from dancing and prancing across the stage of life, but in quietly lifting people from dark corners and loving those who feel faceless, lost in a crowd of people. She has always served people in that way and it is as natural to her as breathing is to me.
So, when Mitch was on the edge of death, scared and wanting so much to live, I saw my angelic wife comfort our son in this same way; wings stretched wide and arms filled with love. She sat quietly at his bedside, holding his hand and whispering words of comfort as he slowly slipped away. Something deep within me tells me Mitch experienced that same comfort from his mother’s love as he did on this warm summer day. She couldn’t heal his fluttering heart, but she could stand beside him and wipe his tears and assure him everything would be okay – even though she knew she wouldn’t be okay. That is the power of motherhood.
When I think back on life’s most profound and healing moments, love has always been present. Love has always been visible. In ways I never imagined, I’ve discovered if I love and serve others, the shadows of grief are kept small. If I withhold the light of love, the shadows overtake me and I get lost in grief.
Natalie and little Mitch showed me what it means to have their love made visible. They showed me that it isn’t enough to think or feel love … but we must show it in our every word and deed; and when the light of our love is made visible, we begin to heal at great speed.