We're imperfect and we struggle, but we have each other and that's enough ... and more. Missing little Mitch, though.
“Selective neglect caused me to be deliberate in saying yes to the most important thing and “no” or “not now” to other things.”
The summer before Mitch passed away, Natalie and I took our kids on an adventure in southern California. Mitch, tired of using his motorized scooter, wanted to stand and go down the escalator by himself. For a moment, he wanted to feel normal again.
Before he stepped onto the escalator, Mitch said, “Dad, will you go with me?” I smiled and said, “I would love to.” Mitch went first and I immediately followed. A few seconds later, he turned his head to make sure I was with him.
Mitch often made glances as if to say, “Are you there?” Though he was brave, he didn’t want to be alone. No child does. So, I always tried to be there for Mitch and my other kids. I was, and continue to be, less-than-perfect. In fact, I wish I could do a lot of moments over. But I tried, and I keep trying.
As a father, I knew it wasn’t practical to be everywhere, all the time, with my kids. I had to learn to do what my brother-in-law taught me years ago … embrace a philosophy of selective neglect. That is to say, when work requires, I have to neglect other aspects of my life so that I can support my family. And when my family needs me, I will set aside work so that I might be there for my wife and kids. It empowered me to say “No” … or “I can’t” … or “I won’t.” It also taught me to say, “I will,” “I can” and “Yes.” Selective neglect caused me to be deliberate in saying yes to the most important thing and “no” or “not now” to other things. If I were forced with an ultimatum to choose between work and family, work would lose every time. Fortunately, life isn’t that dramatic and most of us can find a healthy balance that works for our own family dynamic.
For every photo I have of Mitch, I have just as many of my other kids – each with a story of love and faith of its own. As I look through those photos, I can see each of my children doing this same thing as Mitch did in this image … possessing a quiet look as if to say, “Are you there?” From school programs to athletic competitions, my kids have always looked into the vast audience of onlookers to see a glimpse of mom and dad and to make sure they weren’t alone. To make sure we were there, supporting them. Loving them, not just in theory, but in practice.
Time and attention, service and sacrifice; these are the ingredients for love. These ingredients come from focus and effort.
For me, being there isn’t just about being physically present … it’s about being emotionally and spiritually present with my loved ones, too. Being present isn’t always easy for me; I worry about payrolls, client deadlines, employees, projects, investors and a mountain of other things. At any given moment, I’m managing five catastrophes, 40 brush fires, and 1,000 mosquito bites. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. For me, being present takes work. If I’m not careful, I can come home from work, yet never really arrive. Being present requires me to prioritize and remember that some things matter more than others.
So, on this sunny afternoon, I practiced selective neglect; I set aside work things and lesser things so I could give Mitch and my family all of me. They are my everything, and I can’t think of a time in my life I regretted living that core value.
As Mitch turned his head and glanced at me from the corner of his eye, he wanted to know his father was with him … that he wasn’t alone. I knew Mitch was in trouble. I also knew time was short – but how short, I knew not. I only knew I had that moment, so I gave him all of me.
I am guilty of many imperfections, and I wish I were a better human than I am. And while I try to sort out my own personal growth, I will always try to be there for my family, however imperfectly. When my kids turn their head, I want them to see a familiar face smiling back at them, loving them and cheering them on.
“You can do it; the same is true for all of us, each and every one. We have great potential. We are engineered to become.”
I dropped little Mitch off at school. He had an electric scooter parked in his classroom so he could keep up with friends at recess or make a journey down the school’s halls, but he could still walk short distances. I was grateful for every step he took – for it could have been worse. Much worse.
I loved taking Mitch places, even to school. Maybe I loved it because of the conversations we had … or maybe it was just because of the way he held my hand. Though I was his father and wanted to bring him comfort, the truth was, he brought me comfort, too. Sometimes I think he did more for me than I ever did for him. No, I know that’s true.
Mitch began to walk toward the building with a backpack stuffed with homework, a peanut butter & jelly sandwich lovingly made by his mother, and a few treasures he liked to keep near him. At one point, he turned his head slightly to see if I was still there. I unrolled my window and yelled out, “Hi Mitch! You can do it! I love you!” I wanted him to know I was watching out for him; that I had his back, his front, and his sides. I wanted my child to know I believed in him. Natalie taught me how to do that, and I am forever grateful.
It didn’t take long before little Mitch began talking to a classmate before their teacher came to get them at the first bell. I stayed a while and wondered what my son was talking about. I always listened carefully to what children had to say, for their words were a window to their soul and I couldn’t help but try to look in. Perchance, I might get a glimpse of heaven. For of such, children are.
Little Mitch kept looking at me and smiling, each time my heart melted, and I thought myself the luckiest guy on earth. Without question, being a father has been the most rewarding experience of my life. I wouldn’t trade it for all the riches of earth.
No matter where Mitch went, I wanted him to know I was cheering him on. And when he didn’t know how to do a thing, I always tried to show him.
I think the most important gift we can give our children, and others, is belief-in-self. I don’t mean a grandiose, false bravado; I mean a quiet kind of confidence where they can stumble and get back up again and still believe they can go on. A self-confidence that isn’t attached to social acceptance, material things and looks … but rather a knowledge of who they are and what they have the potential to become.
“You can do it, Mitch.” I said those words often, and I think he started to believe me. I wish I had more of that when I was a kid. I could have used the boost. Now, I try to give my children what I wanted, but in greater abundance. I am not good at it, and I stumble often, but I believe if I keep trying, I’ll get better at it.
Today, when I face implacable odds and incredible challenges (and I have many), I hear my son’s voice in my mind, “Dad, you can do it.” Then, a quiet confidence stirs within me, not because of who I am today – for I am flawed; but because of what I have the potential to become. Though I stumble, I get back up, and I run.
You can do it; the same is true for all of us, each and every one. We have great potential. We are engineered to become.
“There are fringe benefits that come with being engaged, industrious and self-sufficient. It may sound ironic, but in many ways, I believe these fringe benefits are the greater benefits. The wood we burn will disappear, but what we become by preparing it will forever endure. That is a recipe for living.”
Whenever Mitch went to the public library with his mother, he would always add a cookbook to his checkout. Tucked between a pile of books on amazing facts, science fiction adventures, and other boyish topics … a how-to-cook book was always in his mix.
Natalie would then drive to the grocery store and get whatever ingredients we didn’t have at home so he could create something delicious. Once he had the raw materials, little Mitch would quietly get to work. He was independent and seldom asked for help. DMD had weakened his arms considerably, so he didn’t have the physical strength to lift and pour a gallon of milk, but he could do most of everything else. Had Mitch not died of heart failure 3 years ago, by now he would likely have very limited use of his hands and barely the strength to lift a spoon. That is what DMD does to these beautiful children.
For Mitch, cooking was like assembling culinary Legos; he loved the challenge of following instructions … except when he was done cooking, he got to eat and share his creation.
I always loved walking into the kitchen to see my little boy whipping up some recipe. He had cooking down to a science; when he needed to microwave something delicate, he knew exactly how many seconds to heat the item and how long it needed to rest. I remember when he told me in his sweet, soft voice exactly how many seconds it took to perfectly melt cheese for nachos, warm a frozen burrito, or melt butter.
Mitch had an appetite for learning, doing, and becoming. He often reminded me of Henry Ford’s sage wisdom, “Chop your own wood, and it will warm you twice.” There are fringe benefits that come with being engaged, industrious and self-sufficient. It may sound ironic, but in many ways, I believe these fringe benefits are the greater benefits. The wood we burn will disappear, but what we become by preparing it will forever endure. That is a recipe for living.
When I look at this picture of little Mitch, I can’t help but think of the many recipes for a good life. I don’t think the recipe for a good life is much different than any recipe for a good meal … for each is different and the ingredients are unique to the dish.
The ingredients for someone with a disability will be different than that of an Olympic athlete … for their steps and victories will be different, but the principles the same. Although little Mitch lived a short life, he taught me about some ingredients that I try to use every single day:
• Follow instructions, learning from others who have figured something out is always the better path.
• Get busy doing something, nothing gets done when nothing gets done.
• Work hard, for whatever you build is also building you.
• Be kind, for when you sweeten the life of others, you can’t help but taste of that sweetness, too.
• Help others along the way, for the heavenly paradox is when we help others, we help ourselves.
• Be patient with others, for they are struggling to change, just like you and me.
• Sprinkle gratitude over everything, for gratitude begets more gratitude, and that is a good thing.
• Trust the process, though long and hard our struggles might seem, life’s difficulties will make us stronger, if we’ll allow it.
I remember laying by my son in his bed the night before he passed away. He was in a deep sleep and all I wanted to do was wake him up so that I might have more time. I couldn’t wake him, so I just cried and held him in my arms and wet his pillow with my tears. In that moment of quiet agony, I thought of ordinary, yet beautiful moments like this … where Mitch loved life and tried to make the most of everything. I vowed then, and vow again today, to make the most of every moment … so one day I can say, “I followed the recipe and lived a good life.”