Yesterday I found Ethan sitting on the edge of Mitchell's bed playing one of their favorite video games. Mitchell's room remains virtually untouched since the day we lost him. Even the stack of Xbox games Mitch gathered up to keep his worried mind occupied are still there, just the way he left them. I asked Ethan if he was okay and he replied, "Sometimes I like to play in here because it reminds me of him." It was a sweet moment ... not a sad moment, just tender with brotherly love.
It occurred to me through this simple exchange with Ethan, though death may cause our loved ones to leave us, they never really leave our hearts. I wish them being in our hearts were enough to assuage the pangs of grief, but it is not. Though they live in our hearts, at least the memory of them, it is at once beautiful and terrible.
Last week, while attending a #ppmd conference, Natalie and I met several families with whom we discovered an instant bond. I gave this young boy, Logan, one of Mitchell's medals from our annual#milesformitchell run. I wanted him to know that he was remarkable and that I admired him. He was such a sweet child and reminded me of my son. I was also grateful to have met his parents, who were as strong as anyone I've ever known. I only wished there was enough time to sit down with every family and learn their story.
Losing our son didn't just break our heart; strangely, it enlarged it. Since then, we have learned to love others and empathize in ways we never imagined. The further I head down#mitchellsjourney the more I'm beginning to realize that we may not be able to save lives, at least tomorrow, but perhaps we can help save families. For if we save a life, yet lose our families, we may have won a battle but will have certainly lost the war.
“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.”
I remember sitting at the cemetery with my family as we remembered Mitch once summer evening. The air was warm and the grass was cool – it was a perfect summer moment. Yet in our hearts was a dark cloud of grief and I wanted so much to shield my family from that pain and sorrow.
To each family member I handed a pendant with Mitchell’s finger print; a gift given to our family from a loving client. Each of us held, almost in disbelief, an evidence our son once lived and walked among us. In our hearts we asked ourselves, “How could this be?” It didn’t take long before we started reminiscing about Mitch – we laughed and cried as we talked about the happy times and the sad times. Most of all, we shared our gratitude for all the good things in our life, Mitch being one of them. Though we were all hurting, a little healing happened on that day.
It was this unlikely summer evening that I began to experience growth through gratitude.
Three years have passed and my heart and soul are still tender to the touch – and sometimes my sorrow overtakes me and I weep. Yet despite the grief I feel for losing my son, I have learned to live again – and that is a blessing I intend to keep.
At least for me, I have begun to see a 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.
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.
As far as I can tell, I experience healing and growth when I find gratitude. That is how I am coming alive again. Gratitude.
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I submitted this article as part of the #oncomingaliveproject by Lexi Behrndt, a mother who has turned her grief into a platform to help others. Follow the link below to see what others had to say about how to come alive again. This is a remarkable project and I was grateful to be a small part of it.
http://www.scribblesandcrumbs.com/oncomingalive
When Mitch was young he carried with him two toy figures. One was a man with a hardhat, ready to go to work and the other was a little boy with a ball cap and backpack. He never went anywhere that he didn’t carry these two figures in his chubby little hands or tiny pockets. Often, Mitch picked up the father, a symbol of me, and kissed it softly. I adored his tender, affectionate heart. I would then pick up the little boy, a symbol of my son, and kiss it in kind. Mitch would always giggle and give me a big hug.
“I love you so much, little Mitch.” I would say.
“ You see, there is a sacred place I want to be, beyond the hills and in a place I cannot yet see.
My little boy is there, waiting patiently ... waiting to see if I might offer symbols of my soul, evidence of who I love and what I believe ... not just in word, but deed.”
I discovered early on, what children lack in words they often make up for in other ways. Mitch didn’t always know how to share his feelings, so he found other means to tell me. I always tried to listen to his other means. For every symbol he created there opened a window into his soul. My other children did the same thing to some degree, but not like Mitch. He was not very talkative in his early years – and he found other ways to share what was in his heart and soul.
There is an old Chinese proverb that says, “There are no secrets of the soul that conduct does not reveal.” Each day, little Mitch shared symbols that revealed his soul. Each time, this little child took me to a sacred place.
In this photo, Mitch asked me to take a photo of him with his “guys”. I loved how he posed for the photo, resting his head against his marker-stained, chubby arm. I wish I could reach into this photo and kiss his face again. How my heart reaches through time and space, yearning to love …
I have a friend and business partner, Corey Berg, who once shared a quote, “In all things teach people about [God]. And if necessary, use words.” He was speaking of the ultimate symbol – how we choose to live. In my soul, I hope that my daily actions are a symbol, like little Mitch so often gave me … symbols that say more than words.
Though I have journeyed broken roads and wandered through the vast shadows of death, I have also climbed the highest mountains of life. Sometimes places so high, the air so thin, I could see the heavens and almost touch them. The peaks and valleys of life are sacred places, each in their own right. They teach us things we must learn, that add to our spiritual sight.
I am grateful for souls, symbols and sacred places. I have been to heaven and hell, and seen many faces. This little soul, who like a feather, softly landed in my heart, is now a symbol of my own journey’s new start. You see, there is a sacred place I want to be, beyond the hills and in a place I cannot yet see.
My little boy is there, waiting patiently ... waiting to see if I might offer symbols of my soul, evidence of who I love and what I believe ... not just in word, but deed.