To celebrate Valentines Day, we visited Mitch, then went to Olive Garden, his favorite RESTAURANT.
Laura-Ashley was away at college and we missed having her with us.
Mitchell's older brother and best friend with his mother. Two people who meant so very much to Mitch.
natalie's valentine decorations for little Mitch.
For many reasons, this is a tender time of year for Natalie and me. Earlier this morning, Facebook showed me this photo 4 years ago today. Mitch was fading and time was more valuable than all the riches of earth. While his heart was failing, ours was breaking.
“The great irony of hardships is they have the power to make our joys sweeter if we listen to the tender lessons of pain. ”
4 years on, the deep sadness I once felt has been replaced with a clear sobriety about life. The truth is, I experience greater joy than ever before, I love my family more than ever, and I appreciate moments more than any time in my life. I feel more peace than pain and more gratitude than grief.
The great irony of hardships is they have the power to make our joys sweeter, if we listen to the tender lessons of pain. It doesn't happen all at once, in fact ... at first it seems to take forever ... but peace comes eventually.
Eventually.
I stumbled across this photo the other day and was taken back to the time when all our children were little. On this day we were at grandma’s home for a family dinner. Little Mitch sat patiently in his chair as his mommy filled his plate with a healthy balance of vegetables and other things. “Sank you, mommy”, little Mitch said with a soft voice. Like all young children, he loved his mom and wanted to make her happy. If only our children knew how much their mother’s loved them. It is only when children become parents they begin to understand the depth of such love. Then, and only then, can such a splendor be known.
“... when we serve, we love. And when we love, we heal.”
I remember this era of our life so well. It was a time of late nights and exhausting days … sticky fingers, dirty shirts, runny noses and little messes around the house that seemed to spring up out of nowhere. Sometimes it felt like the days were too long and the nights, too short. But in all of that struggle, or better said, in all of that service, deep love began to grow.
How exactly love grows is something the world often forgets. There is so much anger and vitriol in society today, it's a wonder we haven't burned the world in a mindless rage.
One thing my little ones taught me is service begets love and healing. I can’t think of a time in my life where I served someone (even a stranger) that I didn’t grow to love them. Even if it was as simple as helping someone with their bag at an airport, or letting someone in a hurry go first in line … when I find ways to serve others, I grow to love them. Service changes us from the inside out; it turns hate into happiness, jealousy into joy, and grief into gratitude. If there is a single antidote for much of what ails family and society, it is simply service. When we serve, we heal.
Do you want to turn a foe into a friend? Find a way to serve them. Are you mad at a family member? Do something for them that shows, despite unsettled feelings, you still care. In times of trouble the best way out, I’ve learned, is to lay down my weapons of war and serve the person I’m at odds with. Certainly, it takes two to resolve a conflict … and it doesn’t work all the time … but it works more than it doesn’t. I can live with those odds.
What’s the one thing our children teach us? They teach us service is the foundation to love. Service gives meaning to our lives and renews our souls. Service can be inconvenient at times – as it should be: for nothing of value comes easily.
The night Mitchell passed away, I sat at the foot of his bed and wept as I contemplated our [nearly] 11 years together. I remembered the times I served him: when I gave him piggybacks up the stairs because his legs were too weak to climb, or the times I read to him before bedtime or helped him with school projects. I wanted to keep serving him and my heart was broken that I could not. My last act of service was to tuck my son in for the last time and whispered in his ear how proud I was of the life he lived. I told him I would spend the rest of my life trying to live up to his example … that his daddy wanted to be just like him. I gave him permission to go to the other side and assured him he would be okay. He heard me, then passed away 30 minutes later.
If ever I needed peace and healing, it was then … in the aftermath of that profound loss. For the wilderness of grief was dark and deep – a pain so great, I wanted to close my eyes drift away into eternal sleep.
I have healed a great deal over the last 4 years, and much of that healing (in addition to Heaven’s help) has come from setting aside my own sorrows and finding ways to serve others.
I am grateful for this photo because it reminded me of a simpler time in my life … a time when I was picking up on the supernal lesson children teach us … when we serve, we love. And when we love, we heal.
There isn’t a day that goes by I don’t think of Mitch a thousand times. On my commute to-and-from work I think of him. Sometimes I imagine him sitting next to me in my car, like he used to, when he would have a father/son day at work. I want to reach out my hand toward that empty chair and hold his – but he is not there. Nor will he ever be. For he has gone from this place and my heart is changed because of it.
“To be stuck with grief is to carry our sorrows as we move forward in life. It is to have our backs made stronger as we climb to new heights, while we shoulder the weight of sorrow. To be stuck in grief is to be tethered, as though we were chained to a boulder … circling our pain again, and again, and again. ”
I used to cry all day. In the beginning, while I was at work and when meetings were over, I would often go outside and salt the earth with my tears. Sometimes I could hardly breathe. Save this blog, I kept my sorrow to myself – hiding my broken heart behind a soft smile and a warm handshake.
At night, I would look at my pillow with a measure of fear … for that space between sleep and wake terrified me. It was during that transition to-and-from sleep I would experience the loss of Mitch all over again. Sometimes that unfiltered grief was so raw, it would startle me to the point I couldn’t go back to sleep. For that reason, I was afraid of the night.
I think it’s safe to say I have been to hell and back. What matters, I suppose, is that I’m back. I am grateful to say I am no longer in hell, though grief will sometimes sweep me back to hell from time-to-time.
Not a day goes by Natalie and I don’t talk about our little boy. We remember his goodness and the lessons he taught us. We think back on his sense of humor and his tender soul; and when we talk about Mitch, we often do it with warm hearts and a feeling of gratitude.
Each day is met with memories and a tender longing for our son. That is what children do to parents … they become the better parts of us and if they are taken away, we spend the remainder of our days in search of that which was lost.
I often hear people reference others as being “stuck in grief.” It is a label sometimes carelessly handed out by those who often know very little of grief themselves. Yet, I have thought a great deal about what that means – at least to me. When I think of the word stuck, I think of something that is immovable. When it comes to the loss of a child, grief is a chronic, life-long condition. Grief isn’t something you experience, like the flu, and move on. Grief alters every part of you. You become a spiritual amputee and you must learn to live without a once vital part of your heart and soul.
So, in a manner of speaking, I suppose I am stuck WITH grief – but that doesn’t mean I am stuck IN grief. I cannot restore the loss of my son any more than an amputee can regenerate a missing limb. But I can learn and adapt to my new reality and grow – and therein lies the difference, I believe. To be stuck with grief is to carry our sorrows as we move forward in life. It is to have our backs made stronger as we climb to new heights, while we shoulder the weight of sorrow. To be stuck in grief is to be tethered, as though we were chained to a boulder … circling our pain again, and again, and again.
I am not circling, I am climbing - and when I write of grief, I speak of that which I’m carrying … not that which I’m circling.
Mitch was the better part of me. A million times over, he was everything I could ever hope to be. Not a day goes by I don’t fall to my knees and thank Heaven for giving Mitch to me. Because of him, I see things differently. I have become a different me.
