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WHEN THE TIME COMES
Recently, our family went on a short trip to spend time together and heal a little. On the drive home, we saw a spectacular sunset, and I couldn’t help but think of little Mitch and his love of atmosphere and beautiful evening skies. At that moment, I was overwhelmed with feelings of love and gratitude, peace and grief. I wonder if I’ll ever get used to feeling so many things at once.
“If you remember only one thing from this post, remember this: our loved ones understand everything we feel.”
As Natalie was driving, I took a photo of my two favorite things … sunsets and my sweet wife. How I love this woman and the goodness that is in her. Whenever I’m with her, I am a better me. A heavenly gift I don’t take lightly.
In this same moment, memories of little Mitch wrapped around me like a blanket, woven with feelings of the softest thread. For a few moments, it felt like I was being smothered in Mitchell’s love. Tears filled my eyes as I allowed those feelings to wash over me – and that, too, was healing. I couldn’t tell if Mitchell’s spirit was nearby or if I was simply reveling in the love I have for my son. Either way, I was grateful for this moment of supernal peace.
After a few minutes, I began to realize night was soon coming, and I wondered if my night terrors would return. I now recognize that I suffered from a form of PTSD and had no practical support to guide me through the process of healing. I just learned to write it out, here on Mitchell’s Journey. Only recently have I not been afraid of the night – those moments between sleep and consciousness; where the rawness of loss would cause me to wake in the middle of the night in a heartbreaking panic, then I’d weep until I could hardly breathe. I am grateful that no such nightmares visited me that night, as they have so many times before. I think, for the most part, that part of my grief journey is over. Even still, those nightmares visit me from time to time – and it is as though I lost my son all over again.
What I’ve discovered on my grief journey is moments of peace will come when I least expect it. Then, in like manner, the terror of loss will take me to my knees. Between those opposites, I also experience everything in between.
At least for me, I’ve discovered something that helps along the journey of grief … and life for that matter. I’ve learned that when the time comes, I’m better off if I allow whatever feelings I experience to take their course. When joy comes, I embrace it fully. I don’t feel guilty for being glad … instead, I’m glad that I’m glad. In many ways, that makes me even more glad. When I’m sad, I don’t brush it away or pretend those feelings don’t exist. The suppression or denial of feelings only serves to canker and become strangely malignant. I suppose the only feeling I don’t entertain is hatred or anger – which, if left unchecked, poison the soul.
Some people who grieve worry that feeling joy, peace or gladness is a betrayal of their love and loss. That somehow stepping into a place that isn’t so painful is to step away from the one we lost and suggest no longer care for them. That is simply not true. We can grieve and grow at the same time or at separate times – and that’s okay. Then there are some well-meaning, yet deeply misinformed people on the other side of grief who say foolish things like, “Be happy! Don’t be sad; your loved one wouldn’t want you to be sad.” That is blubbering nonsense. If you remember only one thing from this post, remember this: our loved ones understand everything we feel. They’re not disappointed in us when we’re sad – they understand how much we love and miss them. When we’re happy, they don’t feel betrayed – but glad for our own gladness.
This night, as I saw my beautiful wife and the evening sky that brought my heart close to Mitch, I felt a potpourri of feelings and I allowed them, unrestrained, into my heart and soul. It was both painful and beautiful. Mitch taught me that when the time comes, face it … whatever it is. He did that in life and in the face of death. When he realized he was at his life’s end, he faced hard things with dignity and courage. Though I stumble drunkenly in his shadow, I try to follow his quiet example … when the time comes, face it and embrace it.
Without warning, an enormous clap of thunder exploded, and my boys and I jumped with fear. A dark storm was brewing, and the afternoon sky had become almost dark as night. The campfire we were just about to start would have to wait until the downpour passed. From the looks of it, it seemed the storm was going to linger a while as the cool mountain wind almost ushered us into our tent for protection.
Mitch squirmed into his sleeping back and wiggled around as if to snuggle deeply into the mound of soft things that surrounded him. I chuckled a little because I did the same thing when I was a boy, and in that moment, I remembered how fun it was to be young. I looked upon my boys with a touch of envy. Mitch pulled his hands behind his head, his face bearing a light mustache from chocolate milk, and began to smile softly. “We’re safe and sound, right Dad?” Mitch said with a mixture of confidence and concern. “You bet, Mitch. This is going to be a crazy camping adventure.” Mitch smiled and said, “I know you’ll keep us from floating away.”
Within minutes, we could hear the intermittent pitter-patter of raindrops on the tent. A few minutes later, a burst of raindrops assaulted the side of the tent as the wind began to pick up speed. Soon, we were in the middle of a torrential downpour. I worried if our tent was rated for an hurricane-like storm. Mitch nudged my arm and said, “Doesn’t this remind you of Winnie the Pooh and the Blustery Day?” Mitch giggled as I peered nervously out the window, keeping an eye out for a flash flood.
We knew there might be bad weather, so our backup plan was to have a den party in the tent. So, I pulled out a portable DVD player, broke out some snacks and pulled up our covers as the boys and I watched a movie under the thinly veiled safety of our tent.
I didn’t sleep well that night. Aside from a few breaks in the early evening, the rain never really let up. So, I laid in the tent in a trance-like state – somewhere between sleep and wakefulness … sitting up every hour to make sure the boys were dry. By morning the kids were rested, and I was hammered.
Of all the moments in life, the ones I remember with great fondness and nostalgia, aren’t the times things went perfectly. Instead, the moments I treasure most are when we struggled and found our way through a hard time. Don’t get me wrong, perfect times are just that … perfect. I love and appreciate them for what they are; honey is honey. But the taste of lemonade is never so sweet as when you must work to make it so. Perhaps that’s why hard times often end up becoming our best times, in the end.
This photo of Mitch reminds me that even in our difficulties, we can make the best of what we’ve got – and somehow, some way, we’ll look back and be glad we lived the life we lived. In every struggle, there’s a price to be paid; but in the end, that’s what makes the sweetest lemonade.
When Mitch was tiny, he injured his hand and began to cry. He was more frightened than hurt, but he was hurt just the same. After a moment of sorrow, Mitch realized his hand was going to be okay his mother picked him up and held him as only a mother knows to hold her child. To a young one, there is a certain comfort that comes from blankets and Sippy Cups, but then there’s the comfort that comes from a mother; and no blanket on earth can replace the warm embrace of a loving mother.
Though not an envious man, I am sometimes sorely tempted, when I see the tender bond between mother and child. Though my heart loves deeply, I recognize there is a sacred place for a mother’s love. I wish I had a piece of that because it is beautiful beyond measure. Instead, I’ll take what I can get while sitting on the sidelines and consider myself blessed.
So there I stood, in my dorky way, trying to comfort my son. I didn't stand a chance against the blanket and Sippy Cup, let alone his mommy’s embrace. I made funny faces and danced like a fool for him, and he started to chuckle. His smile, this very smile you see here, and eyes shrunk-wrapped in tears melted my heart. Though I offered a little sideshow entertainment for my boy, the real performance was already underway by his mother.
“Our journey of grief, like everyone who hurts, is painfully unique. It’s a delicate balance of looking forward to sights unseen while permitting myself to hurt because I’m still a human being. That’s the thing nobody told me … healing hurts. ”
I think, on some level, I’m beginning to understand Kate Bush’s lyrics “I stand outside this woman’s work … this woman’s world. Ooh, its hard on the man, now his part is over, now starts the craft of the Father.” There is a sacredness to motherhood, something far beyond my reach. Though I do my best to be a good dad and husband, I am beginning to realize I am a small player on a much grander stage. Though I do my best to do my part, however important, it is minor in comparison.
Neal Maxwell wrote, “When the real history of mankind is fully disclosed, will it feature the echoes of gunfire or the shaping sound of lullabies? The great armistices made by military men or the peacemaking of women in homes and in neighborhoods? Will what happened in cradles and kitchens prove to be more controlling than what happened in congresses? When the surf of the centuries has made the great pyramids so much sand, the everlasting family will still be standing…”
When we started our family, we had no idea what we were doing. We still don’t on some level because each phase of child-rearing, at least for us, is an undiscovered country. Yet we’re learning things each day that we try to apply in the things we do and say. I wish I could wield the parenting power my wife seems to shoulder so gracefully. Such is the power of motherhood, I suppose. I’m just an ordinary dad with more weaknesses than most. So I’ll try to pave the way, moving obstacles where I can and make life a little easier for her each day.
Our journey of grief, like everyone who hurts, is painfully unique. It’s a delicate balance of looking forward to sights unseen while permitting myself to hurt because I’m still a human being. That’s the thing nobody told me … healing hurts.
Though I’m still hurting, I’m also healing … and that is a wonderful, wonderful feeling.
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Originally Posted in 2014