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HELP ME NOT FALL
"Dad, will you hold my hand? Will you help me not fall?" Mitch said with a sweet, soft voice. I reached out to hold his hand as Mitch leaned down and reached into the crystal clear waters that flowed from a natural hot spring. "It's like a bath! Do you think I could swim in it?" Mitch was fascinated that nature could produce such bathy warm water, for until this moment, he only knew the icy streams that came from snowmelt.

We were at a father's & son's campout, and I was so excited to spend time with my boys. We played Frisbee on the grass and cooked our famous tin foil dinners and were the envy of every camper who could smell the magical meal cooking slowly in the glowing embers. Mitch loved my special recipe.

Later that evening, we would find ourselves huddled in our family tent, listening to a torrential downpour, exhilarated by the constant clash of thunder that boomed right above our heads. Mitch snuggled into me with his sleeping bag as I wrapped my arm around him and held him tight. Little Wyatt sat on my other side, lovingly held by my other arm. Ethan bravely sat with a smile and listened to the rain pound the walls of our tent, ready to pack up on a moment's notice were we to flood.

We made it through the night dry and un-drenched. I am grateful for those moments with my family. If I have a regret in life, it is that I didn't have enough of them. I did my best, but I wish I would have done more.

I often think back on this moment when Mitch asked for help to do something other children could have done with ease. His muscles were weak, and his balance always precarious. The slightest bump from someone could send him crashing to the ground. Often, Mitchie's plea was, "Help me not fall." Every time he said that I was reminded of everything I ever for granted.

Those words "help me not fall" will echo in my mind forever. As his father, I didn't want Mitch to fall and hurt himself; yet at the same time, I didn't want to rob my son the opportunity to do things on his own. Therein lies the delicate parental balance … to help enough to enable growth but not enough to rob it.

When I look back on my life then and now, it doesn't take much to recognize my spiritual Father is doing the same thing with me. His hand is often out of view, and if I'm not mindful, I go about my busy life, unaware of His helping hand.

Yet, every time I kneel and ask my Father to "help me not fall," I get a distinct impression that He is not only there … but that He has always been there – helping me just enough to enable growth, but never enough to rob it.

At least on some level, being a Father myself, I think I understand now; and I wouldn't have it any other way.

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Natalie reached into the back of Mitchell’s closet and said in a reverent tone, “Oh, Chris, look what I found.” As she turned around, I saw her holding a hand-painted treasure chest Mitch carefully decorated when he was eight years old. This little box bore the imaginative paint strokes of a sweet child trying his best to make something neat. I adored that box when he first painted it – and I adore it even more today.

You see, a few days ago, my wife and I walked into Mitchell’s room to finish cleaning and to put his things in storage. We staged cleaning his room into phases so we could manage our emotions. To our surprise, the first few times were lovely; we laughed and gushed over our favorite memories of Mitch. This last time, however, was different.

We sat on the floor as Natalie began to pull items out, one-by-one. It was a sacred exchange.

I pulled my phone out and started to film these tiny treasures (see next post to watch this video):

At 0:39, Natalie pulled out a few small figurines Laura-Ashley gave her little brother. Mitch treasured them because he looked up to his sister with love and admiration. She was an angel to him.

At 1:19, Natalie shows a keychain from Honduras. I gave that souvenir to Mitch when I returned from making a humanitarian documentary in that country. I was humbled to discover he put that item in his treasure chest. It touched my heart deeply.

As Natalie continued to show me things from Mitchie’s treasure chest, I started to remember the sweet little boy that once graced our home (1:24), and my heart longed to hold him in my arms.

At 2:07 –Natalie took a small glass object out of the box. This was a little gift I gave Mitch years ago while I was consulting with a mining company. In this tiny glass container were tiny flecks of gold floating in water. Mitch was convinced it was real gold. There’s a sweet story about his misunderstanding; see the essay FAMILY: A TREASURE BEYOND MEASURE

By this time, I was sobbing in silence. Grief washed over me like a tidal wave, and I could hardly breathe. Overcome with grief, I didn’t have the presence of mind to lift my phone a little to capture what Natalie was holding. My sweet wife, ever the giant, consoled me in my moment of sorrow. In so many ways, I stand in her shadow.

I share this video not to dig for attention or sympathy – but to show a tender view of what happens behind the curtains of grief. Though the years may pass, our love and longing for our little boy remains. Grief for love is the price we pay in exchange.

In my grief journey, I’ve discovered that healing begins with feeling. Yes, grief is painful – but it is necessary if I hope to heal. Running from it doesn’t help. In fact, running and hiding only makes things worse. Embracing pain and allowing it to flow through me is frightening at first, but faster to process in the end.

What was interesting about this experience is after this moment of deep grief I not only felt better, I saw things differently. It was as though my soul needed to exhale grief so I could inhale life. Ever since this moment, I’ve found myself looking for the tiny treasures my living children leave behind; the unique things they say and do; the tiny things I would notice but might be invisible to you. Those are tiny treasures I can learn to appreciate in the moment.

As painful as this moment was uncovering Mitchell’s tiny treasures, I learned that grief is not my tormentor but instead my teacher.

When I listen to audio interviews I had with Mitch at the hospital and home on hospice, it’s clear to me now: he knew he was going to die. I already knew it but was trying to shield my son from fear. He knew it but was trying to keep my broken heart from falling apart. I wonder what we might have said to each other if we weren’t trying to save each other from sorrow. I wonder.

If I think too much about that, I fall apart. I have to let that go, though it is much easier said than done.

I’ve never known a child to love life with such a depth as Mitch. In the most curious ways, he was burdened by the kind of thoughts an adult might think, like, how he was going to afford a home, who he was going to marry, and the type of father Mitch wanted to be.

On one occasion, he asked me how mortgages work and said he was worried he wouldn’t make enough money. “My allowance is so small,” he said. I chuckled a moment, then swallowed a lump of compassion in my throat then said, “Oh, sweet boy, don’t worry about that stuff. It’ll all make sense in time. I don’t know how or why; I just know things seem to work out the way they’re supposed to.”

Mitch thought a moment, “But Dad, what if I can’t make it work?”

“I’ll always be with you, Mitch. You will never have to face life alone. I promise.”

With that, Mitch went back to building his Legos.

My son fascinated me, both by his purity and maturity. He drank in sunrises and sunsets like an old man wise in years and rich with experience. He understood that each sunset was unique, never to be repeated in all the earth. Because Mitch thought of his mortality often, I think part of him wondered if the beautiful sky he so admired at any moment might be his last. On the deepest level, he knew life was fragile and precious above all things.

So when I saw my son at the hospital struggling to feel good and doctors grappling with how to save his life, my heart sank below anything I’d ever experienced, then or now. The days at the hospital were long and the nights unbearable. Sometimes I wonder if he awoke in the middle of the night and heard me quietly weep in the dark corner of the ICU room.

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I remember running to get something from my car at the hospital, near the time I took this photo. The sunset was almost past, so I quickly captured it with my iPhone to show Mitch. When I returned to his room and showed him the picture, he said, “Was that today?” (see the next image in this post)

I could tell by the tone in his voice he yearned to see it with his own eyes. I could tell he wanted to leave the hospital and never return.

“Yes, son. You’ll get to see them again soon.”

My heart is glad knowing Mitch saw a few more sunrises and sunsets before his time was up. He treasured each of them.

I don’t know why we must watch loved ones suffer. I wish I could take it all away. I wish I had the healer's art.

Instead, I carry grief like an inoperable brain tumor. It isn't terminal, though sometimes it feels that way. But it does change my vision; as a result, I see the world differently, more clearly and compassionately.

I don’t suffer in grief like I used to, but tonight the gravity of grief is heavy. Tonight I walk on Jupiter and struggle a bit to breathe. That is the lifelong burden of losing a child.

While I continue to make sense of suffering, I don’t shake my fist at heaven, angry that I lost my son. Instead, I have a heart of gratitude to have been his father. I got to know a little boy who became my deepest teacher. I got to meet an angel made mortal, whose life forever touched mine.

During this time of uncertainty, I've thought long and hard about life and what matters most.

Just tonight, as Natalie and I were visiting grocery stores trying to find some essentials for our family, we talked about our little Mitch and the risk the Coronavirus would have to his health and safety.

My little10-year old son would have been 17 by now, which means he'd likely be unable to lift his arms, susceptible to respiratory infections, and so much more. We then turned our minds to other families who care for children with DMD, and we said a prayer in our hearts for them. My eyes welled with tears for medically fragile families who fight for another day, another month, or another year with their children.

As we drove home, this video came to mind, and I thought I'd re-share it. I posted this a few years ago about our experience witnessing the solar eclipse. It was a profound moment - especially considering how something so infinitesimally small as our moon could make me feel even smaller. This experience enriched my perspective about life - and this video shares my thoughts to that end.

I still think about my little Mitch. Every single day. I carry him in my mind and heart - and the tears I shed for him have become lenses that bring what matters most into focus.

I hope this video helps someone struggling to take heart and find a measure of peace and purpose.