A Mitchell’s Journey reader-turned friend invited Chris to be a guest on her podcast. In this interview, you’ll hear his perspectives on Mitchell’s Journey, making sense of suffering, and the pursuit of meaning and purpose.
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When Mitch passed away, he left behind his puppy, Marlie, who at the time wasn’t much older than the furry kids in this video. Since then, Marie has become a tender mercy to our family in more ways than we can describe.
Last December, Marlie had puppies. In this video are 3 of her surviving pups and the father. Mitch would have loved this video. When he was young, he always did his homework quickly so he could watch a TV series called, Too Cute, which highlighted young animals who were trying to find their way in a big new world.
Mitch loved those videos because he identified with youth - and he loved anything that caused him to feel good on the inside. Natalie and I found this video and we looked at each other and said, almost simultaneously, “Mitch would have loved this.”
Mitch taught me to never waste a chance to smile. This video has me smiling so much, my face hurts.
If you’re into following cute animals, the little brown puppy was adopted by a family in Texas, who has been a friend to Mitchell’s Journey for years. His account is here: www.instagram.com/oliverdee_mitchellslegacy/
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Ever since my sweet wife was a little girl, she wanted to be a mother. It was her dream to have and raise children – and it has been my deepest honor to watch this good woman love, protect, and nurture our kids. It has been my greatest honor to be her partner in life, love, and parenting.
Lately, I’ve been stumbling into little breadcrumbs Mitch left behind, and these breadcrumbs have brought me a great deal of joy and gratitude for all that ever was. One example happened just a few weeks ago; Natalie and I moved Mitchell’s bed and discovered a laminated poem he wrote in school. Somehow, someway, this little paper slipped and drifted under his bed, far from view. And there it slept for 7 years, Natalie and I unaware of its tender existence.
This is what Mitchell wrote in honor of his mother:
THE BEST MOM EVER
Golden, shiny hair,
Eyes like the ocean,
Pretty, young,
Special to me.
Cooks juicy stroganoff,
Makes my comfortable bed,
Buys me cool presents on my birthday.
Rode the Dragon ride at Legoland,
Pushes me on the swings.
Tucks me in at night.
My mom is the best.
When Natalie and I read that, our hearts gushed with gratitude. We marveled over some of his word choices (“eyes like the ocean”) but more importantly, we melted over his heartfelt sentiments. Although we cried tears of loss and longing later that night, at that moment, we were captured by the sweet innocence of our son.
Mitch was right; he had the best mom ever, and his short life reminds me that while nothing lasts, everything that matters is forever.
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Tonight I took Ethan to his old elementary school. We wanted to see the tree planted in his brother's memory. There used to be a brick at the foot of the tree with an inscription in honor of Mitch. It's gone now, and the tree is more mature than the near sapling the school planted 7 years ago. It blends in among the others. Inconspicuous. Ordinary. It's purpose and meaning all but forgotten to a passerby.
That is to be expected, I suppose, for that is the way of things. We all live for a small moment, and then we die, and soon our story fades softly into the background of an ever noisy now.
I used to visit this little place, overwhelmed with emotion. Today my heart was as calm as a zen garden. I was grateful for this memorial while it lasted. It counted. It meant something to my family and me, and we are thankful to everyone who made this happen. Now it's purpose has been fulfilled and it can just be beautiful for the remainder of its days.
After we spent a moment at Mitchell's tree, I asked Ethan to take me around the school and share his memories as a young boy. He pointed to the jungle gyms he climbed and the classrooms he attended. He even looked to the ground at a hopscotch print on the asphalt and said, "those used to be much bigger." We both laughed.
As we walked around the corner of the school, near the cafeteria, I remembered Mitchell's school aide telling me Ethan would visit him every single day while he was having lunch and give him a hug. I know that meant a lot to Mitchell. Ethan was both loving and kind to his little brother.
As we made our way to the front of the school, our conversation had become a potpourri of memories and feelings. All of them beautiful and peaceful.
Our last stop was a small fenced-in area for preschoolers. That was where Ethan first attended that school. We stopped and talked about his memories, and my eyes welled with tears. There before me was my tiny boy-turned-man. I was so proud of the person he has become.
The longer I travel down my grief journey, I worry less about the physical monuments we create and more about the living memorials we become. After all, memorials almost never change lives. But the people around us do.
I do not care if people remember this tree and why it was planted. In many ways, I'm not so worried if people even remember my little boy's name in the years to come. But I hope the awakening, the deeper empathy, the habit of pausing to be in the moment, and the impulse to find gratitude echoes in the lives of people for generations.
What good are tears if they do not soften our hearts to love others more deeply? What good are heavy burdens if we do not allow them to make us stronger? Pain, though tender, is life's deepest teacher. These things can shape us into living memorials - so our lives become an echo of grace, gratitude, and goodness. To be an echo and a light, that is my hope for the remainder of my life.
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