Photos are like postcards from a time long gone.
I’ll never forget this warm autumn evening when Luke put his arm around his best buddy and said, “I’m glad you’re my friend, Mitchell.” I was about to walk down the trail of our secret forest so they could play – but when I overheard them talk about video games and some new nerf war strategies, I lingered at the edge of the woods so I could listen to them dream without a care in the world. For a minute or two, the little boy in my heart sang and danced like an invisible ghost playing vicariously with them. Though not a child, for a moment, I wanted to be.
As a father, I smiled on the inside – knowing these two children were right where they were meant to be. None of us knew how soon Mitch would meet with catastrophe, and we had no idea how soon we’d have to say goodbye. That same arm wrapped around Mitchell’s neck in this photo would soon be stretched outward, holding his friend’s hand, barely conscious, as Mitch struggled to breathe. These two boys made of clay would have to face some very adult realities. The innocence of childhood soon rebuffed by their mortality.
When I took this photo, I had no idea the hell that soon awaited me. Neither did I imagine discovering some deep and beautiful treasures filled with light – treasures that can only be found in the darkest shadows of grief, even the pitch of night.
In the most curious of ways, Mitch and Luke’s paths seemed destined to intersect – and for as long as I live, I’ll thank heaven for connecting these two beautiful souls. At first, they seemed like ordinary boys that just happened to be neighbors. Soon, they went from casual friends to best friends. They were each other’s confidants and helpers. And in the blink of an eye, they became my teachers.
This past summer, I have spent a great deal of time in our secret forest building retaining walls by hand, cleaning up the trails, and turning that place into a quiet sanctuary for the soul. It has been a magical summer of healing, repairing, and growing. That tiny forest in our back yard has become a place to separate, meditate, and think deeply.
As I worked in the forest, I wondered what I might write Mitch, if I could send a postcard. Sometimes I write little cards in my heart and send them to the sky. “Hi Mitch, I miss you. You flutter in and out of my mind – soft as a moth – and oh, I wish you’d stay. What I would give to be with you, for just one more day.”
Sometimes, deep in my heart, it feels like he writes me back.
Sometimes.
There are other times I wonder what I’d write my younger self – knowing what I know now. Would I try to influence the choices I made and take a different path? Absolutely not. I would live my life again and again, even to infinity, so that I could know and love Mitch. Has his life brought me pain? Yes. But his existence was also beautiful. This young, broken boy has become my teacher—grief my tutor. Class has not ended for me, and I will be a student of love and grief until my days have ended, and I journey to that place beyond the hills.
Until that day, I will treasure these postcards from the past and look for the lessons buried in a potpourri of love and sorrow. In truth, I can’t wait to discover what I’ll learn tomorrow.
