MITCH & THE HORNET’S NEST*

One of my favorite memories with our young kids was sitting on the porch on a hot summer evening eating popsicles and enjoying the approaching sound of crickets. I can still smell their freshly shampooed hair and feel the softness of their pajamas – just out of the dryer. When I look at this photo, I’m reminded of Gretchen Rubin’s observation of raising a family, “The days are long, but the years are short.” Oh, how the years slip by.

One hot summer evening, Mitch tapped my shoulder and said, “Dad, get some Windex and come check this out. Something weird is happening.” Mitch held my hand as he led me toward a light along the edge of our driveway.

When we were about 10 feet from the light, Mitch whispered, “Shhh, Dad, … listen.” We could hear a faint buzzing noise, and the closer we got to the light, the louder the sound became.

Mitch pointed to the silhouette of a hornet busy building a home in the warm embrace of the light. “I think he’s building a house in there, Dad,” Mitch said with the tone of a detective. Mitch also knew that a generous spray of Windex on a bee sting helps take the pain away. Always prepared, he was a good little Scout.

“Should we dig it out?” I asked. Mitch furrowed his brow as if to weigh the options. “Let’s investigate.” He said. Mitch put his hands on his knees as he bent over as he looked more closely. “I don’t want to hurt them, but I’m afraid they’ll sting me.” Mitch was right – hornets can’t be domesticated, and all the benevolence in the world won’t change that. So, we carefully placed a net around the light and gently removed the growing nest. “Dad, will you put the nest in the secret forest? That way, they can make a home up there.”

With that, I ran to the top of our yard and gently placed the hornets’ nest at the foot of two large boulders – far from where the kids would ever play. The next morning Mitch asked if I’d check on the nest; all the hornets were gone. “Oh well, at least I’m safe now.”

At an early age, Mitch gained a healthy respect for the things that would hurt him. Because his muscles were weak, he was always prone to trip and fall; he lacked the coordination and strength to break his fall – so pain was often his companion. I was ever moved by Mitchell’s compassion toward insects and every living thing. He knew their nature – and while he didn’t want to hurt them, but he was wise enough to keep his distance.

Since losing Mitch, I’ve tried to emulate his kind-hearted way of being. Yet, we’ve encountered some hornets on our grief journey. Though difficult at times, I had to remind myself that “hurt people, hurt people.” Remembering that truth doesn’t make their sting hurt less – it only reminds me that sometimes the healthiest thing we can do for our mental health is to remove the hornets from our lives. Like Mitch, I didn’t want to hurt them – but I had to create safe distance so we could do the work of healing. Thankfully, there haven’t been many of them.

Even though we removed the aggressive hornets, we’ve experienced the sting of indifference from people close to us: the impatience that we haven’t ‘moved on’ (as though we could magically stop loving our child), the Monday-morning quarterbacks, the pious pontiffs, and the well-meaning but misinformed. As if grief isn’t tricky enough.

What Mitchell’s life has taught me is that strength comes through struggle – and we’re often better because of it. Perspective has become my Windex – and when I feel a sting from someone fumbling or someone mean, I apply it generously. At least for me, that’s the only way to be.

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FIVE FACES OF GRIEF

Toward the end, I couldn’t kiss my boy enough. And when Mitch started to sleep a lot, I cuddled with him so he would never wake and be scared he was alone. There were times I wept so hard I shook the bed and woke him a little. I didn’t want to scare him – but in the quiet of my heart, I was terrified to lose him.

By this time, Mitch knew he was dying. At one point, he said, “I don’t think I can survive.” Those are some heavy words for a little boy to carry. When Mitch said that, I quietly turned my head as tears streamed down my face like Niagara Falls. I pleaded with God that I could take it all away – that I could die so my son could live. To my sorrow, life was not so kind.

I’ve spent the last several years examining grief. To this day, I still can’t conjure the words to describe the permanent trauma of watching your child slip through your fingers like a baby made of sand. I’ve tried to describe it in the past, but words are inadequate, much like trying to describe color to someone blind since birth.

I’ve discovered that grief is amorphous – and there are many faces of grief. Each face is my teacher. Here are five among many:

GRIEF THE DRUNKARD

Sometimes grief comes barging in the home of your heart, drunk and belligerent—an uninvited houseguest who always has keys to the back door. However much you try to change the lock, grief knows the locksmith. This kind of grief is difficult to manage because you can’t make sense of or negotiate with it. Instead, you learn to sit with it, help it calm down, and let its slurry sorrow burn off. The sooner you listen to what it has to say; the sooner sorrow turns sober.

GRIEF THE SERGEANT

Other times, grief is a demanding drill sergeant – bent on working your already weary heart to the ground. Sometimes the sergeant bursts onto the stage of your mind and heart while you’re in a meeting – it doesn’t care who you are or what you’re doing … it only demands your attention. Quietly, you lift grief through an emotional obstacle course as your knees and heart buckle. I’ve learned to listen to the sergeant and “do the work” – though painful; it always makes me stronger.

GRIEF THE GHOST OF REGRET

Regret is inevitable – and being human, we all carry regret. That thing we didn’t say but wish we did, the opportunity to spend time but didn’t, and a-million-and-one dumb decisions that lead to some form of regret. This face of grief isn’t just haunting; it’s horrifying—all those missed opportunities are gone forever. However, I’ve learned to sit with this ghost and find ways to turn regret into resolve. Resolve to do better and to be better. Then, that ghost fades away – and I’m all the better because of it, for I’ve learned to live a better way.

GRIEF THE PRETENDER

Sometimes grief acts like a pretender. I’ve seen others hide behind the veneer of their faith – as if being sad is a sin or a betrayal of sacred beliefs. They flex their muscles and try to seem strong, even super-human. “It’s been a month, and it’s time to move on. I must show everyone that I’m righteous and strong.” That only teaches ourselves and others to hide under a thin sheet of inauthenticity. Grief, the Pretender, is an imposter, a shadow pretending to be light. Sorrow is not only human but also our birthright. I would sooner trust a broken soul than a perfect one – for one is true, and the other is not. Losing someone we love hurts, and it hurts a lot.

GRIEF THE DIVINE TEACHER

Of the many faces of grief, this one is my tender teacher – for it has the power to turn vinegar into water – but it is the most solemn work of all. It asks deeper, more searching questions. This face of grief isn’t at all interested in “why me” or “why Mitch?” but instead turns the mirror inward. It asks the hard questions like, “Why not?” or “What makes you an exception to human suffering?”

I then bow my head in reverence of everyone who suffers. In this reflection, I have learned to look at my own soul and ask, “Yes, it hurts, but what am I to learn from this?”

Grief is a magic mirror, really, and though it appears to wear different masks – each of them are part of a greater whole. And if I’m listening, this divine face of grief shapes my heart and contours my soul.

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A GIFT TWICE

During Mitchell's last Christmas, he had two Secret Santa’s that did variations on the 12-days of Christmas. This quiet, daily act of love was performed by two caring neighborhood families, who to this day have remained anonymous.

I was humbled how they went out of their way to give Mitch a lift and offer a glimpse of hope and happiness to a little boy who was very sick and whose parents' hearts trembled with fear.

Each evening they placed a thoughtful package at our door addressed to our son with a thoughtful note and gift from the heart. I hesitate to show one photo (as seen here) because I don’t want either of these families to think their gifts were any less valued. The truth was, each night as Natalie and I went to bed we wept tears of gratitude for both anonymous families and we prayed that whoever was responsible for being so good to our son would be blessed 100-fold.

When I look back on my photos of Mitchell's last December & January I'm shocked sometimes to see how sick our son looked. Every day Mitch was getting sicker and weaker - but as I saw his reaction to these Secret Santa gifts he would bounce back a little and find new energy. Mitch loved the surprise but he loved the thoughtfulness even more so.


My sweet wife, ever the thoughtful giver, has also shown me over the years by her quiet example that gifts can be the instruments of our affection … a way of saying “I understand you” or “I care.” In the end, the gifts that last [the ones with the greatest impact] are never really about the objects we give each other but instead are found in the meaning behind them. A thoughtful gift is a gift twice.


I hope those who gave our son the gift of love and care know how much that meant to us – but even more, what it did for little Mitch. The photo on the right was Mitch on his last Christmas Eve. We were eating his favorite dinner but he wasn't feeling well. Looking back, knowing what we know now, he was experiencing end-stage heart failure.


I'll never forget how Mitch reached for my hand and asked in a quiet voice, “Dad, do you know who’s giving me those gifts?” I told him I didn't know but that I knew they loved him – otherwise they wouldn't have been so kind. He smiled softly and said, “I wish I could thank them.”


In honor of my son’s wishes to thank whoever gave those gifts, I want to thank you for him and hope you know that your gifts were a gift twice.

In fact, looking back, your gifts weren't just a gift twice, they were a gift thrice.


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A LITTLE ON THE INSIDE

Parenthood has been the most difficult yet rewarding experience of my life. I wish I could say I did it perfectly, but I didn’t … and I don’t. Nobody really does. Anymore, I don’t try to be the perfect parent … I just try to be loving and kind … to be the father and mentor I wish I had growing up. It is difficult at times because I don’t know what to emulate – so I just try to be what I never had. I try to be what I wish I had, and that’s the best know to do.

At the end of my days, when I kneel before my Father and account for my life, I hope He looks upon my efforts in the same way I try to look upon my children … with a heart of compassion, pleased with the effort and personal growth over the illusory achievement of perfection.


When Mitch came home with a drawing or school assignment, I was always so proud of how hard he tried. I would hug him and kiss his face and tell him, “Great job, son. I’m so proud of you. Keep trying, and you’ll better and better.” Always, there were imperfections in his drawings … but for him, he did it perfectly. Perfection is a relative term, for he was a young child and did the work of a young child. I didn’t care about flawless execution … at his age, I wanted him to be recognized for doing a little better than the time before. I wanted him to believe in himself and be proud of his accomplishments. As far as I can tell, belief-in-self is the bedrock of education and the scaffolding of character. At the same time, I am a strong believer in providing corrective feedback to know where to stretch ourselves the next time. But, always, offering my children earned praise is high on my list of to-dos as a father.

On this occasion, my neighbor and friend, Jeff Winegar, offered to take our family to Snowbird so Mitch could participate in an adaptive sports program for kids with disabilities. Mitch was nervous about it because he knew he wasn’t very strong and that what little strength he did have would dissipate quickly. “What if I fall, Dad?” Mitch would ask me nervously. I assured him he wouldn’t be required to do anything for which he didn’t have the strength and that they had something special for him to be safe and have fun. Mitch sat in a small carriage attached to two skis. Behind him were two purple tethers, which allowed an adult to ski behind Mitch and control his speed down the mountain. All Mitch needed to do was lean right or left as he decided where he wanted to ski down the mountainside.

I asked my friend Jeff to be on a tether while I skied backward to take a million photos of my son. I loved looking at Mitchell’s expressions of glee as the cold wind rushed against his rose-colored cheeks. At first, I saw an expression that seemed to say, “This isn’t so bad. I’m not scared anymore.” Then later, his face seemed to say, “I’ve got this! I can do it!” I was so proud of Mitch and overwhelmed with gratitude as I saw my son’s countenance filled with a new form of self-confidence. He couldn’t race down the mountain like an Olympian, nor was he required to, but he could bravely face the steep slopes and do what he could, with the heart of an Olympian. That is winning, too.

I remember kneeling in prayer that night, thanking my Father for giving my son such a great experience. I also thanked Him for giving me the blessing of children - a gift for which I'm eternally grateful. Because of Mitch, I try to grow a little on the inside each day, just like he tried. If I color a little outside the lines, I recognize it and try to do better next time.


Maybe that’s the point of it all … to get better a little on the inside each time. Musicians do it, athletes do it, academics do it … nobody achieves greatness in an instant … but through getting a little better each time. And those who have mastered their craft will each say it comes from within. It always comes from within. Each day. A little on the inside.


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