A few weeks ago, I was helping my mother brainstorm book cover ideas for an autobiography she was completing.
We started talking about memories and other tender things. We were wrapping up when suddenly she paused and smiled, then said, “Just a minute, I want to show you something.”
A few minutes later, she returned with an old woodblock in her hands. It bore the brush strokes of a little boy who wanted to make his mother proud. At once, I hesitated but recognized it immediately. When I was very young, it was a class assignment, and I hadn’t seen it in at least 40+ years. I have a strangely vivid yet dreamlike memory of painting this. I remember working so hard on the petals and even more so on the green stem.
I remember.
I was deeply moved that she would keep such a thing. She has survived many epochs in her life, and I know it isn’t practical to keep everything that touches us – else we’d all be headliners on the television show Hoarders. But I was moved in ways I didn’t expect - that she would keep that little block of childhood art as a personal treasure brings tears to my eyes, even as I write this. She had a million and ten reasons to throw it out with each move to another city or country. Yet, she kept it hidden away, close to her heart.
I’ve been doing something similar with my children’s things. The adorably long-form essay Laura-Ashley wrote me years ago arguing [quite convincingly] why she should get a pet Ferret. Ethan’s pinewood derby car. Mitchell’s drawing of dragons. Wyatt’s elementary school craft projects. I hope to live long enough to show my kids my treasures of them – long after they’ve forgotten such treasures exist. Holding on to some of these treasures is like writing a lengthy love note, decades in the making. It’s a way of saying, “You see, I love you. I have always loved you.”
What an unexpected gift she gave me a few months ago, showing me a treasured thing. Now, I treasure it too – only differently.
Today is my good mother’s birthday. She has more years behind her than she has in front of her – and if I’ve learned one thing in recent years it’s later than you think. One day each of us will wake up and ache to have all the ordinary things we take for granted at this very moment. That gives me pause. That realization is changing me.
I wish I could make her the equivalent of this carefully painted block. I’m not that little boy who painted this so many years ago. But, in a way, I still am that little boy – forever wanting to honor her and make her proud. As I celebrate my mother’s birthday, I’m awash with feelings of the deepest gratitude. She showed how to be organized, work hard, think well, and that resilience isn’t just a thing you do when times are tough - it’s a lifestyle.
Over the years, she unknowingly prepared me for some of life’s most devastating challenges. And just recently showed me a breadcrumb of a parent’s love. It had a deeper impact on me than she’ll ever know.
Happy Birthday, Mom.
*** A Note to My Friends and Dear Readers:
You're going to notice a slight shift in some of my essays in the future. Yes, more stories of Mitch, but you're going to see additional stories about our life today - and the echo effect Mitch has in our lives. I'm going to be exploring how everything connects, and connection is everything.
A few years ago, I was in the deep end of my own personal therapy through writing. While I was in the middle of that deep work, I received a call from Mike Squires, a leader in the funeral services industry who happened across my blog.
I have an almost photographic memory of my first phone conversation with this good man. Vividly, I recall where I was sitting, the pencil I nervously twirled in my fingers, wondering why anyone would be interested in talking to me. I was at an especially low point in my professional life - so I was dazed and humbled when he shared some excerpts and photos from Mitchell's Journey and described the impact it had on him as a person and a professional.
He then asked me to speak to funeral directors at their regional conference in North Carolina. Mike, who I've come to know over the years and consider a personal friend wanted people in his industry to see life through the eyes of the bereaved. He had a sincere desire to deepen his industry's empathy for those who cope will inevitable loss.
As memory serves, that was the first time I was asked to fill a 2 hour keynote/speaker slot. In many ways, it felt like we entered a time machine and stepped behind the sacred curtains of suffering. Two hours felt like 20 minutes for everyone in the room.
A few weeks ago, Mike asked me to write an article for his magazine, Southern Calls; a name with symbolic reference to his region and industry. His magazines are truly visual works of art and a labor of love - helping the professionals in his industry walk with the bereaved in a spirit of reverence, service, and deep compassion for a life lived and lost.
After I wrote the article, which was almost "a letter to a funeral director", I got a text from Mike; "I received [your] article and photos. Still trying to take it all in. Would love to chat when you have a few."
Worried I might have missed the mark, I called him at my soonest opportunity - prepared to throw everything out and start over. Mike said the article was exactly what he was hoping for. Later in the conversation, he became tearful as he talked about Mitch and his compassion for those who face the aftermath of a death. I was reminded once more, of the deep and sincere goodness of this man.
At the moment, it looks like my article (with a few photos) covers 20 pages in his magazine.
I share all of this not to curry attention - but to thank Mike for the labor of love he performs in the service of those who struggle to cope with death and dying. Like my friend Mike, I hope to shine a little light for others who walk an otherwise darkened path.
Chris was asked to speak at Myraid Genetics about the impact their work has on patients and their caregivers.
Some moments in life burn an image into your mind with permanent ink – and some experiences are so hard to bear they change the shape of your soul. This was one such moment that broke and reshaped me in ways I'm still learning to understand.
My dear wife was dressing Mitch at the funeral home. Our mothers and oldest sisters were with us, each of whom played a unique and sacred role in Mitchell's life, and we wanted them to participate. Also, we were afraid of doing this alone.
Our once-little-baby had grown into a beautiful, funny, thoughtful, intelligent, and caring young boy. Yet, there he was, lying quietly on a table – motionless and frighteningly cold to the touch. My sweet wife, along with these other good women, reverently dressed Mitch in preparation for his funeral - where we would honor the good little boy that he was.
Natalie was doing okay until she got to the last button. Then, grief washed over her like a title wave, thrashing her about on the inside. This was the last button she would ever fasten for our son – and that broke her heart into infinite pieces of pain. I shattered, too.
I was a wreck that day. In fact, I was a wreck on the inside for many months afterward. Years actually, to learn how to put my broken pieces back together again. Even still, I carry a father's grief, and it is a terrible burden. Yet as much as I hurt on the inside, I know my wife hurts in ways I cannot imagine - for I am a simple man. She carried him, gave birth to him, and made sacrifices in ways only a mother can - and with that pain and sacrifice comes a unique fingerprint of love. A depth that is only earned by a mother's service and surrender. So, I consider her grief hallowed ground. I silence my own tears so that I might wipe hers and scoop up her shattered pieces for safekeeping. And when I can, I try to gather mine.
All too often, I hear people suggest "there is nothing like a mother's love" – in a manner that subordinates or dismisses the love of a father. In like manner, I hear less often the same of a father's love as being more than anything else. It's almost as if people claim one love is greater than the other. Nothing could be further yet closer to the truth at the same time. They are correct in saying there is nothing like a mother's love; in the same way, there is nothing like a father's love. Both are different; both are beautiful and uniquely sacred. But to suggest one is more significant or weightier than another ignores one immutable truth ... a mother and father are both parents and hurt deeply for the one they loved and lost. Maddeningly, some people are so focused on comparing grief they forget to simply honor it.
So, when I look at this photo, I set aside my sorrows and reverenced my wife's. I realized at this moment Natalie's pain was as unique to her as her relationship was with Mitch. Her love was beautiful, vast, and deep. Her grief was then and remains today hallowed ground.
I'll never forget this sacred, agonizing moment; under a canopy of soft light and even softer whispers, we were trembling at the last button.
It seems the hardest things in life are always the last thing: the final lap around the track – when your legs are about to collapse; the last conversation you will ever have with a loved one before they die; or just looking back on a squandered moment realizing, in retrospect, that was our last and wishing we were different.
Neal Maxwell, a man whose intellectual and spiritual insight I've long admired, once wrote, "We should certainly count our blessings, but we should also make our blessings count." I love that statement because it reminds me of the importance of putting our blessings to good use - otherwise, we are throwing our gifts away.
I've discovered that some of our most profound blessings are sometimes camouflaged in tragedy, pain, and despair – and they can remain forever hidden if we don't seek after them. And when we find that hidden treasure, we discover our torment has become our teacher.
This image, burned in my mind and heart, reminds me suffering is sacred.
Among the many blessings I've received in life, Mitch ranks among my sweetest and most sacred. To this day, when I button my own shirt, I remember Mitchell's last button. Sometimes I cry. But every single time, I vow to lift heavy hands and hearts and help soften the blow for others who face their last.