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.
I was honored to be a guest on the Making Our Way podcast a few weeks ago. In this conversation, we discussed the hard stuff and the deep and meaningful stuff. I enjoyed talking with Marissa Penrod: a parent, activist, and friend.
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Motionless, Natalie stared through our front window for the last time. To say our home was filled with memories would be a gross understatement. This was the same window Mitch would peer through to see Trick-or-Treaters before he opened the door and smiled as he handed other children treats; the same window Mitch would yell out, "Hey Mom, look at the storm coming!" This was the same window Mitch would see his best friends, Luke, Derek, and David, who'd come over to see if he could play. Perhaps most poignantly, this was the same window we saw Mitchell's body being rolled away by the funeral home.
I didn't know how to comfort my wife – or if she even wanted it. I could tell she stepped into a deep place, so I honored her space and allowed silence to become my teacher.
Earlier this spring, we sold our home of 15 years; it was time. We only had one child at home, and we felt the gentle tug, an almost spiritual invitation that it was time for a change.
When I took this photo of my wife, our family was on the edge of a significant change. This was the home we built specifically to help Mitch cope with his muscle wasting disease. We poured concrete wheelchair ramps, customized a bathroom with room enough for a wheelchair, built a caretaker's apartment, installed a wheelchair ramp to our deck, and so much more. In many ways, our home was a symbol of love; we built it not only to raise our family, but so we could catch Mitch when his body fell.
There was no way of knowing all our efforts would be in vain. We couldn't see into the future and know our little boy would die long before he required any of the preemptive things we did to help him. Yet, I'm not sure those "wasted efforts" matter. I've learned that what we get for our efforts is far less important than what we become because of our efforts. (Henry David Thoreau) At the end of the day, everything we did to help our son was a symbol of love and devotion – and we were changed because of it. Nothing else mattered. Looking back, I do it again. A million times, even to infinity, I would do it again – if not for anything but to know my son.
So, we sold our home and almost all our furniture. We purged. We simplified. Then, we packed what remained, and we took a big step into the unknown. The days and months that followed were especially difficult for my wife – but we grieved over the change. To us, our home was more than a place to sleep and break bread, it was a living journal, and every corner of that place was filled with richly layered memories.
We rented a small Townhome in a neighboring city and began looking for our next home. We wanted to move back home (to Herriman) to be close to Mitch and the people & community we've grown to love. Thankfully, we found a place we love. It's different in almost every way. Very different. But we're almost empty-nesters – and soon, perhaps even this place will be too big. Change is good – if not for anything but to remind us that everything is temporary. Everything ends.
Yet, the longer I live and the further I step back, I can't tell the difference between a beginning and an end. Anymore, they've become one-in-the-same.
For those who have read Mitchell's Journey over the years, you'll recognize you had a front-row seat to my personal therapy. I was both the patient and the therapist at once, working through my pain one sentence at a time. Writing was, and ever will be, my way of processing. Writing is my therapy.
In the next few weeks and months, I want to share some of the things our family did to process our grief and make meaning of suffering. In addition, I have at least 150 (actual) stories I'm writing about Mitch and the things I learned from him. Also, there are many other things and awakenings that have happened in the past 8 years; I want to write about that, too. I'll still write of grief. But I have so much more to say about hope, healing, and living an examined life.
Sitting on the edge of change can be bewildering on a lot of levels. What's more, Mitchell's Journey has taught me healing our wounds requires a unique blend of hanging on and letting go. That blend is as individual as our personalities. It's not my place to tell someone what to cling to and what to let go of – that balance is the deeply personal work of the soul. But perhaps, if we can talk about it openly, we can each find our own broken pieces and learn to create a new mosaic of ourselves. Something more beautiful and dynamic than we now imagine.