A few months ago I was interviewed by Lori Lee of the Love Your Stories Podcast. Her platform is all about the human story and reminds her listeners that everyone has a story to tell. A philosophy long dear to my heart. She says that in the telling of our stories we not only find meaning and purpose, but we also help others do the same. This was a short 30-minute interview on how I learned to cope as a husband and father.
Click here to listen to other audio interviews with Mitchell’s Journey.
I remember my childhood excitement when Christmas drew near. Like all young ones, I anxiously awaited that special toy I’d long wanted and wondered what other gifts lay in store every Christmas morning. Mitch loved Christmas a great deal, too. He loved the magic of it all, but most of all, he loved the giving more than the getting.
“I search for light in the darkness, for patterns that offer perspective and peace, and I practice an examined life.”
When he passed away, Mitch still believed in Santa and tried so hard to be a good boy.
As his father, I always noticed how hard he tried to be good – and he was good. So, on that cold winter night, when I tucked my sweet boy in for the last time, I wanted Mitch to know one last time that his daddy knew he was a good boy. The only gift I had left to give him was my eternal love. With the tenderest of tones, I told him what a gift he was to me and his mommy. I whispered how proud I was of him and that I would spend the rest of my days trying to live up to his sweet example. With a soft kiss on his face, I pulled Mitchie’s blanket over his chest – his heart beating faintly like a flickering candle about to go out. No sooner had I gone to bed than I was awoken by my grief-stricken wife. Our baby made of sand crumbled and slipped through our fingers – never to return.
That sacred night, my heart suffered a mortal wound. Losing my son, who was a most tender gift, broke me in more ways than I have words to describe.
What gift(s) can possibly come from such a loss? Surely there are none, one might think. I know nothing so cold and lonely as suffering the loss of a child. Yet, even in that hell, there are gifts and spiritual treasures to be found. Their discovery doesn’t come easily – which comes as no surprise. Nothing of any value in life or the universe comes easily; as with all things, the greater the value, the greater the price.
I am still a toddler in matters of grief – but I am learning new things every day. Here are a few things I have learned about the gifts of grief, so far:
Grief, a Teacher
I have learned not to run from grief, as though it were my emotional enemy. Instead, it has become my tender teacher. I am a student of grief, and I’m learning new things every day. Grief, a gift? Yes, grief can give us the gift of a softened heart, a more empathetic soul, and can teach us the value of a moment – because, in the end, we’ll never have now again.
Making Time and Space for Grief
At least for me, I’ve found it helpful to make time & space for grief. I’ll schedule it, even. It’s like a therapy session with myself – wherein I am the doctor, and the patient rolled into one. It’s a time for me to meditate, to practice the art of stillness, then examine my sorrow and begin to make sense of suffering. Making time for sorrow a gift? Yes. By making deliberate space to do the work of processing pain, we learn to process our greater selves, too. We will work on grief the remainder of our lives – but, in time, we’ll learn to work on other parts of ourselves, too.
In the Darkness, We See Stars
Perhaps the greatest gift can be found in the very thing we’re most afraid of. Darkness. The moment I began to realize that it was often in emotional and spiritual darkness that I began to see little flecks of light if I allowed my spiritual eyes to adjust. Each point of light, a tender mercy, a gift from heaven that was always there, but I didn’t have the eyes to see them. Once I recognized those blessings and learned to connect the dots, I started to see I was never alone in the dark and that there is a greater work in progress. I have built a workshop around this very theme – to help people identify their own points of light. It doesn’t matter if you believe in God or gratitude, it’s a profound experience for both the individual and the group.
Those are just three gifts of many that I have discovered in my struggle. I miss Mitch. I would give anything I have to get him back. But that isn’t possible, and wishing won’t make it so. Instead, I search for light in the darkness, for patterns that offer perspective and peace, and I practice an examined life. Three gifts I didn’t expect to discover on my journey with grief.
Tonight, under the quiet of a winter sky, not too different from the night I tucked him in for the last time, I will thank my Father for the gifts my son left behind – the gifts of faith, perspective, compassion, and love.
Perhaps the most tender and ironic gift was my son; a beautiful soul who left my world profoundly empty, yet strangely full.
Mitch had passed a few hours prior and we each spent sacred time saying goodbye to our boy. His body was beginning to change, and it was disturbing to see. I was frightened by the spectacle of it all. So, I called the funeral home and asked them to hurry. Soon, in the dark of winter, I’d hear a soft knock on our door that would usher a kind of trauma we weren’t prepared to experience.
“The death of a child is exactly similar to the birth of a child. It changes you forever. In the same way, your life is multiplied by their very existence, it is divided by their absence.”
The funeral home employees were kind and professional and went reverently about their work. They entered Mitchell’s room and slid a sheet under his body, then lifted my sweet boy onto a gurney, then strapped his body in. They covered his cold form with his blanket – not to keep him warm, but to show respect for a little boy who had gone too soon. I suppose the covered him, also, to soften the blow.
Natalie stood at the foot of Mitchell’s bed with a look of horror and disbelief on her face. Indeed, it was a horror show. In the long nights that would follow, my dear wife would weep and say, “I don’t want to live.” The long night of grief had just begun – and a long night it would be. As a husband and father, I scrambled to keep myself, my wife, and children together.
In truth, I don’t need this photo to remind me of this horrible, yet sacred event. The memory of this night is seared into my mind and soul – written in the most permanent of inks. I keep it, however, not to wallow in sorrow – but to stay sober about life. To stay centered in the heart and soul.
The other day I had a lunch appointment with an old friend and colleague. We talked for a while and covered a lot of ground. It isn’t my practice to talk of Mitch or grief with people unless they ask. But, somehow our conversation turned toward Mitch, and we started to talk about life and loss. My friend had lost his sister many years ago, and though he grieved her loss, he didn’t understand the degree of sorrow his parents felt. He tried to understand – but until you experience it – it cannot be fully understood.
At one point in our conversation, I observed the spectators of grief – you know … the ones who, from the comfort of their own life say things like, “Isn’t it time to get over it?” Or, “Just be glad you’ll see them again in the next life.” These, and a million platitudes like them, only cut deeper into tender wounds of the soul.
I said, “There is a kind of darkness one comes to know when they lose a child. And when you walk through that wilderness, you eventually come out the other side a different person. You change. Suddenly, the world is different. The pettiness of people and so much of what consumes society is both pedestrian and trivial. It’s like someone who knows only simple math is trying to tell you how to solve an abstract problem with theoretical physics. Suddenly, their level of understanding is elementary – and you are in graduate school, whether you’re ready or not.”
I went on to say that when I hear people talk of people ‘moving on’ I want to say, “Okay, here’s a thought experiment. What if I told you to leave your young child (or grandchild) on the corner of a busy road and never look back? What’s more, you only have a few weeks to stop loving them – then, you must never feel after them. You must stop talking about them and act as if they never existed. Move on. Get over them. Impossible, right? Why? Because we love them – and that love is forever. So it is with grief. Yet, so often, grief feels a lot like love with nowhere to go – and it hurts to hold it in.”
We both had tears in our eyes. He could see my pain begin to surface and he said, “I think I’m beginning to understand what my parents felt … and feel.” I smiled and told my friend that grief, like love, doesn’t end. Though our conversation was met with tender feelings – it was also healing and bridge-building. Talking helps. Remembering can be soul-soothing.
The death of a child is exactly similar to the birth of a child. It changes you forever. In the same way, your life is multiplied by their very existence, it is divided by their absence.
A grief remembered is only love trying to find its way.
Natalie took this photo of tiny Mitch on my shoulders while we were on an adventure deep in the wilds of Wyoming. Every time he sat on my shoulders he would pull my hair with his chubby little hands in the direction he wanted me to go. Mitchie would giggle as I winced and moaned from the pain of pulling my hair. The hurt I felt was a nothing compared to the joy I experienced when he laughed.
On this day we were playing by a swift but smooth flowing river. Mitch would use his same chubby fingers to scoop up a pile of pebbles and hurl them into the water, sending a cascade of ripples downstream. To Mitch, it was like fireworks in the water. To me, watching my son was fireworks to my heart.
Although Mitch was young, I felt even younger than him. In many ways, I felt like a child raising a child. In those early years, when the realities of being a father settled on my mind and shoulders, I would panic a little on the inside because I felt wholly inadequate and unprepared for such a responsibility. Oh, I loved my wife and kids with all of my heart, but when I went to college, I never learned how to be all of that. I suppose, as with most things in life, we learn by doing.
What I wouldn't do to go back in time and talk to the younger me. I would tell myself:
You will make mistakes. Just remember you are not your mistakes … but you will become what you do with them.
Relax, you’re okay.
When you fall, try to fall forward.
Read that extra book at bedtime.
You will never have now again. Cherish … everything.
Slow down and let tomorrow be. Tomorrow will come soon enough.
I tried to do all that stuff … but I wasn't always the best at it.
As I reflect on this tender time with Mitch, I can’t help but think of that fast-moving “wivo” that entranced him so much. Today I can see a different kind of river, a river of time and providence, and it is fascinating to behold. I cannot see where it is going; I can only see backward … leading up to this moment.
As much as I thought I knew what I was doing in my younger years, I can see that I had no idea. However much I tried to peer into the horizon as a young parent and professional, there were currents in life that were taking me places I wasn't wise enough to pursue on my own. I thank heaven for the currents of life that have gently guided me along my own path. I am grateful for the people I have met whose currents blended with mine, even if only for a season. My life is better because of it.
I have learned to trust the current. Yes, I need to make wise choices while in the river … and there are rapids, undertows, and hazards of all kinds. If I'm not careful, I can certainly drown. But I have come to learn I can no more stop the current of life any more than I can stop Niagara Falls with my bare hands. So, rather than swim against the current or pretending such heavenly currents don’t exist, I am trying to swim where I am supposed to swim.
One day, I pray the current will take me to that place beyond the hills; where I will stumble from the shore, tired and tattered … longing for rest. And on that day I will see my son again, and my tears will fill the river to overflowing. Niagara, by comparison, will seem like a dripping faucet.
As much as I yearn to, I cannot peer into the river ahead. So on my journey, I have learned to trust in my heart as much as my head. As I swim through life, I'm learning to trust the current.
