For those who don’t know, Mitchell’s dog Marlie, whom he received only a few weeks before he passed away, has been a tender blessing to our our son during his last few weeks. I’ll never forget how she comforted him the day/night he passed away. I’ll share a post about that tender exchange soon.
Ever since Mitch passed away, Marlie has been a curious comfort to us. About a week ago, just a few days before Christmas, she had her first set of puppies. These little pups have grown so much in the last week. Mitch would be thrilled to see his little grand doggies.
Our family continues to heal - every person in their own way, and on their own sacred time. Marlie has become something of an echo of Mitchell’s love and affection. Though a dog is not the same as a son, Marlie occupies a healing place in our hearts.
These little pups are tiny tender mercies and we are so grateful for them. We’ll only have them for the next few weeks, until we find a loving home for them. I share this photo from tonight to gladden a trembling soul or lift a heavy heart.
May 2020 be kind to us all, and may we find healing in tiny tender mercies, wherever we find them. 🙏🏼
Dear Mitch,
This time of year brings you back to me … in ways I can’t explain.
For you, the holidays were always magic. Sure, you loved Santa and things, but you treasured the magic of family and being together more – it's ironic that the gift you treasured most was the very gift you gave to others.
I find it interesting that your favorite time of year was always the darkest and coldest. There’s some beauty to that – for it is only in the dark of night that we learn to appreciate light and warmth.
My son, if you could see what your light has done to lift and serve others. Your life has inspired many to show up with their art, strangers who saw your story and combined their compassion with their passions and shared beautiful stories, strangers who are now friends remember your life and loss and honor it with theirs. If anything, you have shown me anew that the human family is one family.
All over the world, people are making changes for the better.
And they take that light, that spark of meaning and purpose, and become a light to others. Whether they’re serving friends, family or complete strangers … they are lights.
Though you were small in stature, the impact you continue to make is no small thing.
When I look back, I can see so many points of light. So many blessings, big and small. They were as real and miraculous as anything I know. The timing of your life and everything that happened in it was a miracle. You are, sweet boy, like all of us, woven in a tapestry of light.
I don’t get to hold you anymore, but I can hold you in my heart. That is all we can do when we lose the one we love. You are the wind in my face and the lift to my soul.
I treasure my memories with you.
Some of my memories are hard – and I hang on to them, too. I don't shut them out because they remind me how fragile life is – and the need to make the most of the time we have. For one day, we will all die and go to that place beyond the hills.
When I lost you, we were surrounded in darkness. But as I allowed my spiritual eyes to adjust, I saw there was more, much more, happening behind the veil of darkness.
Were we to see through the window of life and peer beyond, I think we’d be awestruck by how much light surrounds us.
We’d be breathless to know we have not, and never will be, alone.
But for reasons we don’t yet know, that door is shut and we must learn to see through the eyes of faith.
I cannot see what’s over there … but I can see what is right here. And I believe. I believe in the goodness of the human family. I believe we’re inspired to love and serve … to make the world a better place in any way we can … in every way we know to do.
I miss you. And though I don’t get to make new memories with you, I can make new memories because of you. I’m learning to live without you – and it’s hard sometimes. But each day I’m getting stronger.
Each day I’m inspired by others, who serve because of you.
I’m not afraid of the dark anymore. Instead, I look upward and search for light. And I see it everywhere.
Well, this is dad, sighing off, for now. Thank you. Thank you for being my son. My teacher. My light.
This holiday, I’ll remember that no matter how difficult life can seem at times, there are blessings along the way. I will look for them because I know, I just know, they show the way.
Love,
Dad
One of Mitchell’s all-time-favorite treats was hot chocolate. When it snowed around the holidays, he always asked if I’d make my ‘famous hot chocolate’. At least he thought it was famous. With a warm cup in hand, he’d sit by the window and watch the snow fall and enjoy his warm treat. Our family has many good memories making hot chocolate. I’ve shared this a few years ago but want to share it again for those who may have missed it.
There’s nothing original about this recipe; in fact, I’m sure Pinterest is filled with a hundred thousand variations. But this was our simple recipe and it was something Mitch loved and some of you might like it, too.
Warm milk to a boil over the stove.
Add chocolate shavings (Mitch really liked Lindt Milk Chocolate)
He would often take candy bars and use a cheese grater to make the shavingsGenerally, 3 ounces of chocolate for every 2 cups of milk works well.
Slowly stir chocolate shavings into simmering milk and whisk until completely dissolved
Add chocolate to preferred taste
Whipped cream, with a puff of cinnamon and sprinkled graham cracker crumbs on top always made it feel extra special. Sometimes Mitch even wanted crushed candy cane on top.
As with so many things in life, what we do is often less important in life than how we do it. Having hot chocolate was fun but making it together as a family made both a treat and a memory. And memories are sweeter and last much longer.
With the holidays around the corner, I’m reminded that while we might give each other gifts this season… love, time and attention are some of the greatest gifts we can give each other.
Tucked away in a quiet corner of my home, deep in the shadows of a bookshelf, is a mold of my son gently holding my hand. This artifact is as close to seeing Mitch in physical form as I’ll ever see again in mortality. It's hidden from view, not because it isn’t special – but precisely because it is. I keep it tucked away so it can be safe from unintended harm.
This mold was taken just before Mitch came home from the hospital on hospice. If you look carefully, you’ll see a puncture wound, in the form of a small bump, on the back of Mitchell’s hand. It is just above his wrist, bearing a mark from an IV that had recently been removed. Were you to see this in person, the detail is breathtaking. Every bump, every little flaw, every little part that made him so beautifully human, was captured and preserved. Natalie has something similar with Mitch – except in that mold, a Band-Aid covers his IV wound, which makes it even more tender and unique.
“I discovered sometimes you can’t make sense of suffering, but you can make peace with pain. When that happens, it’s not that you stop hurting; you simply learn to live with longing. ”
At the time these molds were taken, Mitch didn’t know the doctors said he had days to live – and I’m pretty sure he just thought mom and dad were being weird. But then again, it always seemed he knew more than he let on. He not only had a look of knowing in his countenance, but he would also say things from time to time that revealed how deeply perceptive he was.
When I look at this life-size statue of my son and me holding hands, I see several conversations at once. First, a whisper between a father and his little boy, “I love you, son, so very much.” Then, “I love you, too, Dad. I know you’ll keep me safe.” At the same time, because I knew my son’s deadly secret, I see a one-way narrative, “Sweet boy, we’re almost out of time. Let me hold you before it’s too late – for tomorrow, I will miss you forever.”
The final unspoken narrative, at least to me, is symbolic of two souls drowning in a sea of trouble.
At least to me, this statue with my son contains a deeper metaphor; that of two drowning souls trying to comfort each other in their hour of need. As Mitchell’s life was being swallowed up by the sea, I felt like we were both drowning, only differently, me in grief and Mitch to biology.
My wife and I knew what was about to happen, and we felt like we were drowning in grief. Yet, we didn’t know how deep and dark those waters would soon become. As terrifying as grief was at the time, we were still splashing in the shallow end of sorrow. Deep grief would eventually come, years after the loss of Mitch.
Before I knew it, little Mitch was gone, and my wife and I were left feeling empty.
A few months later, the board of a company I was running pitched in and sent our family to Hawaii to get away and perhaps heal a little.
One night, while my family and I were on the shore, I took a photo of the sunset (seen in this image) and wrote the words, “Good night, little Mitch. You are always on my mind. And while I know you're not lost at sea, sometimes in my heart, you may as well be.” Then, Mark Allen, a thoughtful and inspired friend, commented on my post: “Consider him your lighthouse now... so you can make it back home...” I was grateful for his words of compassion and faith.
I’ve spent the last 7 years gathering up my broken pieces, healing one grief moment at a time. I’ve felt my way through the darkest shadows of death and tried to make sense of suffering. I discovered that sometimes you can’t make sense of suffering, but you can make peace with pain. When that happens, it’s not that you stop hurting; you simply learn to live with longing.
I still miss my boy. I think about him every day and wonder what memories we might have made. And when I see his childhood friends in our neighborhood, almost young adults now, I marvel how fast time has passed.
I still wonder what happens on the other side of life. You know that place over there … on the far side of the sea. Sometimes the waves of grief are so great they completely swallow me. Other times I wade softly in the water, smooth and placidly.
The struggle to keep from drowning has made me stronger and given rise to a different kind of me. I’m still flawed and tread water… but I see the world differently… thanks to my son, somewhere over there … on the far side of the sea.