“This Is My Son”

Eulogy for Mitchell Herndon - 10/12/2019

My name is Matt. I’m Mitchell’s Dad.

At the outset there’s a few people that Michele, Max, Miranda and I—and all of Mitchell’s family—want to thank.

We want to thank the volunteers who are helping put this together in all the ways they are.

We want to thank Crosspoint for letting us use their building. We have a church but it’s kind of small fries compared to what we needed. So we’re grateful to be here.

We also want to thank you for being here. As family, friends, supporters, nurses, doctors, therapists, neighbors, church members, teachers, you touched Mitchell’s life in some way, and we are beyond grateful. And I also want to pass along our condolences to you, too. Honestly, I have been so wrapped up in my own grief the past couple of weeks that it has only slowly dawned on me that other people are in pain, too. We all loved Mitchell, and we’re all in pain. So on behalf of Michele and I may I say, we are sorry for your loss.

Never in a million years would it have occurred to me that as a preacher, I might be called on to deliver my son’s eulogy. Until it hit me a few years ago, as Mitchell’s illness progressed, that I might have to. Of course I don’t have to. There are lots of pastors we could have called. But when I became a father I decided that my children were going to get my very best. I’m a pastor. Aside from pushing his wheelchair all over kingdom come, what else does my best include if not his eulogy?

That doesn’t mean I know how the hell to do this. How do you deliver your son’s eulogy? I went to the library and looked for the manual. Unfortunately, that book was missing on the shelf. So were the other books that were supposed to be there: “How to raise a child with a rare neurological disease,” among them. In fact, the whole freaking shelf of “Instruction Manuals for Complicated Life Situations” was empty. I don’t know what angel was supposed to deliver the “Instruction Manuals for Complicated Life Situations” to earth, but when I get to heaven I’m going to find him and share some choice words. “You had ONE job,” I will say. “Get the instruction manuals to earth.” One job. You will join me as we pile on.

So as we often find ourselves completely clueless in life, there is no instruction manual for how to deliver your son’s eulogy.

I have thought about it, though. And while I don’t know how to do this, I know what I’m here NOT to do.

I’m not here to tell you everything about my son. There’s too much to say. Plus, I don’t know everything about him. Some of you know parts of him I never did. What kid wants his dad to know everything about him—let alone his pastor-dad?

Also, I’m not here to idealize him, to make him look perfect. That’s our tendency at funerals, and it would be easy here, but it wouldn’t serve him, God or us.

I’m not here to pretend that we’re all happy now because Mitchell is in heaven. In faith I believe he is with God. But the painful, mysterious, drawn-out, slowly incapacitating death of an incredible young man with such profound gifts…that is among the most senseless tragedies any novelist could invent. We are not happy.

Also, I’m not here to solve the mystery of this situation. I have never known so many people to be praying so diligently in unison for someone to get better. Mitchell didn’t get better. As we prayed, he got worse. It seemed like a cruel joke. Now, people get sick and die. I understand that. But the big problem here is that Jesus assures us that we will receive whatever we ask for in faith, which we did. I don’t get it. Not to be presumptuous, but you don’t get it. We will continue thinking about the unfairness and the mystery of this for the rest of our lives. But we’re not here this afternoon to solve it.

So that’s what I’m not doing here.

What am I doing, then? That is what I’ve spent my time thinking about. And maybe more than anything, the thing I want to do is to just tell you how proud I am of my son. In general, Michele and I have learned a lot about the love of God in caring for Mitchell. We Christians worship a God of love who lost a son. Many of us know that. But now we feel that. We feel God’s grief, his love. The special relationship that the Father has with his Son, Jesus, is one of the clearest themes in the gospels. I get it a little bit more, now. There are times in the Bible when people ignore his Son and the Father cannot contain his wrath. There are times in the Bible when God is so overwhelmed with pride in his Son that he cannot stop from ripping the clouds aside and proclaiming to everybody, “That’s my boy!” Like at Jesus’ baptism, when the Father spoke to all present: “This is my Son,” he said, “in whom I am well pleased.”

Mitchell is not Jesus, but he is my son in whom I am well-pleased.

And in so many ways. Let me recount just a few.

First, Mitchell was filled with goodness. He was thoughtful and considerate of others. He was kind, even at his worst. He was hysterical, even at his lowest. He made friends easily. While rehabbing at Ranken Jordan Pediatric Hospital he made so many friends they called him “The Mayor of Ranken Jordan.” He liked thinking about others. As his disease was getting worse this summer, he wrote a letter to a friend of his at church, Allison, who is going through her own sad medical journey. Mitchell told Allison to keep hanging on. He sent her a song by Third Day called, “Tunnel”: “There’s a light at the end of this tunnel for you,” he told her. Even in his own dark tunnel he was pointing others to the light. This is my son.

Mitchell was forgiving. He was well-supported by so many people, but he was also not well-served, either. He was ignored because of his disability. He was unintentionally excluded from conversations because of his deafness. He was forgotten about in hospitals. He was left outside cold buildings because the wheelchair entrance was locked. He was unable to follow along in movie theaters because the closed caption devices didn’t work, like half the time. Once he went to see Spider-Man but the staff couldn’t get the caption device working, yet again. All the device would do was pick up the signal from the theater one door down. So he watched “Spider-Man: Far From Home” while reading the captions to Toy Story 4. In typical Mitchell fashion he said afterwards, “It was fine. But not ideal.” We all failed Mitchell, in so many ways. Even me. I pushed him too hard. I lost my temper. I enabled him. We all failed him. But Mitchell was never one to hold a grudge. He didn’t want to be a bother. He showed us all grace as God had shown him. This is my son.

Mitchell was civic-minded. He studied politics. He volunteered as an election official. He was the Student Body President at Affton High. He wanted to run for office. He was the ideal compassionate conservative—the perfect combination of his two political heroes, Ronald Reagan and FDR. In a few years, he should have become our governor. He was so proud to vote when he turned 18. He voted absentee because he was in the hospital. What’s your excuse that you didn’t vote, by the way? Were you in the hospital? Didn’t stop him. May you don’t think it matters? Not to get all political, but it mattered to Mitchell: the social services, the special school district, the money for medical research, the freedom of expression. Mitchell knew the stakes, here. That’s why he wanted to get involved. This is my son.

Mitchell loved to learn. He read books, and big ones. He learned card tricks. He mastered the Rubix cube. He watched lectures on Youtube. He memorized the Presidents in order. He would ask people to give him a number between one and 45. Somebody would say, “19,” and he would say, “Rutherford Hayes.” “31?” “Herbert Hoover.” We tried to explain to him that it’s not a good party trick because nobody knows if he’s right. But he liked showing off his knowledge. Mitchell’s single biggest dream in life was to go to college. And he went, on a full-tuition scholarship to SLU. Twice he tried to go to college, having to withdraw both times due to a relapse. But those few weeks on campus were some of the happiest times of his life. He will always be a Billiken. He was so proud of his Presidential Scholarship, and we were so proud of him for it. He prepared for the interview weekend like a boss. When we picked him up after his scholarship interview, we asked him how he did, and with his unique combination of humility and bravado he said, “Dad, I can’t be sure of this, but I nailed it.” And he did. He told me one of the interview questions for the scholarship was, “What invention would you un-invent if you could un-invent anything?” At first, Mitchell said he was flummoxed. But then he said, from nowhere, “The cotton gin.” The interviewing committee looked at him perplexed. He explained, “When the cotton gin was invented in the 1700s, it increased demand for cotton. This increased the demand for slaves in the south. We can go without cotton clothes if it meant fewer people would have been oppressed by slavery.”

Nailed it. This is my son.

Mitchell loved serving. He knew he had gifts to use. He wanted to help: in church, in school, in the community. He willingly subjected his body to medical research so doctors could understand his illness. He happily let medical students practice on him, giving them grades afterwards on how he thought they did. He donated his body to science following his death. He saw his body as a sacrifice he could give. Remind you of anyone? This is my son.

Mitchell loved his family. He knew where his strength came from. He loved every member of his family. He loved his brother and sister. He insisted on going to family events even when he wasn’t doing well. The Watsons, the Bernekings, the Hardings, the Herndons. He loved his Rooftop Church family, his small group family. He loved them all, and knew he was loved. Christmases will never be the same. The Lake of the Ozarks will never be the same. Baseball games with the Watsons will never be the same. Church will never be the same. Family photos will never be the same. Honestly, I never want to have another family photo or get-together ever again. It won’t be complete. But Mitchell would insist. Families stick together. This is my son.

Mitchell was persevering. I do not know of many other kids who overcame as much as he did. We lost track of hospital stays and relapses. But he kept fighting. He was a fighter. For the past six months or so he’d been doing Cross Fit in an adaptive gym in Kirkwood. My wheelchair kid was doing Cross Fit. I don’t even do Cross Fit. He was a fighter. Last year, when things were pretty bleak, Mitchell was struggling. He was sad. In a moment of uncharacteristic vulnerability for him, he told Michele, “If my life were a movie, this is the part where the protagonist is at his lowest moment and ready to give up. But then he decides to fight back, and the music kicks in for a training montage.” And he fought back with his training montage. This is my son.

And finally, Mitchell was a man of faith. Mitchell knew he was a Christian, and why. He didn’t become a Christian because he was a pastor’s kid and knew he had to. He liked being a Christian. He loved going to church. He was a fan of something known as “Pascal’s Wager.” If you don’t know of Pascal, he was a 17th century French mathematician and philosopher. Pascal pointed out that we cannot know for certain that God is real. We just cannot know for certain. But in the absence of certainty, what is the better choice? What is the better wager? If God is not real, the Christian life of faith and goodness, when properly lived, is still desirable. If God is not real, we at least receive the benefits of a life well-lived. And if God IS real, we receive those benefits PLUS the benefits of eternal life in God’s presence. So, given what we cannot know, how would we want to live? As though God is real or isn’t? It’s a wager. Given the stakes, where do we want to put our chips? To be sure, plenty of skeptics reject the argument as simplistic—Mitchell was fair-minded enough to know that. But it made sense to Mitchell. It helped him know where to put his chips.

But he knew that faith is bigger than a wager. He knew he was a sinner and needed forgiveness. That’s why he got baptized years ago. Mitchell knew that if God is real, and if God is holy, not even good kids get into heaven to see him. Not because God doesn’t want them there. God is a God of love. But in the new heavens and earth there is only perfection, and even good kids aren’t perfect. Mitchell knew that. He knew he needed God’s forgiveness and transformation, like we all do. His favorite story from the Bible is in Mark chapter 2. In the story, Jesus is speaking in a very crowded house. Some friends bring a paralyzed man to Jesus for healing. The house is too crowded, so they tear a hole in the roof and lower him down to Jesus. Jesus is so impressed by their determination that he looks down at him and says, “Son, your sins are forgiven.” Some onlookers are upset because nobody can forgive sins but God alone. They don’t realize Jesus is God himself. Jesus knows what they’re thinking, and tells them, “So that you know that I have the authority to forgive sins, watch this.” And then he tells the paralyzed man to “Get up, take your mat, and go home.” The man stands up and goes home. The point of the story is that the paralyzed man came for healing. Jesus knew that. And he is so impressed by the man’s faith that he does something more important. He forgives his sins. He knows that’s what he really needed. Jesus only heals the guy to prove to the skeptics that he has the authority to do the bigger thing.

That’s my paralyzed son’s favorite Bible story. Mitchell wanted healing but he knew he needed forgiveness. Mitchell had the verse tattooed on his arm: “Son, your sins are forgiven.” I got the same tattoo this week. It hurt. This will be the only tattoo I ever get. But when I look at it I will remember that my son is forgiven, and that he is walking with Jesus, and that he is home.

This is my son, in whom I am well pleased.

I want to leave you with a story. I share this story with you because I’ve been thinking about it for a couple years. God has used this story to strengthen me as it became likely that Mitchell would leave us too soon.

When the boys were both very little—say 5 and 7 years old—we went to Florida to visit family. Our daughter Miranda hadn’t arrived from Guatemala yet, so it was just the four of us. We spent a day at a water park. And it was a great day. One of my favorites. It was just the four of us, away from everything. Mitchell wasn’t sick yet. It was just us having fun. No mysterious neurological disease, not yet.

At this particular water park there happened to be a very tall water slide. Actually it was two water slides, next to each other: two tubes that wound around each other like Slytherin snakes from what seemed like 10 stories up and then emptied in a pool at the bottom. Mitchell was barely tall enough to go. I asked him if he wanted do the slide, and he apprehensively said, “Yes.” So we got in line and climbed slowly up the large, wooden, slippery staircase. As we climbed higher he got more nervous. He wrung his hands. In his early days Mitchell could actually be kind of nervous and timid. He had not yet become, through trial, the outgoing, confident young man he really was.

Finally, we got to the top of the stairs and there was a platform where two lines formed, with a lifeguard instructing people when to go. But we were too high up for the guard to know when it was okay to send people down. So there were green and red stoplights over each slide telling people when to go.

With the two lights turned green, another pair of people disappeared into these dark tubes, screaming loudly, perhaps never to be seen again. My nervous kid was starting to quietly panic. I could tell. So was I, actually—on his behalf. He was still learning to swim and I wasn’t sure how he’d do at the bottom of the pool when he came out. Would he suck in water and drown? But I told him that I’d be there with him and would help him to the side of the pool, to help him out. Everything would be fine. Just relax.

Now the whole time we were up there at the top of the slide, waiting for our turn, the lights changed together. They were both red, then they changed green, then they were red, then they were green. People went down together. Then it was Mitchell’s and my turn. But something must have gone wrong at the bottom of my slide. Because his light turned green, and mine didn’t. It stayed red.

The lifeguard told Mitchell, “The light is green. Go.” Mitchell turned to me in panic. He didn’t want to go, not without me. His face started quivering. I said, “It’s okay buddy, just go.” But he didn’t. The guard got more insistent, with the long line behind him: “It’s green, kid. Go.” But he was frozen in fear. Finally, I shouted at him as fathers sometimes have to, “Mitchell, Go! I’ll see you down there, at the bottom of the slide. Just go!”

And he went. With all the courage that I have come to know in my son. He swung into the tube of darkness and disappeared.

Meanwhile, my light stayed red. It stayed red for what felt like forever. I don’t know what was happening at the bottom of my own slide, but there must have been a situation. Because my light would not…turn…green. Now I’M the nervous wreck.

Finally, the light turned. I shot into that slide like a rocket. I plunged into the darkness trying to will myself to the bottom. It was dark, it was scary, it was violent. I remember thinking on my way down, if this is what Mitchell’s ride was like, He’s dead. Nobody can survive this. I’m not going to, either.

After what seemed like a 10-mile fall, I myself emerged at the bottom. I came out of the bottom of that slide as ingloriously as an aging dad could. There was nothing graceful about my exit. I kerplunked into the pool, flailed around to get my bearing so I could retrieve the floating body of my son, who I was confident was drowning. Once I found my footing I scanned the pool looking for him. And I found him. Standing on the side of the pool. With his perfect 8-year-body dressed in his perfect little swimsuit, hands crossed in front of him. He was waiting for me. He raised his hand and said, “Hi Dad.”

I got out of the pool an embarrassed mess. And we went on to enjoy the rest of our day, and the rest of our lives.

We said many things to Mitchell on his last day two weeks ago, before we withdrew life support. The disease had started attacking his brain, and we weren’t sure what he could hear or understand. We said many things, anyway. But the last thing I said to him was, “Mitchell, I will see you at the bottom of the water slide.”

And I will. My light is still red. It’s not my time. Your light is still red, too. It’s not your time, either. Others have gone before us. Loved ones. Parents. Friends. Children. Their light turned green. Some hopped in the tube of death with reckless abandon. Some, like Mitchell, weren’t ready. They didn’t want to go. They were 7, they were 19. They were too young. They didn’t want it to be their time. But it was. They had to go. Everybody has to go when your light turns green.

We will see them. By faith in Christ who died for our sins, we will see them. Jesus is the tube. And they’re fine. If they have been forgiven of their sins, they’re fine. They’re splashing. They’re sitting on the side of the pool, in their sloppy swim trunks, ready to receive us, waving, as we emerge ingloriously from the slide.

That’s our hope. That’s my hope. That’s where I’ve put my chips. As much as I would love for my light to be green so I can go see Jesus and Mitchell and all the saints, it’s not my time. And it’s not yours. We have work to do still on earth. We have diseases to cure. We have disabled people to serve. We have buildings to make accessible. We have families to build. We have democracies to save. We have degrees to pursue. We have the gospel to preach. We have churches to start. We have patients to care for. Your time will come. Your light will turn green. Everybody’s does. Be ready. Be forgiven. And until then, stay busy doing God’s work. It’s important. It changes lives. It changed Mitchell’s life.

And it changed ours.

-MRH

A complete recording of Mitchell’s memorial service can be viewed below: