THE NIGHT YOU LEFT US
Today and tomorrow is a sacred time for my family. Just a few short years ago my son passed away on this very evening. We have healed a great deal since then, but there is still a sacred tenderness from a wound that still bleeds. A wound that still needs to be cared for.

This is a letter I wrote my son last year. A message of love from a heartbroken father to his son whose somewhere on the far side of the sea.

Dear Mitch,

The days leading up to your passing were surreal. It was cold outside. Snow everywhere. As the world spun madly on – everything as we knew it was coming to an end. It’s strange, you know, to live among a crowd of people yet feel like you’re worlds apart. That’s how it felt when you were slipping away. Everything on the outside seemed like a dream, oblivious to the hell on earth we were living. There we were, invisible to the world, living in the quiet of our home – and in the depths of our greatest nightmare.

With every dose of medication, you drifted further and further away. You knew what the medicine was doing to you – and you sometimes resisted it because you didn’t want to sleep. You wanted to be awake as long as you could – to live as much life as possible, as long as possible. I could almost hear it, you know … the crunch of the snow as death circled our home, every once in a while I could almost hear it gnawing and gashing at our door – violently trying to break through. I knew it was only a matter of time before death would take you away.

Just a few months prior, I wrote a letter to our family about your heart and how your life was nearing its end. I was careful never to let you see this letter because I didn’t want to frighten your tender heart. In the letter I wrote:

"Today Natalie and I sit with Mitch on the edge of an invisible cliff. He can't see it, but my wife and I can - and the mouth of the abyss is yawned and inching to devour our son. Yet, Mitchell looks out into the vast horizon unaware and envisions a long, bright future ahead of him. In his little mind, he is already making big plans. He wants to build a home next to ours with a tunnel connecting our basements so he and his dad can watch movies and make popcorn. He wants to work for his dad when he's older. He talks about his own kids one day and how he’ll raise them like we raised him. As he points to his vision of the future with youthful enthusiasm and a zest for life, he doesn't realize that he sits on the outermost edge and the ground from under him has crumbled away into the darkness – and his little body is hanging on by a pebble. What Mitchell doesn't understand is the beautiful horizon he sees is only a mirage, and in reality, the sun is setting on his own life."

It was surreal to be with you on the edge of life and death.

It was different than I imagined. More beautiful and at the same time more horrifying than I had a mind to know. But your time at home was filled with love and laughter – and for that I am grateful.

Your quiet, tender ways about you made your mortality and eventual death all the more painful to witness. How often I prayed for heaven to take me, instead of you.

Son, do you remember getting this gift? Well, there is a profound story behind it … a tender mercy put in motion almost six months earlier. I’ll tell you about that another time. But what I want you to know is – heaven was at work preparing the way for you. You were never alone. Not ever.

The people in your path were meant to be there. From your best friend, Luke, to your school teachers and your Bishop … it was as though everything was perfectly timed … just for you.

Your final weeks at home were a mixture of heaven and hell – all rolled into one. A beautiful agony I cannot to this day find words to describe.

There was a distinct moment I could no longer hear the crunching of the snow … the circling of death pacing around our home. I no longer heard the pounding and gashing of death clawing at our door. Death was in our home – and I couldn’t stop it.

Mitch, my precious child, I’ll never forget the time you wanted to be with me and play Legos. You were too weak to sit up on your own. You just wanted to be close … to lay on the edge of my lap and play like a little boy. Your muscles were so weak, and you were so tired that I had to hold your head in my hand to keep it stable. It was then I knew time had run out and whatever we had left was worth more than all the money on earth.

Time seemed to glitch. One moment it would stretch out … other moments went by in less than a blink.

Then, came the night you left us. The night we said goodbye. The night you slipped into the abyss, and all became dark. Never had I known such darkness, borne of grief and heartache.

As your mother and I were swallowed up in sorrow, we wondered how we could live without you. There, in a spiritual pitch of night, something happened I did not expect. As I prayed for understanding and pondered deeply on the meaning of life – almost as if against the backdrop of a darkened sky, I saw a little fleck of light. A tender mercy that until that moment I did not have the eyes to see. Then, the more I looked, the more I began to see – heavenly blessings that were meant for you … and some that were meant for your mom and me.

My eyes began to open. Over the next few years, what I began to see was beautiful. Like a heavenly constellation, these tender mercies, as if little points of light, showed that we are not alone – even in the pitch of night.

I’ll write you again, son. I have so much to share. I wish you were here – or me over there.

I’ve been traveling the broken road for five years now. Sometimes I travel through the wilderness of grief, other times the desert – where the scorched land burns my feet. And when I am lost, I have learned to look up and remember these points of light. For if heaven has played such a role in our past, you see, I can have faith in what is yet to be.

Sometimes I wonder where you are, exactly, on the far side of the sea. Maybe you will come to visit me – in the quiet of my dreams. And if you do, I want to know what you see.

Love,

Dad

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A few years ago, I wrote a story entitled, “It’s Okay, You’re Safe With Me.” I reflected on a time we took our kids to an amusement park to take our minds off the harsh realities of our son’s fatal diagnosis. At the time, tiny Mitch clung to my hands as we sat in a small pirate ship that swung back and forth like a gentle pendulum. It was the mildest of rides, but to little Mitch, it was thrilling.

“Among the agents of change, there’s the passage of time, however fast or slow. Then, alas, there’s the furnace of affliction – and it’s in our damage that we truly grow.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

A few years passed and we visited that same theme park. Within eyeshot of the kiddie pirate ship towered a much larger pirate ship – this one designed for adults. This ride, too, swung back and forth like a giant pendulum; only the back-and-forth was on a much grander, vertical scale. In fact, that ride always had me somewhere in the middle of trying to catch my breath amid butterflies and wanting to take a nap from being rocked to sleep.

On this day, a much older Mitch sat next to me. When he was tiny, he had to hold on to almost every part of my body to feel safe. By this age, sitting next to me was enough. I thought to myself, “My, how things change.” I was so proud of this little boy and all that he was becoming.

So, as the ride began, Mitch tightly grabbed the bar in front of him and smiled. “This is so much fun, Dad,” he said with a smile. Not only was Mitch older and unafraid, but he had also grown an appetite for the rush and thrill of roller coasters.

Quietly, I admired him. My little boy learned to face his fears in his youth in ways I wished I could as an adult. Despite being young in years and physically weak, Mitch was dauntless. Like most young boys, there was part of Mitch that wanted to be like his dad. If only he knew how much more I wanted to be like him.

A few short years would pass from the moment of this photo, and things would change even more. I’d find myself kneeling at my son’s bed as he neared death. Whatever bravery he demonstrated earlier in his life, none compared to the bravery he had then.  Not only was the loss of my son about to change my world, I was changing on the inside, too.

Just today I read a post from Jackie, a friend of mine, who was reflecting on a great difficulty she’s endured. She quoted a friend and mentor who once told her, “I hope we make our pain worthwhile.” I loved that sentiment – because we’re all going to get hurt in life, so we may as well grow instead of gripe.

That isn’t to say we become flippant or callous toward the suffering of others. In fact, there is a certain sacredness to suffering. I’ve discovered that suffering has drawn me closer to God than any sermon I have heard. At the same time, I reverence the suffering of others because I know what it’s like to tremble in the dark – looking for hope or the faintest spark.

Japanese writer Haruki Murakami observed of suffering, “Once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in.”

Yes. Life has an interesting way of changing us. I don’t believe we’re meant to stay the same. Instead, we are [spiritually] designed to change and grow. Among the agents of change, there’s the passage of time, however fast or slow. Then, alas, there’s the furnace of affliction – and it's in our damage that we truly grow.

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Mitchell’s cardiologist placed a stethoscope gently on his chest. Suddenly he closed his eyes and disappeared into a state of deep meditation as he listened closely to the fumbling, tumbling sounds of our little boy’s failing heart. There wasn’t much time left and this doctor knew it. Unaware of his fate, little Mitch just wanted to go home. At the end of the day, I believe that’s where our heart yearns to go. Home. Back to that time and place where we felt safe and surrounded by the ones we love. 

Just a few days prior this same cardiologist, fighting back his tears, told us our son only had days to live. This good man spoke to us as a medical professional first and as a father second. The doctor in him told us the medical truth bravely and unfiltered – which we wanted and desperately needed. The father in him told us what he would do if he were in our situation. As far as I’m concerned, he practiced perfect medicine – for he was professional and human.

I cannot get this image out of my mind. I have many such photos of this doctor performing this same act of listening to my son’s heart – each time with the same degree of intensity. 

In this image is a metaphor that I can’t put away. Little Mitch once said to me while dealing with a hard thing someone had done to him, “Dad, if you see with your heart, you see everything that matters.” Mitch instinctively knew that old adage “hurt people, hurt people.” Someone was mean to him, yet he didn’t see a mean person, he just saw a good person who was broken and hurting on the inside. Listening to the heart and soul sometimes takes just as much focus and intent as this good doctor applied to my son’s physical heart.

I don’t know that I’ve ever shared this, but my son was named after a dear friend of mine who unexpectedly passed away several years ago. One night, over 20 years ago, my friend and I were in the heart of Kentucky. I remember that night like it was yesterday … the sky was clear, the stars were bright and there were fireflies nearby. We were talking about things that changed us from the inside out. We were only 19 and 20 at the time, but we had already experienced a change of heart that was significant and we were sharing our experiences. He shared with me something that changed everything for him. In high school he was rebellious and did everything his parents told him not to. One night, well after midnight, he smashed through the front door drunk, high, and belligerent. He then passed out and fell down the stairs and on to the basement floor. The next thing he remembered was his father holding him at the foot of the steps, weeping and telling his son how much he loved him. It was his father’s act of love and compassion that changed my friend for good. When Mitch told me this story, we both wept and discovered a spiritual truth. 

Over the years, time and circumstance created distance between us. We attended different universities and our lives did as they must … go on. But I never forgot my friend. So, on that fateful day my wife and I had our 3rd child, we named him Mitch because of what this good man taught me about love and compassion. I finally reconnected with my friend a few years before he passed and told him how we named our son after him. He was humble and kind and I was reminded of the kind of person I hope to be.

I wonder how the world might change if everyone started to see and listen with their hearts. That’s not to say we become illogical and foolish, driven to-and-fro solely by emotions; but how might things change in our own lives if we truly listened to the intent of others? I can say with confidence that almost every single conflict I have been a part of stemmed from a misunderstanding of the heart. Most people aren’t bad, they’re just a little broken and don’t know what to do with their jagged pieces. 

It is my experience that people change because they are loved, not because they are shamed. I hope to follow my son’s example and see (and listen) with my heart – for when I do, I see everything that matters. 

That’s what Mitch taught me … at the heart of things is everything. 

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I remember watching my sweet wife’s expression when she first laid eyes on Mitch in the delivery room. She immediately wept tears of joy and was overcome with a love that transcends words – a love only a mother can know. I cried watching her love him – I was so happy. Soon I got to hold our little baby for the first time; he was so tiny and I marveled at the miracle of life. I loved him the moment I laid eyes on him – for he was my son.

It is so hard to say goodbye after 10 years of life and love. I wish I had the power to heal him. I wish I could have traded places with my son. 

I will never forget a tender conversation I had with Mitch just after he returned home from the hospital to die. I was tucking him in and he wanted me to cuddle with him for a while. As I lay by my broken son, we gazed into each other’s eyes and had the most soulful exchange I have ever experienced. I told Mitch that while I had been scrambling to find a way to save him, it was he who was saving me. With tears in my eyes, I thanked my little boy for being such a good example to our family and for inspiring me to be a better daddy, husband and person. Mitch cried and told me how happy he was and that he felt loved. With a kiss to his forehead my little boy continued to cry happy tears and tenderly burrowed his frail body into mine and drifted off to sleep. I wept a strange potpourri of tears that night – and many nights thereafter. Little Mitch was then, and remains today, the most profound and painful gift of my life. And though I journey through the wilderness of grief, I’m on my way, but I’m not there yet.

There is nothing linear about grief. I have often heard “time heals all” as though that glib phrase should give peace of mind or assuage a grieving heart. At least for me, that phrase has little to no meaning – and in some cases it does more harm than good. I would be quite content to never hear that phrase again. Time alone is no healing agent; that is a loosely written fiction. I believe healing has less to do with the passage of time but rather, like all things in life, it’s what we do with our time that matters. Surely time is necessary, but it is a minor ingredient. If I spend my time finding ways to bind my wounds and dress them with healing things – I am more likely to accelerate my path to recovery. On the other hand, if I mask my pain or agitate tender wounds, they may never close or heal. Time is a neutral thing – it’s what I do with it that matters.

I am on my way to healing, but I’m not there yet. I don’t know that I’ll ever fully recover from the loss of my son. What I can say is today is better than yesterday; not because time has simply passed but because I am allowing myself to do what I must – to accept my sorrows, and to not run from them but rather let pain take its course. I am learning to grieve in my own way, to hurt as long as I need to, to cry often (and I cry often), to write and remember everything that comes to mind. And, of course, I pray. I pray for peace and understanding. I pray also that my son knows how much I love and miss him. What I wouldn't do to hold him for 5 minutes. 

I recently read a saying, “Those who mistake success for significance, will lead a deeply unfulfilled existence.” I pray I will never confuse the two. I would sooner give someone a boost, a smile or a loving hand than fill my wallet with that which does not satisfy. After all, you can’t fill an empty soul with empty things. 

Little Mitch, my broken son, has taught me how to truly live ... to think less on the things I get and more on what I give. For my little boy had nothing to his name, save some little toys and modest clothes, his material things were plain. If he had nothing but gave so much, I have much to learn from him. For he lived a quiet life of significance and my heart he did truly win.

I’m on my path to healing, the end I cannot see, for the wilderness of grief seems to stretch out to forever, even to infinity. Please be patient with me my son … for I am broken, too, just in different ways than you. I’m on my way, but I’m not there yet.