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The other day, Natalie and I were walking near a reservoir by our home. We often go on walks and talk about our kids, our hopes for the future, and of course, little Mitch.

At one point, we noticed a tiny puppy scurrying about on his front legs while his back legs dragged lifelessly behind him. My first impulse, aside from shock, was to feel profoundly sorry for this little pup. As we approached to pet him, we noticed some friends of ours who used to live in our neighborhood. It turned out this good family adopted this puppy who had sustained a paralyzing injury when he was just a few months old.

As we were catching up with our friends, I couldn’t help but reach down several times to hold and kiss this little guy. He was so tender, curious, and full of puppy-like energy. In many ways, this little pup reminded me of Mitch: broken and tender, yet happy and full of life.

At one point, Julie, his adopted mother, and former veterinarian said, “Don’t feel sorry for him. He’s happy and doesn’t know any different.”

I was struck by the deep truth and wisdom of her words. Later that night, I thought about what she said over and over and over.

It occurred to me that sometimes we limit empathy to feelings of sorrow for another’s struggle. But empathy is much more than that. It’s about mirroring and experiencing the feelings of others – for better or worse. Empathy is about getting on someone’s level and seeing life through their lens and feeling with their heart.

In the case of this puppy, he was as happy as any furry kid I’ve ever seen. My temptation to feel sorry for him was irrelevant to his circumstance. He was happy and loved by his family, and that’s all that mattered. And because he was happy, I was happy.

Over the years, through Mitchell’s Journey, I’ve worked with many people who struggle with mental health, grief, and wellness. The struggles range from depression, feelings of low self-worth, grief, the loss of faith, processing past trauma, and so much more. My heart goes out to everyone who suffers.

As I’ve observed comments here and other places, I’ve discovered that it isn’t helpful to superimpose what we think or feel to another person’s circumstances – because what we’re experiencing in their moment of struggle is almost always irrelevant to their circumstance. When we see someone struggle, we often hear phrases like, “Don’t be sad. Your loved one wouldn’t want you to see you hurt.” Or “Everything happens for a reason.” Or “They’re in a better place now.” Or “Just don’t give up on your faith.” Each of these clichés is about as useless as they are meaningless. Though often well-meaning, these statements (and others like them) dismiss the suffering of the one who’s injured.

If I’m to help a friend, a neighbor, or a stranger – the deeper practice of empathy requires me to get on their level, see the world through their eyes, and feel what they feel. Then, and only then have I practiced deep empathy. That is the essence and truest form of mourning with those that mourn and comforting those who stand in need of comfort. It is not an easy practice, but it is powerful when we apply it.

Empathy has big ears and a small mouth. It listens more than it speaks. And when it speaks, it says things like, “I’m so sorry. Please know that I care.” Or “That must be difficult.” Or “I can see how that would be hard.” Most importantly, empathy is felt more than it’s heard. It’s not the words we say, but how we say them. It’s not just about listening to words spoken; it’s about hearing what’s not said aloud.

When I think of little Mitch, though he was not strong enough to do things like healthy kids, he, like this puppy, was happy to be alive. Natalie always demonstrated compassionate empathy with Mitch. She helped when he needed it but did not allow pity for what might have been to rob him of what he had. Mitch, like this puppy, enjoyed independence. Perhaps that's what inspired Mitch to say, "Be nice to each other and be glad you're alive. Nothing else matters." He valued kindness and life above all things.

So, as I look to practice deeper empathy, I’ll remember what this little puppy and his parents taught me. I’ll suspend my thoughts and feelings so I can listen and learn, understand and relate; because empathy has less to do with how I feel about someone’s circumstance and more to do with how that person (or puppy) feels about it.

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When I was a young boy, I remember sprawling across my mother’s lap as she softly tickled my back and arms.  Within seconds of that gentle touch to my skin, I’d fall into a wakeful trance and wouldn’t move a muscle for fear she would stop.  I remember just after Natalie and I were married; I asked her if she might tickle me for a minute.  She paused and gave me a curious look, then started to move her hands toward my armpits and wiggle her fingers as if to make me giggle and squirm.  I laughed and said, “No, no, sweetie, not THAT kind of tickle … this kind …”  I’d then softly run my fingers down her arm, and she said, “Oh! I see.”

Our children inherited my love of soft tickles, especially as little kids.  It was a great way to sooth a sorry heart, distract from the pain of a scraped knee, or help a sleepless baby relax on a hot summer night.  Mitch often asked me to tickle his arms when he was home on hospice.  It soothed his worried heart.

 A few years ago I was talking to my 11-year-old son, Wyatt, about philosophical stuff.  He was naturally drawn to ideas and wanted to discover the meaning and purpose of things.  He asked me, “Dad, what makes a person good at tickling?”  I thought a moment and said, “Well, it seems the softer the touch, the better it feels.”  Searching for a deeper understanding, he said, “Yes, but what makes someone good at it?” 

 “I don’t know, son, what do you think?”

 Wyatt said, “Empathy.”  I was astounded by his insight.  He continued, “You know, Dad, the people that tickle the best are the ones that love it the most.  They really get it.  They understand how it feels, so they know just what to do.”

 Humbled by his deep view of empathy, I began to wonder how Wyatt arrived at such profound insight. Then it occurred to me empathy is one of Wyatt’s gifts – and I think empathy a spiritual gift.   

 I caught a glimpse of Wyatt’s capacity for empathy when he first saw Mitch in the hospital.  Little Mitch sat softly on his bed with a pale smile, tethered by tubes, cables, and monitors.  His breaths, soft as a moth while his heart, a beating rage.  Mitchell’s chest was beating so violently; it looked like a grown man was trying to punch his way out of his rib cage.  With a furrowed brow, Wyatt fought back a river of tears as he saw his brother losing his life to an enemy we could scarcely see.      

 Wyatt, only seven years old at the time, knowing his older brother was about to die, was careful not to say anything that would frighten his older brother.  He was not only sad to see his brother go, but he also put himself in Mitchell’s shoes, at least as much as a 7-year-old could, and felt sorrow over all that Mitch would miss.  Wyatt not only felt sympathy, he felt deep empathy.

 Surviving the death of my child, I have come to understand the greater difference between sympathy and empathy.  While they have similarities, they are not the same.  In many ways, one is more mental while the other almost spiritual.  Sympathy knows the words, but empathy understands the music.  Sympathy, say’s “I’m sorry.”  Empathy feels your pain and cries with you.  Empathy is mourning with those that mourn.

 I remember, just after his funeral, walking behind little Mitch from the chapel to the hearse.  I nearly collapsed to my knees in grief.  I could hardly breathe.  Within moments, I’d follow my son’s body to the cemetery, which drive would be the longest drive of my life.  A friend of mine stood on the curb, and with tears in his eyes hugged me.  He didn’t say a word – he didn’t need to.  We both wept.  At that moment, I knew he cared, and that brought me a measure of healing.

 I’m grateful for the teachers in my life – from my youngest son to dear friends – and to many of you who teach me empathy … not so much by your words, but deeds.  I’m especially grateful for Mitch, my most tender teacher.

 Just before Mitch fell into a sleep from which he’d never wake, he said, “Dad, can I tickle your back?”    Mitch had a heart that wanted to serve – so I said, “Sure, son, as long as I can tickle yours.”  Those precious 2 minutes were the softest, most tender tickles I have ever experienced.  Mitch had empathy, and it showed.  My sweet wife took a photo of that act of love from a dying little boy.  I then turned to Mitch and tickled his arms and face.  I kissed his forehead and said, “I love you, son.” 

 Mitch whispered softly, “I know.”

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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.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

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.

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A few days ago, I was cleaning my inbox and stumbled into a letter I wrote my family the night Mitch passed away. I wasn’t expecting to see it, so when my eyes saw the headline, “Mitchell Passed Away”, I was immediately swept up by a tidal wave of tears. After I gained my composure, I began a journey through time, reading emails that were sent the weeks following our son’s passing.

One person especially close to me, just a few weeks after Mitch passed wrote, “Now that the worst is over …” I was mortified by her words and sad to see how out of touch that person was with reality. I thought to myself, “I guess she’s lucky she doesn’t understand.” What she and many others didn’t realize was the worst of everything was just beginning. In matters of grief, especially the loss of a child, hell happens in the aftermath of death. Let me say that again: hell happens in the aftermath of death.

What followed in the weeks, months and years was a new kind of journey for me – a journey where we had to learn to heal in a world where there seemed to be no room for grief.

Two years after my son passed, I was on my way to Southern California to take my oldest son surfing. I remember exactly where I was when I received a call from a friend and colleague from an earlier part of my career. She wanted to give me candid feedback. She was convinced I was stuck in grief and that I needed to move on – yet there I was, with my oldest son, very much moving on with life. No effort was extended to understand my mind and heart; instead, after reading a few stories, she felt that my writings were self-focused and something resembling a sermonette. I appreciate truth and candid feedback, however much it might bruise my ego, yet in her almost flippant assessment of things, I couldn’t help but think of Anis Nin’s observation: “We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are.” What she didn’t understand was that my writing found here on Mitchell's Journey was a private journal that I chose to make public – not to solicit sympathy, but to help others who might be struggling with various aspects of grief. Writing had become my therapy – yet, according to her, there seemed to be no room for my therapy. No room for grief.

Another year would pass, and a well-meaning colleague (who has such a good heart) would put his hand on my shoulder and summarily tell me that the time for grief was over. With a slap on the back, he told me the time had come to become like a caterpillar and transform into something new. Again, according to my friend, there was no room for grief. He was ready, and therefore I should have been ready.

Those who read Mitchell’s Journey know I am a man of faith. I not only believe in God, I love Him. I am not angry at Him over the loss of my child. I am hurt, but I’m not angry. In fact, I have come to recognize the many tender mercies He has provided our family; blessings that eased our burdens and offered light to an otherwise darkened path.

Even still, I’ve observed a kind of isolation that comes from people of faith, especially those who haven’t lost a child. Often, when sharing words of hope, people can inadvertently dismiss or diminish the pain of the sufferer. We’ll hear things like, “In the eternal scheme of things, this life is but a blink.” To them, I say, “Life is the longest thing I know. Now that I’ve lost my child, this life is an eternity.” Others say things like, “Don’t be sad, you’ll see your child again.” To them, my heart cries out, “But my heart pains to see my son today. I miss him so, and I don’t [yet] know how to live without him. I’m trying my hardest to find a way.” I’ve seen others, even those who have lost a child say things like, “I’ve had a spiritual experience, and I’m okay – therefore, because I’m okay, you should also be okay.”

“They leave no room for grief. And when there is no room for grief, there is no room for healing.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

There is an endless, almost nauseating list of platitudes and poems that would seem to leave no room for grief. One poem reads, “Death is nothing at all. It doesn’t count.” To that, I say death, aside from being born, is the biggest thing that will ever happen to you or me. It counts a great deal. Poems like these would try to convince us that nothing has happened, that everything remains as it was, our loved one slipped into the next room - just around the corner … when in truth, after the death of a loved one, everything is different, and nothing (at least in this life) will ever be the same. That room of which they speak may as well be on the other side of the universe. Poems and platitudes sometimes dismiss the hard realities of grief and mortality. They leave no room for grief. And when there is no room for grief, there is no room for healing.

This Friday will mark the 5th anniversary of my son’s passing. It took almost 4 years for the worst to pass. What’s more, I’m not stuck in grief – but it is a heavy burden to carry, and to others, I may appear to walk slowly. I’m not a caterpillar anymore, and what I am becoming is only just emerging – in my time and in my own way.

I’ve had the burden and blessing to speak to thousands of people over the last few years about perspectives on grief. I am a young student of the subject and have much to learn. What I know so far is, sorrow is sacred. There must be room for grief.

If you know someone who's suffered the loss of a child, or has a terminally ill child, you can serve them by giving them room for grief. When I say room, I don’t mean space away from them. What I’m saying is you can give them a safe space to talk about their loved one. Giving room for grief can be as simple as saying, “I’m here for you. I care, and I want to listen to your heart.” Your friend may not trust you at first because the world has taught them, over time, there is no room for grief. Everyone is different, but if you’re patient, they’ll eventually feel that you’re safe and will open up to you.

You may be tempted to avoid such subjects with your friend because it is awkward or sad. Sometimes, if we’re to serve our friends, we must set aside our uncomfortable feelings of empathy and give space for the sufferer’s hard reality. You may worry that talking about “it” will touch an already tender wound or that your friend might suddenly remember the realities of loss – as if by avoiding the subject, they might forget the worst thing that could ever happen to them. By avoiding conversation, we leave no room for grief. It is helpful to remember that your friend is already sad and that talking is therapeutic. What’s more, talking about it doesn’t remind them of their loss – they think about it every single day – only in isolation and compounded sorrow.

In many ways, I feel like I’ve come a million miles since I’ve lost my son. Yet, I still have a billion miles to go. I know sacred truths about the immortal soul. I also know that our loved ones are sometimes near. I have experienced moments of peace that surpass my mortal understanding. These things I know of myself and no one can take them away from me. Yet, moments of peace and pain come and go like the ocean tide – that is just part of being human.

Even after 5 years, I still need room for grief.