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Every-so-often we’d take our kids bowling for family night. In my culture, that’s a long-held tradition of dedicating one night a week to spend as a family. On these bowling adventures, we always enjoyed getting a plate of nachos, a chili dog, and a basket of french fries. The food was never good. In fact, it was awful. But, to spend time with family always seemed to make up for terrible food. Mediocre nachos just taste better when you're giggling.

“Heaven is never so close as when we’re with loving family and friends.  And when someone is going through hell, we can bring a little piece of heaven into their lives by simply being a loving friend.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

Surrounded by bad food and good company, we’d spend the next hour or two cheering each other on while competing for the highest score.

By this point in his life, Mitch wasn’t strong enough to hold a bowling ball, so family members helped by positioning the ball on an adaptive bowling ramp.  Mitch smiled as he squinted his eyes and slightly moved the ramp at just the right angle.  Then, softly, he’d push the ball down the ramp, and it would hurl down the lane.  When he’d get a strike, Mitch would chuckle as I’d blend sports terminology.   “Great!  You got a goal!” or, “Nice touchdown, son.”  Mitch and I shared a pocket full of inside jokes that always made us smile.

On this occasion, Natalie’s sister and her family joined our bowling adventure.  Mitchell’s closest cousin, Hunter, was always by his side, cheering him on – both bowling and in life.  At one point, Wyatt placed his hand on Mitchell’s back and said, “Nice job, Mitch!”  At this moment, I thanked my Father for the gift of family and friends.  I was especially thankful Mitch had a loving circle of his own.  Mitch was blessed with genuine friends.

Just today I had lunch with a dear friend and colleague.  He’s had a blessed career, and I have admired his desire to serve others with his good fortune.  About two years ago, however, he experienced a tremendous personal hardship that broke his heart and shook his soul.  During his darkest hours, I remember praying fervently that he would find a measure of peace each day as he learned to walk his own journey with grief.  As we were catching up on each other’s lives, he shared something a friend told him during a moment of darkness, and I learned a beautiful lesson.  His friend said, “I can’t imagine what you’re going through.  I don’t know how to help … but I know how to be a friend.”

When I heard that tender phrase, I was overwhelmed by its power and simplicity.  It’s another way of saying, “I want you to know I care.” 

Those are beautiful, healing words: “I don’t know how to help, but I know how to be a friend.”  It acknowledges the uniquely difficult journey of the sufferer while offering a shoulder to lean on, a listening ear, and an understanding heart. 

Heaven is never so close as when we’re with loving family and friends.  And when someone is going through hell, we can bring a little piece of heaven into their lives by simply being a loving friend.

So, when I look back on this tender moment with little Mitch surrounded by kids who didn’t know what to do, but knew how to be a friend, I’m reminded of the supernal goodness of children. 

I cherish this memory. 

When I feel grief cast its shadow on my soul, I scoop into my pocket of cherished memories and pull out little gems, like this moment.  They fill my heart with gratitude, meaning, and purpose – which, combined, serve as a lamp unto my feet when the path grows especially dark.  Today I was reminded of another gem to serve a broken heart: that to be a friend is one of heaven’s healing arts.

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“This photo not only holds a tender story of a time long gone, but a metaphor for today. I find myself where Wyatt once stood in this photo. Next to me, on the edge of the unknown, Mitch, my son and brother, points into the dark water at things I cannot yet see … and he whispers to my soul words meant just for me. ”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

I can still hear the evening crickets on this nearly magical summer eve. Like a sunburn, I can feel the warmth of summer on my skin. Mitch pointed into the dark water as Wyatt listened intently. “See, those fish? They are a family.” Wyatt replied, “Do they like gummy worms?” Mitch furrowed his brow a moment and thought … then said, “Probably. But I think they like Doritos best.”

I chuckled at my little boys. I wanted to hug them that instant but refrained because this was their moment. My heart was overflowing with a kind of fatherly gratitude I had never experienced until that moment. I dreamt of becoming a father, but I never imagined a love so deep. Part of me wanted to freeze this moment in time and live in it forever; but I knew tomorrow would bring new blessings – so I welcomed the passage of time as both a blessing and opportunity for new discoveries. 

When Mitch first learned he was going to be a big brother, he was so excited. He wanted to usher his wee brother into a big world filled with wonder. With a heart filled with love, I often found Mitch kissing baby Wyatt’s hand while he slept. In time, not many years later, I would find Wyatt kissing Mitchell’s hand as he slept, barely breathing and slipping away. A brutal irony that pains me and heals me at the same time.

Just before Mitch was admitted to the hospital, I called my neighbor who was also my Bishop at the time (a religious leader in my church). I could hardly talk through my tears and broken voice as I said, “Will you please give my son a blessing?” Within minutes this inspired, selfless man came rushing over. As we lay our hands on my son’s head, tears streamed down my face. I quietly gasped for air (a few times it was audible) and fought to keep my composure as I heard this good man share words of comfort, blessing and heavenly insight. He fought back tears, too, as he shared inspired words our Father wanted Mitch to know. A few minutes after the blessing, Mitch said in a whisper to his brother Ethan (observing our tears), “It felt like it was raining.” Such were our tears.

There were many times while Mitch was home on hospice, as he slept, that I wet his hands and neck with my tears. I prayed mightily to my Father for a way out – I begged that He would take me instead. But a way out would not come and soon I would lose my little son. In time, I would find myself in a hell I was afraid to imagine. Yet there I was, in the darkness and heavy in sorrow. I wrote of grief, “There are days … sometimes agonizing moments … the gravity of grief is so great it feels like I’m walking on Jupiter. It’s a place where your chest feels so heavy even breathing is difficult. I have come to learn that once you lose a child you leave earth’s gravity forever. You may visit earth from time-to-time, but Jupiter is where your heart is. And from what I can tell, we will live the remainder of our lives in the gravity well of grief.” (see essay, Walking on Jupiter, June 3, 2013) 

In time, after much weeping and soul-searching, I would find myself leaving the Jupiter of which I spoke. The gravity of grief no longer had the power to take my breath or steal my joy – at least not all the time. This journey from Jupiter was welcomed by my weary soul – for I wondered if the prison of such sorrow was a life sentence. Thankfully, it was not. I still cry for my boy. I wept while writing this very piece. But I feel more love, peace and gratitude now than I have ever felt sorrow – and that’s a lot. 

This photo not only holds a tender story of a time long gone, but a metaphor for today. I find myself where Wyatt once stood in this photo. Next to me, on the edge of the unknown, Mitch, my son and brother, points into the dark water at things I cannot yet see … and he whispers to my soul words meant just for me. 

In time, I will see.

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There is no single photo that encapsulates what happened today at our Miles for Mitchell run. We were humbled by everyone's support and loving encouragement. Though we run in honor of Mitch, we also run in hope for other boys with DMD. Today we had 11 children, each with DMD, attend. Each child left knowing they were loved by a growing community who cares and wants to help.

In this photo, Natalie talks with a dear friend of hers who also has a son with DMD. Our little Mitchell was friends with her son, who is also named Mitchell. Two DMD mothers who love their sons and carry uniquely heavy burdens, yet they set their sorrows aside to love and support each other. 

As I attended the funeral of my beautiful Aunt earlier this week, a woman who loved little Mitch and was there to support him during special times in his life, I discovered that she often said of life, "We're just walking each other home." 

May we walk each other home with helping hands and loving hearts.

Thank you to everyone who supported our event. It was a beautiful day.
 

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Wyatt's friend, Porter, injured his hip recently and cannot go out to play. So Wyatt strapped two bowls of warm macaroni and cheese to the back of his motorcycle and drove it to his home so they could have lunch together. When asked what he was doing he said, "I'm doing what friends do for each other." 

This is what life is all about.