Posts tagged Purpose of Life
LIONS AND BEARS 


My daughter took these photos the day after Mitchell came home. He was so excited to be surrounded by all that was familiar to him. Most importantly, he was grateful to be with his family – for, above all else, family is what he loved the most.

Within a few days of this photo, Mitchell lost the ability to smell. It never came back. He would tell me later how much he missed smelling the things he loved. He yearned for the scent of his favorite shampoo, the smell of popcorn and his dad’s cologne.

A week before he passed away Mitchell asked if we could go to the store to buy shampoo that had a stronger scent … so that maybe he could smell again. I hugged him and quietly started to cry. Oh, the little things we so often take for granted … 
— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

My wife and I were anxious to hold, hug and kiss him without the spider web of cables, tubes and IV’s. It was a surreal time for us. 48 hours prior to this very moment Mitchell had a team of 12 medical professionals all working vigorously to keep him alive. At home, he had 1 hospice nurse whose job was to help him feel comfortable and usher his body through the painful process of organ failure and death. 

For Mitchell, touch was important to him. No blanket that could replace the warmth that came from his parent’s embrace. Ever since he was a baby, he would rub his forehead against mine -sometimes for minutes at a time. He wouldn't say a word and neither would I; we didn't need to. We spoke more in our silence and gestures than could ever be communicated by words alone. This was one of his ways of loving deeply and I never tired of it. I yearn to do it again today, and my heart sinks to the depths of my soul that I cannot.

Within a few days of this photo, Mitchell lost the ability to smell. It never came back. He would tell me later how much he missed smelling the things he loved. He yearned for the scent of his favorite shampoo, the smell of popcorn and his dad’s cologne. He had an appreciation for the little things in life, and I admired that about him greatly. A week before he passed away Mitchell asked if we could go to the store to buy shampoo that had a stronger scent … so that maybe he could smell again. I hugged him and quietly started to cry. Oh, the little things we so often take for granted … 

I will never smell things the same again. Never a scent my nose encounters that I don’t thank my God for all that I have.

Over the last 2 years, I would occasionally ask Mitchell what advice he would give people about life. Without fail he would respond “Be nice to each other and be glad you’re alive. Nothing else matters.” With this philosophy, he never varied. I found it fascinating that a child so young was so attuned to the intrinsic value of life. What’s more, he understood the deeply spiritual value of kindness. Most young children seem to worry more about playthings and consumption (perhaps too many adults do, too) – but Mitchell possessed a sobriety about life and relationships that was far beyond his years. It was as if his soul knew what was to come long before his mortal body failed him.

I was raised to accept the fact life is tough, because it is. And at some point, the world tells us we have to suck it up and take it like a “man” or a woman, or a lion or a bear. But I also realized in the privacy of our bedrooms or the quite of our minds there is often an unspoken dimension to us . . . a part of us that is vulnerable and mortal; a part that loves deeply and hurts honestly. 

Years ago I stopped pretending to be a lion or a bear. I decided to be human – and that has been liberating. 

Three weeks after my daughter took these photos, Mitchell’s weary and scarred heart, after having fought valiantly to survive, fluttered and stopped. 

I would give everything I own, or could ever hope to be, to have my little son back with me. His broken heart, a heart that loved deeply and hurt honestly, was more noble and worthy than all the lions and bears on earth. Mitchell reminds me what it means to be human and that the lions and bears we often pretend to be are just a mirage. My son taught me there are no lions or bears, only humans … and to pretend otherwise is to cheat others and ourselves.

One day, when we all have eyes to truly see, we’ll come to know there was so much more to mortality.  That to be nice to each other and grateful for life are among the prerequisites to spiritual sight.

LEARNING TO TRUST*

I remember his tiny smile as he sat in a school bus for the first time.  Mitch was about to leave on a new adventure.  He didn’t know where he was going exactly, he only knew his mommy loved him and trusted she knew best.  Natalie kissed Mitch on the forehead and said in a whispered tone, “I love you, little boy.  I’ll see you at school.” 

This life is a heavenly classroom, clothed in mortal cares ... where we learn to trust in heaven while carrying hardships from here to there.
— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

As the big bus drove out of the neighborhood Natalie jumped in our minivan and followed them to the elementary school several miles away.  By the time the bus arrived at school, Natalie was there to help our little boy off the bus and usher him into class.  

To Mitch, the world was a very big place – made even bigger by his declining muscle strength.  A small staircase to you and me may as well be Mt. Everest to a child with DMD.  Mitch could be easily knocked down by a simple bump in a lunchroom.  Hallways made him nervous because a river of preoccupied people, in a rush to get some place, threatened to trample him unaware.

Natalie knew our son needed help, but wanted to stretch his horizons and help him grow.  So, she repeated the inconvenient routine of helping him board the bus each day and then follow him to school – where she would help him on and off the bus.  Natalie wanted our boy to learn independence.  And that he did. 

I loved this day.  I loved seeing my little boy smile at me through the window of the bus.  Mitch had this look on his face that seemed to say, “Look Dad!  I can do hard things.  I’m a big kid now.”  His eyes seemed to say, “I love you.”

I remember walking with Natalie and Mitch into his preschool class for the first time.  There he would meet “Mrs. Nancy.”  She was energetic and kind and had a way about her that brought instant relief to nervous parents and excitement in the minds of her students.  I loved her immediately.  I’ll write more of her another day – but I am grateful she was placed in our son’s path.  She was a tender mercy for our little boy.

In many ways, this image serves as a symbol of another journey.  Only this time Mitch has been shuttled to a place far from sight.  Sometimes I panic because the mortal father in me wants to know he’s alright.  Yet, I know he is fine – and in a heavenly sense, I realize he was never mine.   For Mitch is my brother, the son of my Father … even still, in his death, my mortal heart is still bothered.  For I love and miss him, you see.  And in my agony, I reach deeply for things heavenly.  Could it be that is the reason for suffering?

Somewhere out on the horizon is my son … or rather, my brother. He is at a school of another sort.  I cannot see it with my eyes … but I can feel it with my soul.  Though he may be learning and growing … I also believe he is here, even now, helping and showing. 

Now it is my turn, seated in a big and unfamiliar bus.  Like my son, – I have learned to listen and to trust. I know my Father loves me and believe that He knows best.  The wisest of all parents, He knows the growth that happens when we’re challenged and given tests.  This life is a heavenly classroom, clothed in mortal cares ... where we learn to trust in heaven while carrying hardships from here to there.  

 

 
 
 
 
HAPPY HALLOWEEN

This was Mitchell’s last October. We went to a local farmer’s lot to pick out some pumpkins to carve. Autumn had slipped away and we were deep into fall, each day getting colder and colder. Except this day was unusually summer-like and the evening sun warmed our skin as if from a nearby fireplace.

In honor of my son, I will look for those whose bags are a little empty and try to fill them with love and encouragement. Where I can, I will try to carry those who stumble, though I often stumble myself. For the key to happiness, I’ve discovered, is found in giving, not getting.
— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

Because his leg muscles had wasted away, Mitch had trouble walking around the uneven terrain. He tripped and stumbled a few times and he was much slower than the rest of the children. I couldn’t help but notice the look on my son’s face as he saw other kids race past him. He had a look of gratitude and determination. At one point he just smiled and said to me, “Dad, I’m just glad I can still walk.” 

After a lumbering about the pumpkin patch for a while, we each took turns giving our boy a piggyback, so our little boy’s legs could rest. Though he was getting bigger each year, carrying him was never a burden but in fact a great blessing.

Halloween was just around the corner and I wondered what my boy wanted to do. Each year, trick-or-treating became more and more difficult. In the beginning, he used his electric scooter to go from home to home. As each year passed his muscles became weaker and trying to climb up a neighbor’s stairs to knock on their door was exhausting for him. The year prior to his last Halloween, he just parked on each drive way and Luke or Wyatt would take his basket and trick-or-treat for him. That wasn’t much fun for Mitch because, like so many other children’s activities, he sat on the sidelines and watch the party from afar. No matter his disappointment or wanting to do what other children did, Mitch bore his burden with a tender smile - grateful to be alive.

So, as I carried my son on my back this warm October evening in the Pumpkin patch I asked Mitch what he wanted to be for Halloween. He said, “Dad, I just want to stay home and give candy to other kids.”

“Are you sure Mitchie? I will carry you door-to-door if you want.” I replied. 

He responded with a soft whisper, “No, I want to stay home with you. Plus, I like giving to others more.”

True to his word, Mitch stayed home Halloween night and handed candy out to other children. Each time he shut the door he had a big smile on his face. Giving to others brought more joy to little Mitch than getting ever did. Although his Halloween bag was empty that night, his heart was overflowing. So was mine.

To our surprise, later that night, thoughtful friends knowing he was too weak to trick-or-treat brought him some of their candy. 

Though Halloween was different that year, in every way that matters, it was a happy Halloween.

In honor of my son, I will look for those whose bags are a little empty and try to fill them with love and encouragement. Where I can, I will try to carry those who stumble, though I often stumble myself. For the key to happiness, I’ve discovered, is found in giving, not getting.

NOT THE LIFE I WANTED, BUT EVERYTHING I NEED

Just before a painful procedure, Mitch grabbed my arm and squeezed my hand as if to hug me. Although I was trying to love and comfort my dying son, he seemed to find greater comfort loving me. I loved how he loved.

Looking back, I have not had the life I wanted … but it has been everything I’ve needed.
— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

It was a strange thing to watch the hospice nurse keep our son healthy, just long enough to die. She did a marvelous job managing our son’s pain, guiding my broken wife and me through the process of death and dying, and offering insights on how to cope with grief. She warned us that everything we were experiencing at the time was the easy stuff – and that much harder, darker days were ahead. She was right.

As Mitch and I were hugging hands, it took every ounce of strength to hold back my tears – for I wanted to bury my head in the couch and weep like a child. I thought to myself, “This is not the life I wanted. How can I possibly save him?” My bright dreams of becoming a father had turned into a nightmare of the blackest velvet pitch.

My son would soon die and I would experience a grief so great, there are simply no words to describe it. Then, my professional world turned upside down. Good people, who might have been mentors, turned dark and twisted. Life went from bad to worse. When I thought things couldn’t get worse, life became darker still. Grief would soon take a toll on my surviving children – which as a parent was heartbreaking. I don’t write about their grief journey because I respect their privacy. But I will say that sibling grief is real and my wife and I do all that we can to help our children the best we can.

Looking back, I have not had the life I wanted … but it has been everything I’ve needed. I didn’t want to lose little Mitch – but his life and death have changed me for the better. I am not mad at God. But I am sad … and that’s okay. I don’t allow other life challenges, disappointments, and failures to make me bitter – I’m trying to figure out how they can help make me a little better. I have a long, long way to go. I am still learning to live with disappointment and grief -- but I am also learning to live in harmony and peace.

I know when I die, I will go to that place beyond the hills and see my boy again. And if there are no tears in heaven, I will be the first to make them – and the stars will bathe in them. Perhaps we will hold hands like this again – where I try to comfort Mitch and he comforts me. I have a feeling that we’ll look back on our lives and say “Well, it wasn’t the life we wanted but it taught us everything we needed.”

When I see life through that lens, I understand things differently, indeed. For we are souls eternal; gathering light and knowledge, even to infinity.