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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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“Sometimes those on the outside of grief wonder what takes so long for those who suffer from moving on. It’s as if because they cannot see a visible scar or site of amputation, there is no injury; which only seems to make the scars of loss more tender and grief more isolating.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

It had been exactly one month since my son had passed away. The cemetery grass bore a burial scar, reminding us of the hell we were living. As if the wind-toppled flowers and weathered stuffed animal didn’t remind me, the grass did, and it pained me deeply. 

Every time I visited the cemetery, there was a quiet desperation in my heart. I wanted to dig up the grass with my bare hands as fast as my feeble arms and trembling hands could so that I might rescue my son from the dark. I could still feel the warmth of his cuddles in my arms and on my chest. Mitchell’s soft voice echoed in my mind and my heart broke over, and over, and over again. 

Sometimes those on the outside of grief wonder what takes so long for those who suffer from moving on. It’s as if because they cannot see a visible scar or site of amputation, there is no injury; which only seems to make the scars of loss more tender and grief more isolating. 

I had knee surgery about 25 years ago, repairing my ACL. After all these years, my knee bears the scars of that operation and my nerves are permanently damaged. That was just my knee. In my younger years, I sustained injuries and wondered if I would scar and how long they would last. Most of them faded away over time. But, like my knee, some scars last a lifetime. If our bodies carry scars, what of our souls? My knee doesn’t make me human – but my love and emotions do. Losing Mitch scarred me in a place you cannot see with your eyes. But that scar exists, and it is very real. And like my nerves, there is also damage.

“Grief is inevitable and it forms scars that are deep. Scars that last. As it matures, it transforms from an obstacle into a path. ”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

In my book, I write a great deal about grief rituals, but for now I’ll just say that I visited Mitch every single day for almost two years. At first, I was traumatized and psychologically I think I visited the cemetery to comfort him, even though I knew he wasn’t there. In time, I began to see that I was going there to sort things out and that I was seeking comfort myself. I no longer visit the cemetery every single day. But I do visit often. 

At least to me, grief seems to mirror the cycle of life. The death of our loved ones doesn’t mean our grief dies with them. Much to the contrary, when our children die, grief is just being born … and that grief will live with us until the day we die. However, like humans, grief grows up and matures over time. 

When grief is first born, it is much like that of a newborn: we cry. A lot. We don’t have the capacity for words – only tears. Then, we become toddlers with grief … learning to walk and find our balance in life. Some learn to walk quickly, for others, it takes time. We try to use our words and sometimes they don’t come out right – but we’re growing and learning how to come alive again. Like our human experience, grief grows from child-like stages to adolescence and then into adulthood. During those adolescent stages of grief, some behaviors might seem juvenile, and people may do things that harm themselves or their relationships with others. Not everybody does … but I have seen some that do. Eventually, grief matures and reaches seasoned adulthood, where there is balance, reason, and understanding. 

I have discovered that as long as I live, grief will never die. The death of my son was the birth of my grief and I will have to care for it as though it were a person. In fact, grief is a person. Grief is me. So, I must tend to it and take good care of it and cultivate growth. I am both the parent and the child. Like raising a child, if I’m not disciplined, grief can spoil and become rotten and ruin me. 

When I visit the cemetery, I no longer want to scoop up the earth with my hands and rescue my boy. I mean, I do … but I don’t have that desperate feeling anymore. There is still a tender part of me that always wants to wake him gently from his sleep and say, “Little Mitch, it is time to wake. Let me lay here for you. Let me take your place.” 

I think I understand and have learned to accept what has happened. That doesn’t mean I don’t hurt. I hurt a great deal. However, I have come to a place of balance, reason, and understanding. But there is still damage on the inside and a scar you cannot see with your eyes. 

Grief is inevitable and it forms scars that are deep. Scars that last. As it matures, it transforms from an obstacle into a path. 

I have discovered that as long as I live, grief will never die. The death of my son was the birth of my grief and I will have to care for it as though it were a person. In fact, grief is a person. Grief is me. So, I must tend to it and take good care of it and cultivate growth. I am both the parent and the child. Like raising a child, if I’m not disciplined, grief can spoil and become rotten and ruin me. 

When I visit the cemetery, I no longer want to scoop up the earth with my hands and rescue my boy. I mean, I do … but I don’t have that desperate feeling anymore. There is still a tender part of me that always wants to wake him gently from his sleep and say, “Little Mitch, it is time to wake. Let me lay here for you. Let me take your place.” 

I think I understand and have learned to accept what has happened. That doesn’t mean I don’t hurt. I hurt a great deal. However, I have come to a place of balance, reason, and understanding. But there is still damage on the inside and a scar you cannot see with your eyes. 

Grief is inevitable and it forms scars that are deep. Scars that last. As it matures, it transforms from an obstacle into a path. 

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“Then one day when you least expect it ... somehow, some way, you begin discover beauty in the rubble and that flowers still bloom in the rain. A miracle is born and you begin to make sense of pain.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

Natalie always does such a sweet and beautiful job with Mitchell's flower arrangements. That is one of her grief rituals and I reverence it.

It is difficult to describe the trauma one feels when they lose a child. Three years have passed and I'm just beginning to get my head around the fact I cannot get my head around it. In every way that matters, life after the death of a child is a waking nightmare. 

Eventually, after years of tears you just learn to live in that nightmare. 

Then one day when you least expect it ... somehow, some way, you begin discover beauty in the rubble and that flowers still bloom in the rain. A miracle is born and you begin to make sense of pain.

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“So when I’m discouraged, empty handed and with nothing to show, I can hear the loving words of my Father, ‘Be patient, my child, you will grow; take care of your soul and soon it will show.’”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

I pulled up to the cemetery one summer evening only to find my sweet wife sitting by our son with a look of heaviness on her countenance. Grief had washed over her and my soul ached that I couldn’t take it away. I, too, was suffering a father’s grief and wondered if the pain would ever end. As far as I could tell, hell was my new home and there was no escaping it.

I could tell my wife was having a sacred moment, so I sat in my car from a distance and gave her space. I have learned that in matters of grief, allowing our loved ones to grieve in their own way and in their own time is key. As I waited patiently, I had a prayer in my heart that her burdens would seem light. Though I was being crushed under the weight of grief myself, I prayed that I might find a way to carry her burdens so that she might find a little rest.

When her moment passed, she motioned for me to join her and we spent some time talking about how we were each holding up. For every day, every hour was a battle to survive. We sat on the warm grass and wept together and longed to have our little boy with us again. The journey of grief seemed like a broken road that stretched out to infinity. Infinity never felt so long. Never felt so lonely.

I recently heard a friend of mine give an address where he described the unique phenomenon of how Chinese Bamboo Trees grow. After being planted, the seed won’t break the soil for 4 years. It silently lies in wait under the surface and seems to do nothing at all. Yet, in order for it to grow, one must water and care for it every day during those first 4 years – even though there is no visible sign of growth whatsoever. Then suddenly, in the 5th year, seemingly out of the blue, something astonishing happens: the Chinese bamboo tree can grow almost a hundred feet in a month and a half. As my friend shared that fascinating fact, I immediately saw a connection to grief and growth.

At least for me, my first 3 years felt like a constant state of sorrow with no sign of relief. Each day I patiently watered the soil of my soul with prayer, meditation, study and a lot of writing … for writing had become my therapy. It has been said that “Writing is closer to thinking than speaking.” So, when I say writing, I don’t mean simply pouring out my hurt on a page … instead, when I wrote, I tried to think, analyze and process what was happening to me. I determined what meaning my sorrows would have in my life. I didn’t ask, “Why Mitch?” or “Why me?”… instead, I asked, “What am I to learn from this?”

I have discovered that growth through grief is just like the Chinese Bamboo Tree. It takes constant care and feeding long before any visible growth occurs. To the sufferer and the observer, feelings of discouragement and depression can surface because there may seem to be no signs of hope. But I have learned from personal experience that if we’re patient, and if we care for the soil of our souls, we can eventually see growth and better days ahead. 

So when I’m discouraged, empty handed and with nothing to show, I can hear the loving words of my Father, “Be patient, my child, you will grow; take care of your soul and soon it will show.”

I will always grieve the loss of my son. Despite my grief, I can still grow. I don’t know much, but this thing I know.