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“Though I hurt when I see this photo, it is a happy hurt … if there is such a thing.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

I was working in my home office one night, volunteering my time and energy to help a small start-up find its way. I was under a lot of stress – I was deeply worried about my son’s heart condition while at the same time trying to deal with a myriad of complications at work. Like no time before in my life, I began to search for balance between work and family. I knew time was short and my son didn’t have much time left. 

Mitchell walked softly into my room, pulled up a chair and sat next to me. He said, “Don’t worry, Dad, keep working. I just want to sit by you.” I nearly lost it. Though I was worried over work things, Mitch was all I thought about. I swallowed the lump in my throat and fought back the tears only to see his smiling face and kind eyes. I grabbed my cell phone and took this photo then said, “I love you, son.”

I put work away and Mitch and I just talked about his day. 

Hanging from the bottom of his shirt were cables connected to a pocket-sized heart monitor that he was asked to wear for a few days. His cardiologist wanted to get a better sense of what was happening to our son’s heart and discover a possible cause for its rapid and unexplained decline. The miracle of medicine had no effect. Despite the promise of powerful drugs that might stay his heart’s decline, it was as though heaven itself was calling my son home – and all the medicine of man was but a vapor.

“Raising children is hard. Losing them to death is even harder.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

Neither Mitch nor myself realized that a few weeks from this photo he would be fighting for his life … that his tender heart would flutter and stop in the quiet of a winter night. We simply didn’t know how quickly things would come to an end. We just had this moment and I tried to love him with all that my heart could offer. 

Raising children is hard. Losing them to death is even harder. 

Tomorrow at midnight will be the 3rd anniversary of my son’s passing. In my mind it seems like a lifetime ago and in my heart it feels like yesterday … and here I am learning to live in the middle of those two. I can say with confidence that I am healing, but I am also hurting. I have come to accept that I will always hurt. Some days the hurt runs deep … into the marrow of my soul. Other days the pain of loss feels like a scrape. But I always hurt for him. I long to talk to him like I used to. I want to cuddle with him and watch the movies he so enjoyed. I miss helping him do what he could not … and I see now that in my efforts to help him, he was actually helping me. My Father knew that – and though this reality of life and loss is painful beyond measure, I am grateful for the things my son is teaching me. 

There are many kind-hearted people who try to soothe those who grieve by suggesting our child is in a better place or just around the corner, perhaps in the next room … or some derivative of that thought. I am always grateful for their compassion and I have learned to listen to their intent more than their words. But let me make it clear, while my child may, indeed be in a better place, he is not in this place. He is not with me like he used to be – and that is why I grieve.

I will never forget this tender exchange with my son. I am glad I didn’t brush him off or ask him to leave because I had other things on my plate. I am glad I didn’t think myself too busy to give my child the time and attention he deserved. As a father, I stumble more than I get it right – but on this occasion, I got it right. Though I hurt when I see this photo, it is a happy hurt … if there is such a thing. 

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“The trouble with time is we always seem to think we’ll have enough of it.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

The look of panic on my sweet wife’s face is forever etched into my mind. The time we feared most had come. Mitchell’s urine bore evidence of catastrophic organ failure, his vitals were on a steady decline and we didn’t know if we had days, hours or minutes left with our son. 

The drugs we administered to Mitch were both a blessing and a curse; a blessing because they kept him from suffering from the pain of organ failure and a curse because they kept his mind foggy and distant. We were blessed with the greatest hospice nurse to ever walk this earth. She was exactly what we needed during this dark time … a tender mercy for which I will thank Heaven the remainder of my days. She was there to guide and council us every step of the way – but because she didn’t live with us, we were left to face the majority of our time alone with our boy. That scared us.

Prior to hospice, all we knew was children’s Tylenol and sunscreen … then suddenly we were administering morphine and other powerful drugs to our child. All we wanted was to go back to the days of macaroni and cheese and band aids, scraped knees and children’s books. But that was not our lot in life.

I’ll never forget our first encounter with our hospice nurse. She was so kind and compassionate, yet strong and direct. She was immediately soothing to Natalie and me … parents who were fragile and frightened. This hospice nurse reminded us of what our DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) form meant. She told us that if Mitch was is in trouble that we were not to call the ambulance, perform CPR, or any procedure that would prevent death. Now that he was home on hospice, her job was to help our son’s transition to death happen comfortably. After this good nurse left that first day, I remember going to my bedroom, closing the door and falling to my knees. I wept and wept. I prayed like I have never prayed before. “Take me!” I pleaded with my Father, “Please, take me instead. I would endure any suffering if it would spare my son.”

After a period of deep, tearful grief, I found myself back on my feet again. With feeble knees, I tried to bear the burdens of my family on my shoulders – but I soon realized I could not take away my family’s suffering. I could only walk with them and love them and do all I could to support them. Though I wished to carry it all, I realized that was not the purpose of life and that we must all experience joys and sorrows on our own if our souls are to truly grow.

Though I tried to be strong for my family, this good woman, my dear wife, was the strongest among us. I will always honor her for her strength and wisdom during this impossible time. I stood then, and continue to stand today, deep in her shadow. 

So there we sat on the edge of the abyss, our son hanging by a pebble and slipping into the darkness. I sat on the edge of his bed in tears wondering how I could have been a better husband and father. I made plenty of mistakes and those mistakes weighed on my soul for a season. I wasn’t so upset with the occasions I might have been more patient with my children – for I knew we all make those mistakes and I always made things right with my kids. Instead I began to contemplate the time I wasted pursuing lesser, trivial things. I wanted to go back in time and invest that squandered time into my family. It wasn’t a lot – but enough to hurt. Enough to cause a little regret.

The trouble with time is we always seem to think we’ll have enough of it. It seems that only when we stand to lose everything do we find which things really matter. My family matters more to me than anything – and I have discovered how and where I spend my time matters just as much. 

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“I was grateful for this gentle reminder tonight. That life is worth the struggle and internal fight - for it’s in the struggle we find the meaning of life.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

I am just wrapping up a week in north east Canada where it is bitter cold yet beautiful. This evening, I began a long drive back to a small airport that will soon take me to Toronto, then ultimately back home. At one point I looked out the window and saw a most beautiful sunset and took this photo. Instantly I thought of Mitch - or better said, I instantly became aware I was already thinking of Mitch. 

It was the kind of sunset where he would have tugged at my arm softly and pointed, "Look Dad, isn't it beautiful?" In my heart I whispered, "Yes, son. But not as beautiful as you."

Earlier this morning a large winter storm was headed our way and the RCMP had blocked off the roads. There was no getting in or out of town and no way of knowing when we'd be able to leave. I wondered if I would make it out in time for my flight. 

So, against the backdrop of a severe winter storm, I didn't expect to see the sun this evening. In many ways, that is how I felt when the storms of grief were especially new to me; I didn't expect to see the sun for a long, long time. In both cases, I am grateful to have seen the sun.

In just a few short days from now my little family will recognize the 3rd anniversary of my son's passing. Three years. To some who sit comfortably on the outside of grief, three years may seem like a long time ... time enough to "get over it" or "move on." They who think such thoughts are wronger than wrong. To those who live with grief, 3 years is but a blink.

Three years into this new journey and grief is still very real. But so is healing. 

Early on, I didn't expect to see the sun. I felt darkness would last a million years and one. But that was not so - for I have since felt my love and hope grow. 

I was grateful for this gentle reminder tonight. That life is worth the struggle and internal fight - for it's in the struggle we find the meaning of life.

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“At the end of my days, when I kneel before my Father and account for my life, I hope He looks upon my efforts in the same way I try to look upon my children … with a heart of compassion, pleased with effort and personal growth over the illusory achievement of perfection.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

Parenthood has become the most difficult yet rewarding experience of my life. I wish I could say I did it perfectly, but I didn’t … and I don’t. Nobody really does, I suppose. Anymore, I don’t try to be the perfect parent … I just try to be loving and kind … to be the father and mentor I wish I had growing up. It is difficult at times, because I don’t know what to emulate – so I just try to be what I never had. 

At the end of my days, when I kneel before my Father and account for my life, I hope He looks upon my efforts in the same way I try to look upon my children … with a heart of compassion, pleased with effort and personal growth over the illusory achievement of perfection. 

When Mitch came home with a drawing or school assignment, I was always so proud of how hard he tried. I would hug him and kiss his face and tell him, “Great job, son. I’m so proud of you. Keep trying and you’ll better and better.” Always, there were imperfections in his drawings … but for him, he did it perfectly. Perfection is a relative term, for he was a young child and did the work of a young child. I didn’t care about flawless execution … at his age, I wanted him to be recognized for doing a little better than the time before. I wanted him to believe in himself and be proud of his accomplishments. As far as I can tell, belief-in-self is the bedrock of education and the scaffolding of character. At the same time, I am a strong believer in providing corrective feedback so that we might know where to stretch ourselves the next time. But, always, offering my children earned praise is high on my list of to-do’s as a father.

On this occasion my neighbor and friend, Jeff Winegar, offered to take our family to Snowbird so Mitch could participate in an adaptive sports program for kids with disabilities. Mitch was nervous about it because he knew he wasn’t very strong and that what little strength he did have would dissipate quickly. “What if I fall, Dad?” Mitch would ask me nervously. I assured him he wouldn’t be required to do anything for which he didn’t have the strength and that they had something special for him – so that he would be safe and have fun. Mitch sat in a small carriage attached to two skis. Behind him were two purple tethers which allowed an adult to ski behind Mitch and control his speed down the mountain. All Mitch needed to do was to lean right or left as he decided where he wanted to ski down the mountainside. 

I asked my friend Jeff to be on tether while I skied backward to take a million photos of my son. I loved looking at Mitchell’s expressions of glee as the cold wind rushed against his rose-colored cheeks. At first, I saw an expression that seemed to say, “This isn’t so bad. I’m not scared anymore.” Then later, his face seemed to say, “I’ve got this! I can do it!” I was so proud of Mitch and overwhelmed with gratitude as I saw my son’s countenance filled with a new form of self-confidence. He couldn’t race down the mountain like an Olympian, nor was he required to, but he could bravely face the steep slopes and do what he could, with the heart of an Olympian. That is winning, too.

I remember kneeling in prayer that night thanking my Father for giving my son such a great experience. I also thanked Him for giving me the blessing of children - a gift for which I'm eternally grateful. Because of Mitch, each day I try to grow a little on the inside, just like he tried. If I color a little outside the lines, I recognize it and try to do better next time.

Maybe that’s the point of it all … to get better a little on the inside each time. Musicians do it, athletes do it, academics do it … nobody achieves greatness in an instant … but through getting a little better each time. And those who have mastered their craft will each say it comes from within. It always comes from within. Each day. A little on the inside.