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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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So grateful to spend time with some newly diagnosed families and hear their stories of heartbreak and hope. Listening to them has given us ideas on new ways to help. We love #ppmd and the tremendous good they do for others.

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As Father's Day approaches, I can't help but thank my Father in Heaven for sending me Mitch. It is through that journey of love and pain that I have come to appreciate family and what it means to be a father and a son. 

Until my dying day, I promise to be nice to others and be glad I'm alive; because as Mitch taught me, nothing else matters.

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“Death is no small thing. It is the biggest thing. We spend our lives avoiding it; we invest in medicine to stop it, and we make laws to preserve it. Death, it is the loss of everything. Grief, the terrible sting over the very thing our hearts most want to cling.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

I don’t have many photos of Mitch with me – which makes the precious few I have all the more special. Most of them aren’t in focus – but I don’t care. I’ll take anything I can get. 

Whenever he was close to me, Mitch would lean his head into my arm, shoulder or chest as if to cuddle any way he could. I know he felt comfort around me – but I don’t think my son had any idea the comfort I found in him. I still long for that comfort.

By the time this photo was taken, we were informed Mitch had days to live. I was so sad about losing my son that I cried everywhere but in front of him. My eyes always seemed to sting, as if I were swimming in chlorine. Every waking moment, my chest felt like it was covered in a lead blanket, my lungs felt shallow and breathing seemed vaguely sharp and painful – for the hours-upon-hours of weeping took its toll on my weary body. Sleeping was impossible. And when I finally found sleep, I wasn't sleeping; I was just passing out. 

I remember teaching little Mitch how to walk as a toddler. It was hard for him because his legs were already weak – but he would hold my fingers with his baby hands and he gave it all he had. I remember listening to his tender voice as he read children’s books to his sweet mother. He tried so hard to be a good student. With vivid detail, I remember watching his chubby little hands grip crayons and work so carefully to color within the lines. As he grew a little older, we tried to teach him that one’s beliefs don’t make them a good person, but their behavior does. Mitch embraced that philosophy. Before he died, we asked him what advice he would give the world. He said this exact phrase, “Be nice to each other and be glad you’re alive. Nothing else matters.” In a tender moment, this small child became a giant; the student became the teacher. I will spend the rest of my life trying to live up to those tender words from a little boy who did just that.

We spent almost 11 years trying to teach our son how to live. Suddenly, we had to teach our son how to die. Nobody ever taught us how to do that and we were terrified beyond measure. As this little boy came to know his fate, the real giant emerged. Though small in stature, he was towering in spirit. 

I have seen a lot of material over the last few years about grief, death, and healing. Some say death is nothing at all – as if to suggest we needn’t trouble ourselves with sorrow over the death of a loved one. Others say our child is just around the corner, as though we might suddenly find peace in such a notion. 

The loss of a child isn’t nothing. To the contrary, it is everything. What’s more, around what corner can I walk? What room can I enter to see my child and hold his hand once more? There is no such room, no such visiting hours. Though I have had spiritual experiences that show me my son still lives and that there is life after life, I still miss my son. I miss the way I used to have him. I miss his voice and his tender ways. I miss the ordinary days. 

Though I understand what those writers were trying to say, I believe some of that prose can cause the sufferer, especially those new to grief and even those who have suffered long with grief, to wonder if something is wrong with them; that because they still hurt, perhaps they’re not grieving right. 

Death is no small thing. It is the biggest thing. We spend our lives avoiding it; we invest in medicine to stop it, and we make laws to preserve it. Death, it is the loss of everything. Grief, the terrible sting over the very thing our hearts most want to cling.

Grief is a long, long road. As far as I can tell, I will live with grief the remainder of my days. Through that sorrow, I am learning Heaven’s strange and mysterious ways. And with each tender lesson from my Father, I am beginning to make peace with my pain. I accept that somewhere deep inside me, there will always be a little rain. That is making peace with pain.