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“This hardship has taught me, however, that while I may plea to God “please no” … if the answer is no, I must change my plea to “please help me know.” That is the foundation upon which we grow.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

Natalie and I left Mitchell’s room as he drifted to sleep. Mitchell was slipping away. Everything was escalating and we knew time was running out. We both sat in the hall just outside his room and wept. Our tears came from a well of the deepest sorrows. I eventually looked to my weary wife … exhausted, frightened and heavy with grief. My heart broke even more because I knew this woman, who has the tenderest of hearts, loved her little boy in ways only a mother can know. The “fix it” father in me desperately wanted to make it all go away, but I could not. 

There were many occasions that I prayed to God “Please, no.” I petitioned over and over that somehow … some way … my son would be spared. Yet, every medical intervention was riddled with peril. Too much was happening, too late. Every path was a dark path. Even still our prayers continued, “Please, no.”

At some point during my wrestle of the soul I received a distinct impression. After I had cried out what felt a million-and-one times “please no” I was finally answered with “please know”. What followed was a most unique spiritual experience. A peace and understanding had fallen upon my wife and me; and while we didn't have words to describe what we were feeling, we had a strong sense that we were being told “Please know, everything is as it’s meant to be. I've got this.”

Over the years I have come to understand that mortality, our life on earth, is a schooling the soul. It is an education that takes a lifetime to complete. There are books to study, things we must do, knowledge and faith we must acquire … and there are tests. Oh, there are tests. 

There are tests of prosperity; what we do when the sun is shining and our pockets full or overflowing. There are tests of faith; what we do when the lights go out. Test of hardship; how we respond to our difficulties. Test of anonymity; what we do when nobody is watching. So many experiences we encounter … so many learnings, if we become students of the soul. 

When I consider this hardship I pray that the child in my heart can rise above this profound sorrow. I know I can. And I will. But losing my son has broken every bone in my body, wrenched my soul and pulverized my heart. With all that I understand and have felt spiritually my heart still cries out for my son and I miss him terribly. 

This hardship has taught me, however, that while I may plea to God “please no” … if the answer is no, I must change my plea to “please help me know.” That is the foundation upon which we grow.

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The funeral director told us it was time to close the casket and suddenly I gasped for air and tried to hold back my tears - but nothing could stay my sorrow. This was it. I wasn't ready to look upon my son for the last time – to say goodbye to his little body, his sweet face … this little boy I used to cuddle, hug and laugh with. My youngest son, Wyatt stood beside me and watched me in grief and sorrow tuck his older brother one last time. 

I carefully pulled Mitchell’s favorite blanket up to his chin, like I did every night, and said “I love you little boy … my sweet son. Oh, how I love you.” I cried a father’s tears … and until that moment I had tasted no deeper tears. I had never known so great a sorrow as to say goodbye to my child. Sweet Mitch trusted that I could keep him safe from harm. He thought there wasn't anything I couldn't do. When he looked at me he saw superman. When I looked in the mirror I saw a broken man. But I tried. God knows how hard I tried. But I was only human.

Months later, my oldest son, Ethan, came into my office while I was writing an entry for Mitchell’s Journey. I was unprepared for the interruption and my eyes were red and filled with tears. Ethan asked, “Dad, are you okay?” I immediately tried to be superman and put on a brave face, wiping my eyes and said, “Yeah, I’m okay” … as if to suggest all was well and that I was simply rubbing my tired eyes. But Ethan was discerning and knew better: I could tell by his expression he knew I was grieving. 

In that moment I thought to myself, “What good do I do my children when I pretend?” I realized I do him no favors when I am not being real. I paused a moment then looked Ethan in the eye and said, “Actually, I’m not okay. But I’m okay. Do you know what I mean?” Relief washed over his face and I could tell he not only understood but that he was glad I was being real … as if it gave him permission to be real, too. I wanted my son to know that it is okay to hurt … that you can be “okay” but “not okay” and that’s okay.

Ethan and I talked about Mitch for a while and he shared some of his sorrows about losing his younger brother. We both cried together. I hugged Ethan and let him know how much I loved him – every bit as much. We crossed a threshold with grief that day. My son knew it was okay to hurt and that pretending otherwise serves nobody, not even ourselves. To the contrary, we do a great disservice when we pretend. 

I had a moment of truth a few years prior when I read the words of an 18th Century French writer who observed, “We discover in ourselves what others hide from us, and we recognize in others what we hide from ourselves.” When I read those words I vowed to retire my masks and get real. 

I've tried to have similar exchanges with my other kids. My children, each unique, process their grief differently. And that’s okay, too. In all things I want to be real with them – for it is when we’re real that we become equipped to deal with real life.

I am still walking on Jupiter where the gravity of grief is great. The air is thin and my tears fall as generously as spring rains. Yes, I have moments of sweet relief and happiness is returning – but grief and sorrow linger. I cannot run from sorrow any more than I can run from my shadow on a sunny day. I must learn to live with love and sorrow – there seems no other way. 

I’m okay … but I’m not okay … and that’s okay. That is part of being human.

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(Re-post from April 1, 2014)
As a general rule, I try to limit re-posting content but I have received a lot of requests from people to see this particular post again. Since I originally posted this story last April, almost 22 million people have seen it. To my surprise, the original post continues to get comments and shares daily – which thing I never supposed, not even in my wildest imagination. So, I share this again, not because I am stuck in grief, but because I know somewhere out there are a great many people who hurt and want to know if it’s okay to not be okay.

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As the mortuary employees rolled my son to their truck I began to panic. 

I had just spoken with Mitch about 24 hours earlier and I was confused how he could be gone so quickly. Though my mind knew better, my heart worried about my little boy being alone and scared in the back of their vehicle. After all, these people were strangers to Mitch and to me. They were taking my little twin away and I prayed to God that He would take my life that very moment if it meant my son might wake and live. I even prayed that I might suffer greatly, even to be thrown into the depths of hell itself, if that were the price required so my son might come back to life. 

“Though I have stumbled, blinded by the pitch of night, my Father taught me to look heavenward for those little flecks of light. Those tender mercies that show me we are not alone – but instead, guided hands unseen down paths unknown.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

This was the same patio upon which Mitch and I sat many summer evenings and watched storms roll across the valley. The same place Mitch would tuck himself under my arm and watch the sun set while eating Popsicles. This was the same place he cuddled with his mom as she rocked him and faithfully read children’s books. This view, once a place of peace and beauty, had suddenly become horrifying beyond all description. 
 

Had Mitch not passed away that morning, he would have awakened within hours of this photo and dutifully gone about his chores without ever being asked or reminded. Afterward, he would have wanted to play Minecraft and have Nerf gun wars and maybe work on a Lego project for a while. Mitch would have wanted to cuddle and talk, draw pictures and play with friends. He would have continued to be a quiet little boy who loved his life and loved his family. 

The sun was beginning to rise as they rolled little Mitch away … and though night was retreating from the morning sun, the true darkness of grief was yet upon us. My mind became a kaleidoscope of terrifying thoughts and emotions. 

I wept so hard that morning I thought I broke a rib. 

For the next two years, almost daily, I would experience moments of horrific grief so deep I would wish for death. A great many of my earlier entries on Mitchell’s Journey, just after his passing, were born of deep sorrow and a longing to make sense of suffering. Peace would come and go like the tide. Sometimes after thundering waves of grief would thrash me about I would feel moments of sweet relief. Despite those moments of peace, the waves of grief kept coming and getting stronger. I didn't realize those waves were but a prelude to the super-storms of sorrow I would soon experience. For a season, grief grew deeper, longer and darker than I had a mind to imagine.

That’s what spectators to grief often misunderstand. They think the hard part is passed after our children die. What they don’t realize is the aftermath of loss is infinitely more difficult than everything leading up to and including death itself. Combined. You can write those words down in permanent marker. That was the easy stuff. The hard stuff doesn't come days or weeks after the passing of a child … but months and years later. 

So, as I watched this horror show before my eyes I wondered if the night in my heart would ever give way to lighter days. Such a thing seemed like a dream, a universe away.

I am just entering my third year of grief and I have three words to say about tidal waves and darkness: it will pass. I know this because I have experienced it.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not done with grief. Rather, grief isn't done with me. I am still healing and probably always will. In fact, just the other day I got in my car and out of nowhere I started gasping for air, afraid I might suffocate as I wept for my son. Those unexpected moments of grief come crashing down on me like a tidal wave and I have just learned to let it happen – because I have discovered those moments pass, too.

I have discovered happiness again. Not the illusion of happiness, but real, actual happiness. It isn't found in denial. It isn't found in things. It is found in discovering purpose and meaning. Though I ache deeply for my son, and grieve for him daily, I think I’m beginning to understand a little about why Mitch had to suffer the way he did. 

Though I have found happiness and am grateful for increasingly longer moments of peace and tranquility, I know enough about my own grief journey to realize there are storms of sorrow yet ahead. There will be tidal waves of grief the likes of which I cannot describe … I only know how soul crushing they feel. 

To those who are just beginning their journey with grief; I promise you, as impossible as it sounds … the pain will ease and you’ll begin to find peace. Though I have stumbled, blinded by the pitch of night, my Father taught me to look heavenward for those little flecks of light. Those tender mercies that show me we are not alone – but instead, guided hands unseen down paths unknown.

To my dear friends here who wander, deep in the shadows of death and sorrow, I promise you the sun will rise again on some tomorrow.

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Our annual Mitchell's Journey charity run is in two weeks; I can't believe how fast time goes by.

If you plan on running virtually and want to get your run shirt on time, you will need to register before midnight, April 14th, 2015 (tomorrow). 

Here is a link to purchase the shirt: https://www.raceentry.com/races/miles-for-mitchell/2015/shopping

To join our virtual run:
https://www.raceentry.com/races/miles-for-mitchell/2015/register

We will still accept virtual registrations and shirt orders - but we will not be able to guarantee you'll get them on time the closer we get to the day of the run. We just want to be sure those who want them for our global run get them in time.

I'll post a world map of all the places around the world we have people running (or walking) in honor of little Mitch. Also, I have posted some goals Miles for Mitchell here: http://tinyurl.com/mtj84pb

I am so grateful for our Miles for Mitchell committee who has volunteered their time and talents to help this run be a success.