As the winter sky drew dark Mitch began to fade. He didn’t need to say anything, his tired eyes said a million things at once. Natalie tenderly scooped him up in her arms and carried little Mitch to his room. My heart sank as I saw my little boy listless and drifting away. I could almost hear death violently gashing at our door … about to barge in like a terrifying home invasion to steal my son away.
Later that night I prayed to my Father, knees bruised from prayer. I prayed the words of a broken son and terrified dad in need of comfort and council, “Oh Father, how am I to do this difficult thing? I’m so afraid. My hands and soul tremble. I love my son and don’t want to see him suffer. I will take his place, if you will allow me. Please … not my son. If there is any other way … please …”
I often hear people speak of God’s grace when their children are spared suffering or sorrow. Some will say, almost in a tone of victory, “God is good. All the time.” But what happens when our children are not spared? What then? What happens when things go from bad to terribly, horribly, unimaginably wrong? Has God forsaken us? Has he left us abandoned in a wasteland of grief and sorrow? My experience tells me no. In fact, I have come to see there is a purpose to all things … and when I quiet my mind and focus my spiritual eyes, however blinded by tears, I begin to see things as they really are. That gives me hope.
The death of a child is uniquely and exquisitely painful, whatever the age. At least for me, my son’s passing at the age of 10 was a scene from my worst nightmare. As his father, Mitch saw me as the ultimate problem solver, his protector and soul mate. He was so innocent and believing and good. Yet, despite all that we tried to do, I was unable to save my son. With that harsh reality comes unavoidable feelings of failure and regret, despite what I already know. Such is the burden of grief. And a terrible burden it is.
Though the path that lay before us was dark and frightening, I also know my Father put a dim lamp before our feet so we could find our way. We knew we were not alone. Despite our journey through the dark wilderness of grief, we have come to realize were not abandoned. Not once. To the contrary, in our moments of greatest darkness we were carried, sight unseen. I can see that now. I can see it plain as noon day.
I don’t know the secrets of heaven, however much I wish to see and understand them. I don’t know why innocent children are made to suffer. But they are … and they do. God could stop it, but He doesn’t. Clearly suffering is allowed to happen. So, rather than shake my fists at the heavens – as though my puny protests could change the grand design … I have learned to listen with my soul and see where I was once blind.
I have learned that bruised knees and broken hearts are important keys to building our spiritual parts. Being human we would avoid pain and sorrow … but that is where growth starts: bruised knees and broken hearts.
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 exactly he was going, 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.”
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.
“This life is a heavenly classroom, clothed in mortal cares ... where we learn to trust in heaven while carrying hardships from here to there. ”
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 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 “Miss 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.
"Be nice to each other and be glad you're alive. Nothing else matters."
~ Mitchell Dee Jones
I never imagined a day I wouldn’t weep to the point of exhaustion. For two years after my son passed away, I wept like a child in my closet and in my secret places. Sometimes I couldn’t contain myself and I would cry even in public places. But I wept. Every single day, I wept. “Will grief ever end? I am so tired from sorrow. When will relief come?” I thought to myself in moments of deep despair.
I have come to learn an immutable truth: grief will last so long as love lasts. The moment I stop loving will be the moment I stop hurting. But that will never happen – for I love little Mitch, even to infinity. So, I accept that sorrow will be my companion the remainder of my mortal life. There is no escaping it. I will not run from grief … instead I will try to learn from it.
“Somehow, after passing through veils of sorrow and the shadows of death, there is light on the other side.”
So far, grief has taught me to enjoy the moment, for we will never have now again. Grief has turned my life upside down, but right-side up – for my priorities are so very different. It has taught me to love more deeply and witness first-hand the supernal doctrine of mourning with those that mourn. I have experienced the healing powers of empathy from others and seen the destructive effects when there is none. Grief, while hellish and painful, has been a tender teacher – and for that I am grateful.
I have found the process of writing out my sorrows, in my journal and here on Mitchell’s Journey, a helpful tool in my grief journey. I’m sure on some level it has helped release building pressure that might otherwise have become bottled up grief. But I have discovered more in writing that just releasing emotional pressure. It has helped me learn and process the things I hold most dear to my heart. Author Joseph Joubert once observed, “Writing is closer to thinking than speaking.” I believe he is right. Writing down my thoughts has helped me sort through my sorrows, to provide context and meaning to suffering, and to see with my spiritual eyes.
This is what it looks like when I write. A blank sheet of paper and a photo. I never write without asking my Father in prayer, “What am I to learn from this? I’m listening.” From there I go on a journey back in time to these moments I hold sacred and dear to me. My memories are vivid and almost tangible … both a blessing and a curse for a heart that longs to love as it once did. I always cry when I write. Sometimes I weep. On occasion, I weep deeper than deep. But somehow, after passing through veils of sorrow and the shadows of death, there is light on the other side. I hear my Father’s voice, however quietly, and I know we’re not alone. I then thank my Father for teaching me something my weary heart needed to know.
Hearing my loving Father’s voice teach my broken soul, no matter how undeserving I may feel at times, gives me hope that perhaps tomorrow, or someday, things may not be so heavy as they seem today. Already I see a difference from yesterday. And with each step toward healing my hope grows. Even now I look at my tender, yet healing heart and hope grows.