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I remember this moment as if it happened yesterday. 

It was November 9th, 2012. We had just left the hospital and we were faced with the mounting reality things were not going well for our son. Sensing things were deeper and more perilous than we knew, I asked our cardiologist that day at what point Mitchell’s condition was beyond his experience. He paused, thought a moment, and then said he was on the very edge. We asked that his case be handed over to the transplant team for consideration – and we were scheduled to meet with them two weeks later. Knowing my son’s diagnosis would was almost a non-starter we gave it our best shot anyway; we had high hopes, but low expectations. Mitchell was denied.

As we drove home that evening the sun’s warmth flickered like a candle against the cold November wind. Any glimmer of hope or a way out seemed to set with the sun. Everything was getting darker and I sensed we would soon face some cold realities regarding our son. As we left the parking lot I remember looking to my wife who had a look of controlled panic and deep concern. This was the day we first walked on Jupiter. Everything seemed heavier … the sky was strange, the air was thin … everything was alien. By the time we arrived home the sun hid its glimmer behind the hills and the sky seemed especially dark – as did the sorrow in our hearts. 

“... on that day I journey to that place beyond the hills, that place my son lives, that place I now long to be – I will see with new eyes there was always light … only light I could not see.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

We prayed a lot that night and every night thereafter. We earnestly sought a way out. Hardship and darkness came to us despite our heavenward pleas. As Mitchell’s health deteriorated the days grew darker still until the night my beautiful boy passed away - when nightfall had truly come and everything was darkest. I will post that essay “Nightfall” another time. 

Perhaps the more tempting and punishing aspect of grief is looking back and entertaining the endless, taunting list of “what ifs?” That unreasonable list of things you could have done or should have done … where everything seems obvious under the light of hindsight. But that list of “what if” is counterfeit. 

I have a colleague with whom I work who often makes reference to Einstein’s “circumference of darkness.” Einstein puts the case boldly that as our knowledge expands, so does the circumference of darkness that surrounds it. What’s more, my colleague wisely points out, when exploring new territory “we don’t know what we don’t know.” Such was the case for my wife and me as we stumbled and fumbled and did our very best to love and care for our son. 

Even still, I look at photos of my son last year at this time and it feels like yesterday … yet at the same time a world away. I want to jump into those photos, back in time, and hold my son like I never have and look him in the eye and tell him how much I love him. I would have drunk the moments in more deeply and I wouldn't have wasted a second. That is what I tell myself. Yet today, being human, I still waste my seconds and opportunities pass me by. But I try. God knows how much I try. And that list of “what ifs”, however counterfeit and scattered with lies, remains glossy and deceptively wise. 

But I know better. We were true. We did the best we could and all we knew to do.

At some point during my struggle of the soul, when everything seemed darkest, I felt a spark of light … a flash of insight that came rushing to my mind. It occurred to me that God almost never delivers us from our sorrows, but He will deliver us through them and we will be all the better because of it. I began to wonder how often, because suffering doesn't always ease, we confuse God for not listening to our prayers when in reality we’re the ones not listening to Him. Neither do we look. Sometimes it is dark only because we close our eyes. 

Finding light in dark places; it is easy to say from the sidelines and sometimes it’s bewildering to do. But I have learned in darkness that God is there beside us, it's true. And on that day I journey to that place beyond the hills, that place my son lives, that place I now long to be – I will see with new eyes there was always light … only light I could not see.

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On December 24th, just as we were about to spend time at home as a family we delivered some gifts and quilts to Primary Children’s Hospital CICU (the same place that cared for our little boy). Nobody has cardiac failure on their schedule so you almost always end up unprepared to stay there. With that in mind we took some quilts that were donated to Mitchell's Journey and other gifts we gathered along with messages of hope to give to some of the families that found themselves there Christmas Eve. 

We would like to involve as many Mitchell’s Journey followers as are interested next year and try to bless as many lives as humanly possible. 

These quilts were donated by loving hands and hearts from Pipestone Minnesota. A follower of Mitchell’s Journey, Nichole Rieck, who has since become a dear friend to our family mobilized people in her community to help Mitchell’s Journey last spring and the echo of that effort continued on this day as these quilts found a home and tender hearts to comfort. A few of these quilts were made by Mavis Holt, an 87-year-old woman, who hand sewed the most intricate works of warmth and art. Karla Whipple, also from Pipestone, Nichole, and others generously made beautiful quilts and donated them in hopes that it might help. 

Our greatest desire was that those who found themselves away from the comfort of home and the flickering light of a fireplace but instead lay under the flashing lights of monitors and endless beeps found a little comfort that night.

As we parked the car and walked to the hospital I found myself struggling to breathe. For a moment it was hard to go back there. Part of me wanted to run down the hall in desperate search of my son. My knees were weak and my heart was racing as my eyes began to swell. Even though it has been almost a year, it felt like we were just there a few days ago. But as we walked toward the building and I saw my wife and kids cheerful and anxious to help others, my tears turned from sorrow to love and appreciation. Suddenly my heart, which moments ago, was heavy as lead became light as snow. 

I don’t know many things, but what I do know is our sorrows can be swallowed up in the service of others. The moment we set aside our own hurts to lift someone else, who also hurts, both burdens are made light.

Be the spark: https://vimeo.com/81345868

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Last Christmas Mitch had two Secret Santa’s that each did a variation on the 12-days of Christmas. This daily act of love was performed by two caring neighborhood families, who to this day have remained anonymous. I was humbled how they went out of their way to give Mitch a lift and offer a glimpse of hope and happiness to a little boy who was very sick and parents whose hearts trembled with fear. 

Each evening at our door sat two separate gifts addressed to our son with a thoughtful note and gift from the heart. I hesitate showing one photo (as seen here) because I don’t want either of these families to think their gifts were any less valued. The truth was, each night as Natalie and I went to bed we wept tears of gratitude for both of them and we prayed that whoever was responsible for being so good to our son would be blessed 100-fold.

When I look back on my photos of December & January of last winter I am shocked sometimes to see how sick our son looked. Every day Mitch was getting sicker and weaker - but as I saw his reaction to these Secret Santa gifts he would bounce back a little and find new energy. Mitch loved the surprise but he loved the thoughtfulness even more so. Upon seeing these anonymous acts of love toward my son it occurred to me a thoughtful gift is a gift twice. 

My sweet wife, ever the thoughtful giver, has also shown me over the years by her own quiet example that gifts can be the instruments of our affection … a way of saying “I understand you” or “I care.” In the end, the gifts that last [the ones with the greatest impact] are never really about the objects we give each other but instead are found in the meaning behind them. A thoughtful gift is a gift twice.

I hope those who gave our son the gift of love and care last year know how much that meant to us – but even more, what it did for little Mitch. The photo on the right was Mitch last Christmas Eve as we were eating his favorite dinner. Mitch asked me in a quiet voice, “Dad, do you know who’s giving me those gifts?” I told him I didn't know but that I knew they loved him – else they wouldn't have been so kind. He smiled softly and said, “I wish I could thank them.”

In honor of my son’s wishes to thank whoever gave those gifts, I want to thank you for him and hope you know that your gifts were a gift twice. 

In fact, looking back, your gifts were a gift thrice.

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From our family to you/yours, Merry Christmas! 

I took this photo of little Mitch a few years ago at Shriners Hospital the day before Christmas during one of his regular checkups. Mitch had a countdown to Christmas app on his iPod and was always so cute to count down the days because he looked forward to giving gifts as much as receiving them. 

This afternoon we took our kids to Primary Children's Hospital and donated some things to the Cardiac Intensive Care Unit (CICU) - the same unit that took care of our son. It is always interesting that in moments of sorrow or hardship how serving others can make everything seem light. Today we have felt tremendous gratitude for all that we have been blessed with. There is no sadness today - just love and appreciation.

Our hearts are full this night.