View fullsize

This was Mitchell’s first morning after being released from the hospital to die at home. Though in the comfort of my own home and bed, I didn't sleep well that night – I wept and I prayed for my son to be delivered from the jaws of death. If ever there were a time for hope, this was it.

As I walked into my son’s bedroom I couldn't help but notice how the morning sun shone softly through his window and warmed the color of everything … as if to promise that not all of life is dark and there is cause for hope. 

“For if we, being human, can love our children so intensely, how much more might He love us? I can scarcely imagine. I can scarcely take it in.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

I asked Mitch how he slept and he said in a soft voice “I slept great, Dad.” He was home – and that is where he loved to be. Until this moment I had never considered it possible to be in both heaven and hell at the same time. Yet there I was, in the middle of both… a beautiful agony.

Mitch was tired and weak so I helped him sit up while Marlie was still in his arms. She looked at him for a moment and then gave him a soft kiss. Mitch smiled and hugged his puppy close to his face. He loved having his own baby dog. Marlie had a mission of mercy to perform and for whatever reason she seemed to forget she was a puppy whenever she was near Mitch. This little dog that was no more than 3 months old gave my son much comfort. 

I’ll never forget, despite my profound sorrow, the feelings of hope and peace I felt this day – and many days thereafter. Reflecting back on our time with my son on hospice I have come to understand those moments of peace weren't a promise of deliverance from hardship, but a faint whisper … a spiritual glimpse that all was as it was meant to be and that there were greater forces at work than I knew. So I learned to put faith in that.

I learned early in my life it is not reasonable to hope for a life free of hardship and sorrow. I cannot hope to be the only human exception, exempt from the sorrows of this life. But I can hope the tempest of sorrow and grief in my heart will one day calm. I can hope to find meaning, to search for understanding and experience growth. Those things are eternal and the things for which we can truly hope.

I also hope to see my son again one day. When I do, I will run at reckless speeds to hug him. I will wet his face and his neck with my tears and I will tell him how much I love him. And perhaps, when I turn around I might see the Father of my soul do the same to me. 

I hope. 

For if we, being human, can love our children so intensely, how much more might He love us? I can scarcely imagine. I can scarcely take it in.

View fullsize

When my wife and I learned we were expecting our first child I remember being excited at first, then shocked and terrified. In my mind and heart I thought “I’m just a boy myself … how can I possibly be qualified to raise a child?” I was sober and shaken. Having come from a large family, I always wanted children of my own – but I was in my early 20’s and wasn't sure I was mature enough to take on the most important job I will ever have in this life: to raise a child. 

But that fear only lasted about 5 minutes. Maybe 15. 

With each child in the delivery room I became more emotional because I knew that tiny baby swaddled in cloth, eyes barely open and breathing for the first time, would teach me about love and sacrifice and what it means to be a father and a child. By the time we had our youngest son, Wyatt, I wept in the delivery room because I knew what I was in for … and my heart was overflowing with love, gratitude and anticipation. 

This Thanksgiving our kitchen table will have one less person seated there. Mitch always wanted to sit by me, and I always wanted to sit by him. He always reached over to hold my hand while we ate and that melted my heart. His absence will be profoundly felt. I know I will smile … and I know I will cry. But most of all, I will be grateful. I will thank my God for all that I once had, all that I still have, and all that I will yet have. 

This image is so special to me because it is the second-to-last family portrait we have. The last was taken just before Mitch passed away; and that photo is even more sacred. Though both images tug tenderly at my broken heart, they remind me I have much to be thankful for. They remind me of life’s greatest treasure.

And one day, when I see my son again, my gratitude will be so great there won’t be room enough in the universe to contain it.

View fullsize

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. 

“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. ”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

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.

View fullsize

About a week after my son passed away I walked into his room and found his faithful puppy Marlie sleeping at the foot of his bed waiting for him. Upon seeing this I immediately fell to my knees and began to sob. Although my vision was blurred by tears I eventually noticed the white rose on his pillow that was left by the mortuary when they came to take my son away. It hit me in a way it hadn't before … my sweet son was gone. Really gone. The weight of grief was so profound at this moment that breathing was nearly impossible and in many ways death for me would have been a sweet release. Of course, I know better but the aching in my heart was visceral and brute. 

Last weekend, eight months later, we watched a Primary program from the children in my church. It was beautiful and my heart was filled with gratitude for the women who volunteered their time and talents to create such a special occasion for parents to see their little ones shine. I kept my eye trained on Wyatt and I was so proud of him. I tried to stay focused on my youngest boy and I smiled and winked at him often. I wanted him to know he was loved. But at some point during the program my eyes scanned the landscape of young faces and I saw Mitchell’s classmates and best friends. Once again I was overwhelmed with the harsh reality my sweet son is gone. Really gone. As I watched these children sing my heart fell to the floor and was trampled by a stampede of brutal emotions. I did everything I could to keep from weeping and I almost lost it 1,000 times. Every second was a battle to remain composed. As beautiful as that program was, it was a very difficult day because a very special boy was gone.

Today Mitchell’s room remains relatively untouched. On his wall hangs a Halo calendar with February still on display. His drawers are filled his treasures just as he left them; Cub Scout advancements waiting to be sewn to his uniform, his favorite candy, unfinished Lego projects, a closet filled with things he treasured. Behind his door, hanging from a coat hook, is his backpack with January homework assignments he worked diligently to complete. On his bedpost are two of my hats he wanted to wear while he was home on hospice, which I gladly gave him and adjusted them to his head so they would fit properly. The deep sentimentalist inside me doesn't think I can wear them again. 

When we eat meals as a family we often don’t realize, as a matter of habit, we've set 6 places at the table until we’re seated. Five seats are occupied. One seat, visibly empty. Nobody says a word about it and we carry about our usual business of catching up with each other and enjoying conversation. We smile, laugh and talk about life today and our memories of yesterday. 

As a family we are not morose and we naturally celebrate all that is good in our lives. But, deep inside me, the father who desperately seeks after his lost son, anguishes that he is gone. 

At moments when I least expect it powerful emotions come barging into my life. And when they do, they are soul-rending and utterly heartbreaking. Like a drowning man gasps for air, I find myself at times gasping for my son in a sea of grief. Thankfully these moments are less frequent, but they are no less powerful and overwhelming.

I often hear of stereotypical fathers who never show emotion and seemingly never feel them. If there are such men in the world, sometimes in my moments of grief, I envy them. But, alas, I am not that kind of father – nor do I ever want to be – because when I love, I am me.

Since Mitchell’s passing I have had moments of peace that defy human experience. I have had some experiences that are so sacred I will never share them publicly. But I will say that I know my son lives. But he is over there. And I am here. And even though I have a spiritual understanding of things as they really are, that doesn't keep my heart from breaking. And sometimes my soul weeps. 

Love and sorrow are part of the mortal journey. Both exquisite, both dear teachers of the soul; and I will forever be their student.