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I took this photo yesterday of two tender souls; two sweet girls who came together because of one sweet little boy. 

Natalie was never big on dogs – that is until she met Marlie and saw what she did for Mitch. It seems that Marlie’s first heaven-sent mission was to comfort our dying boy – which she did in the tenderest of ways. Now she lifts our heavy hearts – which she does in so many ways. 

Today my eyes are filled with a curious blend of tears. Some are born of sorrow, the sting of death and many stolen years. While others come from a warmer place, a place of love and joy. I shed tears of gratitude, for I had my little boy.

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I stumbled across this photo recently and was swept back to this very moment my weary son leaned into my arm – like he so often did. For a moment I forgot about our troubles. Everything seemed normal and dreamlike. I couldn't believe it … it was all a bad dream. That was until I saw the cables coming from Mitchell’s arm … cables that reminded me my dream was in reality my worst nightmare. 

Baby Marlie, ever the faithful comforter, sat patiently and lovingly on Mitchell’s lap. I was in the presence of two tender beings that were meant to be together – even if only in passing. 

At that moment I couldn't help but think these two little ones were fellow travelers on their sojourn through life: one sick little boy about to die and would travel to that place beyond the hills, and a newborn puppy who had just arrived. They were unaware they were passing each other in opposite directions, but for a moment they gave each other comfort and I thank God for that. Although I experienced the absolute horror of losing my son, I witnessed a tender mercy for which I will be forever grateful.

Since my son’s passing I can’t help but think we are all travelers: some travel the straight and narrow, others take crooked paths, while others get lost in the wilderness. Some go nowhere. There is a saying, “Beware the man or woman who boasts 20 years’ experience, when it is the same year repeated 20 times.” I hope I’m always travelling forward – never backward or in circles. Still among the travelers are those few of whom M. Scott Peck wrote, that take the “road less traveled.” Whatever journey we find ourselves, we are travelers just the same. Sometimes we are weary travelers. 

I have discovered on my own journey the work of grief is the hardest work I have ever known. It is emotionally catastrophic and everything is a wasteland. In truth, there are some days night can’t come soon enough. For my pillow beckons me and offers rest and escape from the sorrows that weigh heavy on my mind and heart. There are many nights long after everyone has fallen asleep, I wet my pillow with my tears. Tears for my son. Tears for my broken-hearted wife … and tears for my children who miss their brother with all of their hearts. 

As a traveler who stumbles on a broken road I find myself weary and very much in need of rest. I don’t rest to run from my troubles. I rest to re-calibrate. I learned years ago we cannot run from our troubles, at least not for long. At some point, if we don’t work through them, our troubles will multiply. Rest we must. But work we must do, also.

A few years ago I learned baby chicks about to hatch must break through their shell on their own. Any attempt to break the shell for them, trying to make their life easier, is not only counterproductive but often fatal. The very act of their struggle gives them the necessary exercise to build strength so they can survive on the outside. What’s more, the time it takes to break free is also vital for their bodies to adjust to their new life. If done hastily, if they are robbed of their struggle, they often die.

Like those baby chicks who struggle to break through, at some point I will come out on the other side of this stronger. While I might be tempted to pray to God for relief … that He might make things easier, I know better. Instead I pray that He gives me strength equal to the task - for it is in the struggle we are made stronger. 

I am a weary traveler on a broken road. I don’t feel strong. I often collapse. But like those baby chicks that are destined for a life on the other side of struggle, I will fight on. God willing, I will fight on.

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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.

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It was January. The air was bitter cold and the clouds lay low, thick as London fog. Up the driveway walked loving grandparents to deliver a special gift to lift the heart of a young boy who was very, very sick. We thought we had a little more time with Mitch but the hour was later than we imagined. In retrospect the timing of this little gift was more than a puppy, it was a tender mercy. Over the next few weeks this little girl would perform a very special role in helping calm the heart of my dying son – and would be by his side to comfort him as he passed away. 

After Mitch was denied a heart transplant in November we started searching for a puppy because he always wanted one to call his own. We wanted our son to be happy with whatever time he had left and we felt this was one way to bring comfort to him. My wife and I explored every lead and looked in every corner, each time returning empty-handed. Then, one afternoon we got a call from Natalie’s father who said he found one. We were unaware that he had diligently been searching, too. He also felt moved upon to do something for him. We were so excited for Mitch and we were so very grateful.

Mitch was in our basement playing a video game unaware the gift he would soon receive. I ran outside to greet my in-laws and take photos of everything that would follow. As my father-in-law opened the box to give me a peek my heart leapt from my chest and sprouted wings. I fought back tears because I knew what this would mean to my sweet son. 

I’ll never forget the feelings I had when I first laid eyes on this furry little snowflake. Inside an old cardboard box was timid, sweet and loving little puppy. Carefully placed next to her was a Ziploc bag with handwritten instructions and some puppy food. She was also sent away with a knotted cloth that had her mother’s scent to comfort this sweet little girl as she stepped into a new and unfamiliar world. This old man and this young puppy were on a mission of mercy.

In every way, she was perfect. Just as sweet and shy as our little Mitchie, they felt like familiar souls. It was as if they were meant for each other.

I posted this video of their first meeting: https://vimeo.com/58228257 

Every time I watch that video I feel a spectrum of emotions. One of my favorite parts is seen at 1:40 when you see Mitchell’s grandfather smiling as Mitch loved his new little friend. That image is heavenly to me. It shows the satisfaction one gains from heart-felt service and seeing joy in another. I can only imagine the face of our Father when he sees us being good and kind to each other.

Within minutes of meeting his little friend Mitch would name her Marlie and they went from strangers to soul mates almost instantly. Through her body language Marlie seemed to figure out quickly that Mitch was very, very sick. She seemed to know what we didn't know … couldn't know, at the time. Whenever she wobbled near my son she would lay softly next to him as if to comfort him. She almost never left his side. 

This winter I will sit by my fireplace with my wife and other children with gratitude in my heart. They are all gifts to me and I treasure them. Although I am grateful for them, I will ever long for the warmth of my fallen son. And whenever I’m tempted to think the world as unforgiving and cold, when the fog of sorrow descends upon me and the pains of grief limit my view … I will remember this special delivery … this gift from a loving Heavenly & Earthly Father who worked together to bless the life of my son. And that warms my heart and soul.