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Just a few days before my son went into end-stage heart failure I sat on the edge of his bed and talked about what he wanted to do for the summer. It was the end of January and the winter air chilled us to the bone, so we stayed inside and took a little comfort dreaming of warmer days ahead. At the time of this photo, he was hanging by a thread and a pebble … hours away from tumbling into the abyss. I knew my son was in trouble but I didn't know he would die in a few short weeks. I thought we had more time; but then again, everyone does.

Mitch lifted his faithful puppy into his arms then told me he wanted to work for his grandmother at the ranch. Although he was still too young to work there he was anxious to take on more responsibility and earn some money. At 10 years old, Mitch was already saving up for a home and wanted to be sure he could take care of his future wife and family. I was surprised how often this young boy talked of being a husband and dad one day. Mitch had big plans for the future and was already taking strides to get there. Yet, even under the best of circumstances Mitch wouldn't have seen such days and I was pained to carry that secret in my heart. Death was coming for my son, no matter what.

I knew in my mind by the time Mitch would have been old enough to work at the ranch (about the age of 12-13, or two years from the time of this photo) his muscle wasting would have already reached a point he wouldn't be able to use his arms, let alone walk. From there, it would only be a matter of time before he could no longer breathe on his own. Such is the uncompromising burden of Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy. It is brutal and spares no one.

So, as I sat on the edge of my son’s bed listening to the desires of his heart, my soul ached for him. As his father, I wanted only for his happiness and wellbeing. Though I knew I couldn't save him from DMD, I knew that I could love and care for him as long as I had him. 

Mitch often spoke to me through his eyes and he did just that on this occasion. I remember being taken aback because his eyes spoke deeply to me this day … it was almost as if he knew the end was near and he wanted me to know that he sensed it. 

Though we had great oral conversations, Mitch spoke to me in ways that transcended the spoken word. I have many, many photos where Mitch isn't just looking at me, he is speaking to me. What’s more, I found I could be across the room and see a look in his eyes and intuitively know just what he needed or was thinking. The same was true of him toward me. I always considered it a tender mercy to talk to my son that way.

I once heard a saying that changed the way I thought about communication. It reads, “Among the more meaningful and honest aspects of communication is hearing what is not said aloud.” I believe there is great truth to this. Perhaps it’s when we’re not listening to the conversation within the conversation, when we ignore breadcrumbs or don’t read between the lines … it is then that we get ourselves in trouble; in relationships, in business and in life. 

Mitch trained me how to hear what is not said aloud; that hearing the inaudible is not only the language of relationships but also the soul.

I hope and pray that I will have ears to hear … everything.

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A few weeks ago we received a package in the mail from a Mitchell’s Journey follower who, over the months, has also become a friend of our family. Because Father’s Day was around the corner my wife wanted to wait and open it on that day in honor of our little boy. I am glad we did.

“Sometimes in our sorrows the child in our heart cries out, “Oh Dad, why did you break me?” Then a loving whisper, if we listen, “I’m not breaking you dear child, I’m shaping you.””

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

As we opened the package we discovered a beautiful stained glass ball about the size of a basketball. Carefully placed in the same shipping box were other small tokens of love from their family to my wife and kids. Little pieces of crumpled purple packing paper, like decorations, were scattered about as if to say they cared enough to remember one of our son’s favorite colors. Everything about their gift was a symbol of love. We were deeply touched.

That evening I asked Natalie to help me take a photo of the gift with the sun setting in the backdrop. I was so drawn to the stained glass ball. It was beautiful and reminded me of something Elisabeth Kubler-Ross wrote, “People are like stained-glass windows. They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in, their true beauty is revealed only if there is a light from within.” 

I hope to always have a light from within – to never let discouragement and pain darken my heart and dampen the light of faith. For true faith is a candle in the darkness and illuminates sights unseen. 

Maybe she was on to something … perhaps our lives aren’t all that different from that of stained glass. Being mortal, we are fragile and break; only, we don’t always get to decide how and where we break. Sometimes that is the craft of the Master Artisan. We can, however, have a hand in how we put ourselves back together again. 

Though I would rather be unbroken, with my son still in my arms, I can’t help but sense what is coming together after all my brokenness may be better off than the person I was once becoming. Each day I slowly, carefully, and sometimes painfully put the pieces of my heart back together the best I know how. Though pained and broken, wanting badly for my son, I can see the hand of God and sense the shape of things to come. 

Don’t get me wrong; the death of my son has broken my soul. My heart is tender and bleeds … it isn't the same as it once was and I’m not sure it will ever be. What I thought a medley of shattered glass and broken dreams is in reality altogether different than what I think I see. Each piece, though agonizingly broken is colored by the deepest hues of love. A beautiful mosaic forged of pain … a heavenly arrangement from my Father above.

Sometimes in our sorrows the child in our heart cries out, “Oh Dad, why did you break me?” Then a loving whisper, if we listen, “I’m not breaking you dear child, I’m shaping you.”

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During his final days there were times I couldn't tell whether I was talking to my 10 year old son or a soul that was older than the universe itself. I saw it with my own eyes and felt it in the depths of my soul; something significant was happening. Although my young son was dying, his true identity was emerging and I sensed he was much older than I knew. I realized death wasn't the end ... but it was a painful goodbye, even if for now. Reunion may as well be forever away. For my heart aches and yearns to have him back with me – the way he used to be. That is grief.

As death inched closer the veil between this place and over there became increasingly thin. Those who came to visit said they felt a strong presence in our home. Natalie and I didn't always feel what they felt – we were probably too close to recognize it. Perhaps, also, we were in too much pain. Yet, in our closeness to this sorrow, we saw things others couldn't. Some things I will never share, for they are too sacred. Sometimes I wonder what it would look like were we allowed to see all that is truly happening. Perhaps we might be startled to see all the hands unseen that carry us in ways we do not now appreciate or feel.

There was a point when Mitch asked me, “Dad, is there any other way?” I held my son quietly and I wept. Countless were the nights I begged God for a way out. I pleaded for mercy. I begged for my son. As his father I would have traded places with him without a moment’s thought. I asked God, “Is there any other way?” As I tried to listen to my Father, I was reminded of another One who asked for a bitter cup to pass. Not even He was spared.

There is a saying that reads, “Most people wish to serve God – but only in an advisory capacity.” How oft have I been tempted to think my finite mind knows better than my infinite Father’s? So many times my heart cried out, “Please, not this. Anything but this.” I begged God for another way as though I might devise a better plan. Yet I know I cannot see what He sees … and I am reminded we are not mortal beings having a spiritual experience, but “spiritual beings having a mortal experience.” (Pierre Teilhard de Chardin) 

I don’t know much. But what I do know is this mortal life is a place to learn and grow under the tutelage of a Divine Teacher; a place where we learn how to see in the dark and hear the voice of God in our own wilderness. I can see that now. I understand there is no other way.

Yet, here I am talking of pain and suffering as a divine tutor … and I find myself on my knees, drenched in tears, begging for relief, scarcely able to bear the weight of this sorrow. Then a whisper, “There is no other way. Be patient, my son, for you will see more tomorrow.”

There is no other way.

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There was never a sunset, animal, or any sight of nature Mitch didn't look upon with wonder. He admired the smallest insects and biggest animals … he loved weather and sunscapes and everything in between. To him the world was one giant zoo, and he, with watchful eyes was just passing through. Surely he loved video games and electronics, but he loved all that nature had to offer even more. If ever our Creator had a fan, Mitch was His super-fan. 

I took this photo on Mitchell’s Make-A-Wish trip. He stood mesmerized as he watched the dolphins glide through the water like a gentle bird that had taken flight. As Mitch leaned against the glass and watched them slip gracefully through the deep blue, I think part of him wished he could be like them and move about with ease. For Mitch moving was difficult. 

What Mitch lacked in physical strength, he more than compensated in other ways. Aside from a tender heart and discerning eyes, Mitch was filled with wonderment. I believe that is a spiritual gift, too. 

Little Mitch learned to see and appreciate what so many overlook as ordinary or unremarkable. Soon I will share a story about a sunrise he wanted me to see; he was so sweet, so fascinated, so in love with the world. 

I always thought of life as being like a river; that the choices we make and their consequences we send downstream. We are, after all, at least in some degree, a product of the generations that preceded us. For some, they corrupt and pollute their stream and contaminate all that follow them. Others are custodians of humanity and goodness- ever keeping their waters clean. Still, others are stewards of the future and send seeds and nourishment to those that follow. But I have discovered, with great wonderment of my own, my children have passed things upstream, too. They teach me lessons that are just as life-altering and every bit as valuable as anything I would hope to share with them.

My little son has given me pause so many times; he has taught me to live my life with wonderment and my life is all the richer because of it. 

My theology teaches me that everything denotes there is a God – indeed, from the subatomic to the cosmic, there is much to look upon with wonderment. But alas, the greatest of all God’s creations are the souls that walk this earth: His children. I have been blessed to raise 4 of His children – and my sense of love and wonder over those creations leave me speechless and humbled to my core. 

Before we started a family I thought I understood the depths of love. It wasn't until I had my own children I sensed I had merely been frolicking in a splash park. My wife and children have taken my love to deeper waters; even still I sense I am swimming in the shallow-end and that the waters of love … waters of the soul … are deeper still. I find the more I live the deeper I love. In fact, the more I contemplate love I sense the waters of life and love spring eternal and there is no end to its depths. 

I will live out the remainder of my days in awe over the mysteries of life and death and that place beyond the hills. I will be forever thankful for that gift of wonderment my son passed upstream. The gift to see with awe and wonder, to see what goes unseen.