Mitch loved shenanigans.
It was a hot summer day. Ethan was opening a present for his birthday when Mitch sneaked behind him and tried to smash a water balloon against his back. Because his arms were already weakened by DMD, Mitch struggled to lift the little water weapon above his shoulders. Lunging his body forward, Mitch hurled the balloon toward his brother with all his might and ran away giggling. I loved the sound of Mitchell’s giggle; endearing as it was contagious.
My little boy never missed an opportunity to live. I don’t mean live as in breathing – though he was very grateful to be alive. I mean to say Mitch never missed an opportunity to be in the moment … to love and laugh and drink life in the best he knew how.
Sometimes bitter ironies are the strongest teachers.
Grief is another ironic teacher. I have learned, as my friend Pat Furlong (Founder of Parent Project Muscular Dystrophy) taught me not long after Mitch passed away, that grief never really goes away. She, being no stranger to grief, told me that grief is a chronic condition: you don’t get over it, you don’t go through it … you just learn to live with it.
So, I have found grief ironic because while it has the potential to drain joy and life out of living, it has taught me to appreciate life in new and meaningful ways.
Such is the duality of grief: to be happy and sad … to be whole and broken all at once. Though I may laugh, smile and be filled with joy at any given moment, at the same time I carry the weight of grief … the weight of wanting my son back in my arms. Inside the heart of those who grief is a soul that yearns for joy and happiness, yet sorrows in what is lost. It is to be okay, but not okay … and learning to accept that’s okay.
That is learning how to live.
This Memorial Day weekend, I will honor those who fought and died so others may live. At the same time, I will also reverently honor my little boy who fought to stay alive and died ... and in so doing taught me how to live.
I remember driving to the cemetery after work one day only to find my sweet wife knelt quietly at the head of my son’s place of rest. The grass was still mending from the funeral and you could see the painful outline of where exactly he was buried. I never imagined grass could be so brutal.
“My dear wife, you precious mother … I love you more than any other. Yes, I love our children as much, too … for they came to life from me and you. But, my love, you are where it started: my heart, my life, and our son departed. My dear wife, you precious mother … because of you, Mitch was blessed above all others.”
I reverently approached my best friend but gave her space – for I saw her suffering an agony only a mother who’s lost a child can know. While I carry a father’s sorrow, which is heavier than anything I have ever known, I reverence my wife’s grief differently than my own.
Mitch had such a tender relationship with his mom. He often called her “Mommy-Lommie” as a term of endearment. He would always tell me how he thought his mother was the kindest, most beautiful lady on earth. “Don’t you just love Mommy?” Mitch would say with great feeling.
I have tender photos that I’ll share at a later time that show his sweet expression whenever Mitch was in her arms. This little boy loved his mom. And she loved him.
Mother’s day is around the corner and I can’t help but turn my heart to my dear wife. I struggle to know what I might do to show her how much I love and honor her. Everything I can think of falls short of what I feel. I know the gift she really wants I cannot give. Though I would gladly take my son’s place, I cannot. How that pains me so.
Our grief journey so far has been more complex than I ever imagined. Perhaps that is one of the reasons grief is so difficult to process … precisely because it is so complex. If it were simple, it might be easier. But it is not simple: grief is a tangled web of wanting, longing and loving something you can no longer hold. It is a briar patch of self-doubt, what if’s, and wonderings. It is the isolation of being misunderstood or simply not understood. It is learning to breathe in an emptiness that suffocates.
As difficult as it’s been, grief has also been a beautiful teacher. It has taught me how to be more compassionate and patient. It has taught me to better appreciate light – having experienced pitch darkness. Grief has taught me how to talk to my Father as a child might talk to a parent. Most beautiful of all is seeing those I love discover heavenly gems.
It wasn't long ago I was asked to speak to a group of women about the extraordinary influence they can have in the lives of others. The night before I was to speak to this group Natalie and I were talking about our journey so far. She looked me in the eyes and said, “Chris, I remember feeling betrayed and saying to God, ‘I tried to do everything you asked and THIS is what I get?’” Natalie paused a moment, with tears in her eyes she continued, “Then it occurred to me: this is my price to know God.” Tears filled my eyes and my heart filled with peace as I felt the truth of her words.
I have marveled at the transformation I have seen in my wife over the last 2 years. I can see the hand of God shaping her, tenderly and sometimes painfully, into something beautiful, not bitter. Yes, her heart is broken and tender – but it has become wiser and more caring. Through her suffering, she has come to know her Father in deeper ways.
My dear wife, you precious mother … I love you more than any other. Yes, I love our children as much, too … for they came to life from me and you. But, my love, you are where it started: my heart, my life, and our son departed. My dear wife, you precious mother … because of you, Mitch was blessed above all others.
A few days ago a sweet follower-turned-friend couldn't make the Miles for Mitchell run because they were on a family vacation. So, in memory of little Mitch, they stacked some rocks and made a letter "M", then took this photo and sent it to us. My heart was filled with gratitude.
Thank you, Erin Wachob Wood, and so many of you, for filling our hearts with light and love.
instagram.com/mitchells_journey/
instagram.com/milesformitchell/
twitter.com/MitchelsJourney
Just a few days ago I received a message from an active military officer who said he and some colleagues would be running in honor of Mitch while deployed in Iraq. He offered his well wishes, prayers and love from "the dustiest place on earth."
He then concluded his letter with the following salutation:
CW3 Officer Leach
US ARMY
Blackhawk pilot
I was so moved that someone occupied with other matters would take time out of his life to remember little Mitch and support our desire to help and encourage others. I then responded to his message with the following:
[Officer Leach,]
Holy cow. That would have blown Mitchell's mind. He always admired military officers and their sacrifices to keep him safe. When he was home on hospice, he cried tears of gratitude when he received messages and photos from every branch of the military. Your doing this will be especially amazing for our family.
Thank you, good sir. On so many levels, thank you.
UT, Chris Jones
Ordinary Dad
Grateful Human
… and that was my letter to him. I had no credentials to point to, no rank or military file. The only title I held was that of ordinary dad and grateful human. I just wanted him to know how much I appreciated his gesture. In so many ways, it felt as if he was saying, “I've got your back.” Although he was way over there, on the other side of the earth, he seemed to care about what was going on over here.
Then, as promised, this good officer (and father himself) sent me some photos of little Mitch with him and in the window of his Blackhawk and indicated they'd be flying Mitch with them that day.
To think that a stranger could be so kind and thoughtful to do something like that in honor of a little boy who died, and a father who misses him deeply, humbles me.
When I thanked him for sharing these photos and honoring my dear son he replied, "Mitchell, though not physically with us, is still having profound impact on all who heard about his journey. Having kids will definitely soften a man up but make us stronger at the same time."
This good man has it right. Having children does soften our hearts yet teaches us to be strong in ways that really matter. I can't help but think our Father knows that better than anyone. He sees so much more than we see: that hardships make us wise, heavy things make us stronger, service makes a heart compassionate, and death teaches us to appreciate life.
Although I enter the battlefield of grief each day: wounded, weary and heavy with sorrow, I stumble into noble souls like this and I take fresh courage. I am reminded why we are allowed to suffer (so that we might learn and grow) and that when we serve each other with love and kindness, when we have each other’s backs, we are serving our Father.
Thank you, my new friend, for reminding me to have another's back is the only way to be.