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I never imagined a day I wouldn’t weep to the point of exhaustion. For two years after my son passed away, I wept like a child in my closet and in my secret places. Sometimes I couldn’t contain myself and I would cry even in public places. But I wept. Every single day, I wept. “Will grief ever end? I am so tired from sorrow. When will relief come?” I thought to myself in moments of deep despair. 

I have come to learn an immutable truth: grief will last so long as love lasts. The moment I stop loving will be the moment I stop hurting. But that will never happen – for I love little Mitch, even to infinity. So, I accept that sorrow will be my companion the remainder of my mortal life. There is no escaping it. I will not run from grief … instead I will try to learn from it. 

“Somehow, after passing through veils of sorrow and the shadows of death, there is light on the other side.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

So far, grief has taught me to enjoy the moment, for we will never have now again. Grief has turned my life upside down, but right-side up – for my priorities are so very different. It has taught me to love more deeply and witness first-hand the supernal doctrine of mourning with those that mourn. I have experienced the healing powers of empathy from others and seen the destructive effects when there is none. Grief, while hellish and painful, has been a tender teacher – and for that I am grateful.

I have found the process of writing out my sorrows, in my journal and here on Mitchell’s Journey, a helpful tool in my grief journey. I’m sure on some level it has helped release building pressure that might otherwise have become bottled up grief. But I have discovered more in writing that just releasing emotional pressure. It has helped me learn and process the things I hold most dear to my heart. Author Joseph Joubert once observed, “Writing is closer to thinking than speaking.” I believe he is right. Writing down my thoughts has helped me sort through my sorrows, to provide context and meaning to suffering, and to see with my spiritual eyes.

This is what it looks like when I write. A blank sheet of paper and a photo. I never write without asking my Father in prayer, “What am I to learn from this? I’m listening.” From there I go on a journey back in time to these moments I hold sacred and dear to me. My memories are vivid and almost tangible … both a blessing and a curse for a heart that longs to love as it once did. I always cry when I write. Sometimes I weep. On occasion, I weep deeper than deep. But somehow, after passing through veils of sorrow and the shadows of death, there is light on the other side. I hear my Father’s voice, however quietly, and I know we’re not alone. I then thank my Father for teaching me something my weary heart needed to know. 

Hearing my loving Father’s voice teach my broken soul, no matter how undeserving I may feel at times, gives me hope that perhaps tomorrow, or someday, things may not be so heavy as they seem today. Already I see a difference from yesterday. And with each step toward healing my hope grows. Even now I look at my tender, yet healing heart and hope grows. 

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After today's run, I visited my son and carefully wrapped a medal around one of his vases. I tried to hold back my tears - but they came anyway. They were mostly peaceful tears ... born of love and gratitude.

Here's to hope. 
 

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“Dad, will you hold my hand? Will you help me not fall?” Mitch said with a sweet, soft voice. I reached out to hold his hand as Mitch leaned downward and reached into the crystal clear waters that flowed from a natural hot spring. “It’s like a bath! Do you think I could swim in it?” Mitch was fascinated that nature could produce such warm water. Until that moment, he only knew the icy streams that came from snowmelt. 

We were at a fathers & son’s campout and I was so excited to hang out with my boys. We played Frisbee on the grass and cooked our famous tinfoil dinners and were the envy of every camper who could smell the magical meal cooking slowly in the glowing embers. Mitch loved that special recipe. 

Later that evening we would find ourselves huddled in our family tent listening to a torrential downpour, exhilarated by the relentless crash of thunder that exploded right above our heads. Mitch snuggled into me with his sleeping bag as I wrapped my arm around him and held him tight. Little Wyatt sat on my other side, lovingly wrapped by my other arm. Ethan bravely sat with a smile and listened to the rain pound the walls of our tent, ready to pack up on a moments notice were we to flood.

We made it through the night dry and un-drenched. I am grateful for those moments with my family. If I have a regret in life it is that I didn’t have enough of them. I did my best, but I wish I would have done more. 

I often think back on this moment when Mitch asked for help to do something other children could have done with ease. His muscles were weak and his balance always precarious. The slightest bump from someone could send him crashing to the ground. Often, Mitchie’s plea was, “Help me not fall.” Always, when he asked for help, I was reminded of things I took for granted. 

Those words, “help me not fall” will echo in my mind forever. As his father, I didn’t want Mitch to fall and hurt himself … yet at the same time I didn’t want to rob my son the opportunity to do things on his own. Therein lies the delicate parental balance … to help enough to enable growth but not enough to rob it. 

When I think about it, it doesn’t take much to recognize my Father is doing the same thing with me, and all of us. His hand is often out of view and we go about our lives unaware of His true goodness. 

Just tonight something significant happened to me – a heavenly reminder that He is there … and that He cares. 

Every time I kneel and ask my Father to “help me not fall” I get the distinct impression that He is not only there … but that He has always been there – helping me just enough to enable growth, but never enough to rob it.

At least on some level, being a Father myself, I think I understand now. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

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I thought I had grown accustom to the emotional whiplash that is felt when someone you love is on hospice. One moment you think the nightmare has ended and the next you are reminded it is only just beginning. So, as I sat with my tender son who leaned into my arm, I wondered quietly if the doctors had it all wrong … that perhaps we dodged a bullet. Suddenly my son moved and I saw the cables coming from his arm … cables that reminded me it wasn't a dream, but that I was living my worst nightmare. I didn't realize how nightmarish grief would soon become.

Baby Marlie, ever the faithful comforter, sat patiently and lovingly on Mitchell’s lap. She was always quick to kiss his little fingers ever so softly, which Mitchell loved so. Though my heart sank, I realized I was in the presence of two tender beings who were meant to be together – even if only in passing. One sick little boy about to die and travel to that place beyond the hills, far from mortal view; and a newborn puppy who had just arrived on a mission of mercy and comfort, a little friend who would stay behind after Mitch left us to comfort our hearts weary with grief. 

These two little ones 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. 

Though I have seen many tender mercies along Mitchell’s Journey, evidence of God’s love and care … a wondrous life filled with little lifts here and there … I cannot deny the immensity of the struggle. As we saw death approaching I knew it would be hard but I scarcely understood how hard it would actually be.

I remember, while in the depths of sorrow, kneeling at my bed in tears praying to God to free us from the struggle. I prayed mightily unto my Father and my words stretched far into the heavens begging for my son to be spared, and if not, that my son’s passing would be quick, if he were to suffer. I even begged God that I could take my son’s place – for I would gladly lay down my life so my little boy could live. Though the specifics of my prayers were not answered in the way I asked for them to be answered, I know my Father heard the intent of my heart and I know He felt after me and had compassion. I have come to understand His answers to my desperate pleas were wiser than anything my mortal mind could conjure up. Sometimes we must be reminded that He is God and we are not – and we must put our trust in that.

Ironically, my son’s death, as impossibly painful as it has been, has breathed new life into my soul. I have a sobriety about … everything; and losing Mitch has given me a deeper perspective on the purpose of life that I didn't have in my earlier years. Oh, I had book knowledge, but now I have experiential knowledge … and there’s a difference. Though I wish so badly to trade those lessons back for my son … I cannot have Mitch back – not in the way I want him. I pray that I don’t waste the life lessons my son has taught me at so high a price. For all that happens in this mortal place has a divine purpose in the grand scheme of heavenscape.

As I contemplate the struggle of grief and sorrow, of death and sickness and everything that hurts, I am reminded of the circumstances of a baby chick about to hatch: they must break through their shell on their own. Any attempt to chip away the shell for them, in an attempt to make their life easier, is not only counterproductive but often fatal. The very act of their struggle strengthens them so they can survive on the outside. In fact, the time it takes to break free is also vital for their bodies to adjust to their new life. Any effort on our part to hasten the hardship will rob them of their struggle, the struggle designed to make them stronger, and they often die.

Like those baby chicks who struggle to break through, I know at some point I will come out on the other side of this stronger. While I might be tempted to pray to God for an easy way out … that He might chip away the shell of hardship and sorrow and hasten the struggle, I know better. Instead I pray that He gives me strength equal to the task - for I know it is in the struggle we are made stronger. But what a struggle it is.

I am a weary traveler on a broken road. I don’t feel strong - in fact, I'm weaker than weak. I often collapse in sorrow and grief, and when I’m alone, I quietly weep. 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.