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“Grief tells our heart things like, “How can I possibly find joy again when so much was lost?” Gratitude responds softly, “Yes, it hurts, but what a blessing it was, even if only a short time.”

Grief screams. It commands and demands. Gratitude whispers. It is soft and subtle.

Grief sees only what was lost, while gratitude sees what was gained. ”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

Mitch loved his puppy so very much and it seemed as if Marlie loved him just the same. For almost 6 weeks Mitch had the very thing his young heart always wanted, a puppy to call his own. They bonded instantly … and differently. While she was cute and loving to us … when it came to Mitch she was almost maternal.

When I think of the many tender mercies in my son’s life, I can’t help but think this little girl one of the big ones. She knew just what Mitch needed at a time he needed comfort most. 

The afternoon before Mitch passed away tiny Marlie, still a baby-of-a-pup, wobbled up to him and then pushed herself under his lifeless hand. Mitch, whose body was shutting down and unable to open his eyes, began to softly move his fingers through her hair. Marlie didn’t move a muscle – it was as though she knew he needed her … and she was not going to leave his side. Not for anything. I took photos of his hand softly caressing his little friend. I still cry when I see that photo sequence because I know just what was happening. As midnight drew near, and as Mitch was about to leave us, Marlie curled around his head as if to comfort him. I cry when I think of that image, too. I feel the strangest blend of grief and gratitude.

I have often wondered about the relationship between grief and gratitude. At first glance, they would seem polar opposites … as different from each other as oil and water, fire and ice, love and hate. Yet the more I come to experience grief and gratitude, the more I begin to see they play an important and symbiotic role.

Grief tells our heart things like, “How can I possibly find joy again when so much was lost?” Gratitude responds softly, “Yes, it hurts, but what a blessing it was, even if only a short time.” 

Grief screams. It commands and demands. Gratitude whispers. It is soft and subtle. 

Grief sees only what was lost, while gratitude sees what was gained. 

What I have found most interesting about managed grief is that can lead to more gratitude; and where there is gratitude, there is healing. It is not easy. In fact, grief is one of the hardest forms of work we will ever perform in this life. So, as strange as it sounds, I am grateful for gratitude, for I have discovered that is a key to healing.

I am grateful for my wife and kids and that I was blessed with Mitch in my life. I am grateful for a broken heart, for it has taken me to my knees and taught me deeper things. This puppy … what a blessing she has been, then and now. I am grateful for this most unexpected place called Mitchell’s Journey. 

Though I have come to know the pains of grief and loss, tonight my heart is overflowing with gratitude for the many good things in life. I am happier than I have ever been since I lost my son. Grief still screams inside me – and there are moments where grief is deeper than deep …. and I weep and weep. But I am also listening to the quiet whispers of gratitude. That gratitude is turning a once barren wasteland of sorrow into a garden of goodness. An invisible place of peace, not seen with the eye but a place where my mind and heart meet. Grief and gratitude are not so separate; at least for me, they’ve become one piece.
 

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Mitch was home on hospice when we heard a soft tap on our front door. It was Carter, one of Mitchell’s best friends accompanied by his loving mother, also a dear friend to our family. In his arms was a valentines box he carefully made at school filled with all manner of treats kids love to eat. The kids at school had just done their candy exchange and not even Carter knew what yummy treats were in his box. I remember how much I treasured those things as a kid – and I saw that same look of treasurement in Carter’s eyes.

We escorted this young boy downstairs where Mitch was playing a game. Carter knelt down and opened his box of sweet treasures for the first time. Before even looking at what was inside Carter said, “Mitch, take whatever you want.” 

Mitch was shy and looked through his box of candies. Carter’s quiet smile was magnanimous. My eyes filled with tears as I witnessed two giant souls clothed in the small bodies of young children. I saw my son who was fighting for life and his dear friend giving Mitchell’s life a little joy and happiness. Whatever Carter lost in sweet candies that day, he made up for in sweeter memories – which last longer and taste sweeter than anything I know.

A few years ago I wanted to travel the earth to explore the world’s wonders. I realized in this moment the world’s greatest wonders were already before me. They weren’t marked by vast canyons, lush terrains or majestic waters. Instead, the world’s greatest wonders wore small, worn-out shoes. They had grass-stained knees, played with plastic toys and built cities with their young imaginations. They laughed and played and sometimes tried their parent's patience ... but in the end, they wanted nothing more than to make their parents happy. The world’s greatest wonders were children. I always knew this – but at this moment I knew it a little more than the times before.

A few weeks later Carter would visit Mitch again … but this time at his funeral, sobbing in ways only a young child can know. His sweet smile was exchanged with deep, childhood grief. My heart went out to Carter and I was pained he had to experience such grief. I knelt down, swallowing my own sorrows, and gave Carter a father-like hug and thanked him for being such a dear friend to my son. I told him, “Because of you, his life was blessed.” 

I have had many people ask me how I’ve learned to cope with grief. My answer is that I’m really no different than anyone who grieves – and that I still have moments, sometimes agonizing hours where the gravity of grief is so great death would be a sweet release. It is a terrible burden. At the same time it is also a paradoxical blessing – for those same burdens that brought me to my knees, bruised in sorrow, have also lifted my heart and mind heavenward.

In my loss I have gained new perspective and a deeper relationship with my own Father. He is eternally kind and patient with me as I stumble in my own ways. If I could just learn to be like these young boys …

One thing I have discovered about grief and learning to live again is that if I can set aside my own sorrows to lift and love another, just like Carter did in this photo, then my broken heart heals a little. At least to me, a key to grieving well is learning to give. 
 

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Happy Memorial Day, son. I remember you every second of every day. I visit often this place where your body lay. Strangely a place of peace and great unrest, slowly learning to live while coping with your death.

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I just returned from a short trip with my oldest son, Ethan, to Southern California so he could learn to surf. He was so excited to spend some one-on-one time and hang out in the ocean. It was a wonderful few days to bond father and son. 

With all that has happened the last year and a half, I was careful to make this trip just about him. I turned my cell phone off, put work aside, and focused on him and him alone. We talked about his dreams and aspirations and what he wanted in life. We ate pizza every night, we laughed and played and set aside the worries of the world. We had a great time together.

Throughout the trip Ethan made comments about how much he missed Mitch and that he wished he were there with us. I knew that Ethan lost his best friend and that his heart grieves, too. We have an open mouth policy in our family and everyone is free to talk about Mitch (or anything) at any time – not to bring undue attention to Mitch nor to suggest that our kids aren't important, but because Mitch was important to all of us in different ways. We believe open and honest communication is a healthy part of healing. So, each time I heard Ethan out as he expressed a little more about what was on his mind and heart. I softly acknowledged his sorrows and his feelings. I then told Ethan I was grateful that he was still with me and that I loved him very much; I told him there is nobody quite like him and that I was so proud of the young man he was becoming. I didn't want my son to just hear my words, I wanted him to feel them. I hope he did.

On our second day of the trip day Ethan took surfing lessons. At first he wanted to take on the waves by himself and he wasn't sure he wanted to be held back by taking lessons. I strongly encouraged him to learn from those who could help him leapfrog the little things. I told him, “The sooner you learn the basics, the sooner you’ll be able to do just want you want to do ... surf. Otherwise you’ll end up chasing waves and wearing yourself out not knowing what to do and how to do it.” Ethan was wise and agreed to lessons. Soon he was riding waves and doing just what he set out to do. Surfing was a major highlight for him.

Afterward, Ethan and I talked about the symbology of surfing. I told him life isn't much different than surfing - that often we can no more control the events in our lives any more than we can control the tide and surf, but if we know what to look for we can learn to ride the waves and not chase them or become overpowered by them. I told my son that trouble comes to everybody and we can use that trouble to move us forward or it can take us under; that the only thing we can really control is how we respond to circumstances. As with surfing, I told Ethan, now that he knows what to look for he no longer needs to chase waves and save his energy - he can put himself in a position to more easily ride them. I could tell by the look in his eyes Ethan got the metaphor.

The journey of grief doesn't seem to be too different from being in the ocean. Sometimes I can see grief coming, other times it hits me by surprise. But I’m learning what to look for, I’m learning to stop chasing waves of grief and how to better ride them out. And I know I’m not the only one in these terrible waters – so are my wife and kids. And I must care for them as while I learn to surf tides of trouble.