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When Mitch was young he carried with him two toy figures. One was a man with a hardhat, ready to go to work and the other was a little boy with a ball cap and backpack. He never went anywhere that he didn’t carry these two figures in his chubby little hands or tiny pockets. Often, Mitch picked up the father, a symbol of me, and kissed it softly. I adored his tender, affectionate heart. I would then pick up the little boy, a symbol of my son, and kiss it in kind. Mitch would always giggle and give me a big hug. 

“I love you so much, little Mitch.” I would say. 

“ You see, there is a sacred place I want to be, beyond the hills and in a place I cannot yet see. 

My little boy is there, waiting patiently ... waiting to see if I might offer symbols of my soul, evidence of who I love and what I believe ... not just in word, but deed.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

I discovered early on, what children lack in words they often make up for in other ways. Mitch didn’t always know how to share his feelings, so he found other means to tell me. I always tried to listen to his other means. For every symbol he created there opened a window into his soul. My other children did the same thing to some degree, but not like Mitch. He was not very talkative in his early years – and he found other ways to share what was in his heart and soul. 

There is an old Chinese proverb that says, “There are no secrets of the soul that conduct does not reveal.” Each day, little Mitch shared symbols that revealed his soul. Each time, this little child took me to a sacred place.

In this photo, Mitch asked me to take a photo of him with his “guys”. I loved how he posed for the photo, resting his head against his marker-stained, chubby arm. I wish I could reach into this photo and kiss his face again. How my heart reaches through time and space, yearning to love … 

I have a friend and business partner, Corey Berg, who once shared a quote, “In all things teach people about [God]. And if necessary, use words.” He was speaking of the ultimate symbol – how we choose to live. In my soul, I hope that my daily actions are a symbol, like little Mitch so often gave me … symbols that say more than words. 

Though I have journeyed broken roads and wandered through the vast shadows of death, I have also climbed the highest mountains of life. Sometimes places so high, the air so thin, I could see the heavens and almost touch them. The peaks and valleys of life are sacred places, each in their own right. They teach us things we must learn, that add to our spiritual sight.

I am grateful for souls, symbols and sacred places. I have been to heaven and hell, and seen many faces. This little soul, who like a feather, softly landed in my heart, is now a symbol of my own journey’s new start. You see, there is a sacred place I want to be, beyond the hills and in a place I cannot yet see. 

My little boy is there, waiting patiently ... waiting to see if I might offer symbols of my soul, evidence of who I love and what I believe ... not just in word, but deed.

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It is interesting how God prepares our souls for the end of life. Not always, but sometimes. And when He does, I believe it is for a higher purpose. It is almost as if He is gently saying, “My child, over here.” Through this hardship I have learned to hear and recognize those impressions in new and meaningful ways. I was being prepared for my son’s passing the day he was born. I had a distinct impression something was seriously wrong. It consistently pressed on my soul for the first 3 years. I couldn’t shake the feeling; I knew his life would be short. Then the diagnosis came and those whispers to my soul suddenly made sense. A year before we discovered Mitchell’s heart was failing, I sensed something life-altering was going to happen. I remember telling a few people that were close to me that I sensed an almost chilling change in the air. I didn’t know what, I just knew something significant was going to happen. I wish I knew it was my son. I would have done more with him and less with things that matter nothing to me now. Such is the lament of those who grieve. 

So, when Mitch came home to die, not knowing his days were short, he had a premonition in the same way I had them – except his was more specific. “Mom, can I have an early birthday?” Mitch said in his soft voice. “It feels so far away.” Natalie looked at me and without saying a word, said a million things at once. Immediately a birthday party was put in motion. We didn’t know if we had 10 minutes, 10 hours or 10 days with Mitch – so every second counted with him. The next day we had a special birthday party for our son. It was a beautiful celebration of life and love and my son’s heart was full – while ours were quietly broken.

After his birthday party, Mitch sat near his aunt Sonya trying to build a Lego set. My sister Diane loving inflated a great many balloons to make the day extra special for my son. As small as that act of service may have seemed, it was big to me. When I saw what those balloons did to Mitchell’s heart … how it lifted his spirits and put a spark in his eyes, I have never looked upon a balloon in the same way. I get it now. 

Just beyond Mitch was my youngest child, Wyatt, twirling in the background with an over-sized teddy bear. For a moment I wondered what act was playing out on the stage of his mind; was he in a magical forest with an imaginary friend or a king’s hall dancing under a moon-lit sky? For a moment I was swept away in wonder, admiring children for all the good and imagination that is in them. Then, I was reminded of my other children’s needs. I knew each of them were different and needed love and attention unique to them. Most importantly, they needed to know in our moment of crisis that mom and dad were going to be okay – that no matter what, the world would go on and that our family would survive this hardship. 

When I saw Wyatt playing happily by himself I felt the words in my heart, “… over here.” I had as distinct an impression as I ever had with Mitch, this time it was directed at my youngest son. At that very moment I set my camera down and walked over to Wyatt and started to play with him. I let him know how proud I was of the young boy he was and that I loved him very much. Wyatt smiled with a mouth full of missing teeth. I kissed his face and hugged him tightly. 

I don’t know what that little exchange meant to my youngest son. I only know my Father wanted me to remember him, too. Ever since, that is all I try to do. Oh, to listen to that whisper, “Over here.” It is there for all to hear, if we choose have a listening ear.

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“Oh, little child, how I watched you while you slept. So sweet and soft … it was my heart that you kept. Now you live in that place beyond the hills … on the far side of the sea … a place I hope to visit in the quiet of my dreams. ”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

When I was a young child I remember being awoken by light emanating from the hallway as my parents opened my bedroom door to check on me. Sometimes they would quickly shut the door, afraid to wake me. Other times they lingered a moment and looked on as if to ponder. As far as I can remember, I always awoke when they checked on me but pretended to be sleeping. 

I remember wondering why my parents did such a strange thing. After I became a father I finally started to understand. When my children were infants, my wife and I would gush and fawn over the crib as we saw our tiny baby breathe so softly. “What miracle is this?” I would think to myself, humbled at the beauty of life and family. As they grew from toddler to child, that tradition of looking at our sweet children while they slept evolved; we would often giggle at how they passed out with toys in their hands or books on their faces. I have a photo of Laura-Ashely passed out at the top of our staircase, face smashed against the carpet. I still giggle when I look at that photo. 

We loved to look at our children while they slept because they were our creation and in every way that matters, they had become an extension of our heart and soul. As exhausting as parenting can be, I have discovered a certain renewal happens when we know they are safe at home.

After Mitch was diagnosed with Duchene Muscular Dystrophy, I found myself almost nightly kneeling at his bedside as he slept, pleading to my Father for my son’s well-being. My tradition of checking on my children turned into a nightly, tear-drenched ritual of prayer and pleading to my Father … for I knew that I, too, was a child who was loved and hoped that He might hear my trembling words. I pleaded for a miracle, that I might trade places with my son, and that somehow I might suffer for him. If only my son knew how often I poured out my heart and soul heavenward while he slept. If only he knew how oft I watched over him at night and begged that this bitter cup might pass under the canopy of a dim starry light.

In this photo Mitch was home on hospice, unaware his days were numbered. He asked me to tuck him in, so I decided to cuddle with him for a bit. We talked for a while. He told me about a fort he made in Minecraft and he wanted to show it to me, I smiled and told him I couldn’t wait. I told him I loved him 100 times that night and that I was so proud of him. He would smile and say, “I wuv you too, Dad.” 

Soon I began to drift to sleep – I wasn’t sleeping much and I was so very tired. At some point Natalie came to check on us and she took this photo with her phone. Little Mitch was still awake, cuddled under my arm. Only this time he was watching me while I slept. I wonder what he was thinking. More importantly, I hope he felt loved. Though he sensed mortal danger was near, I hope he felt a little safer in the clasp of my arms. I hope.

Oh, little child, how I watched you while you slept. So sweet and soft … it was my heart that you kept. Now you live in that place beyond the hills … on the far side of the sea … a place I hope to visit in the quiet of my dreams. And if Heaven will be so kind, my heart will open up and you will read what’s on my mind. You will know that I would have fallen for you, if I had the opportunity … it is true. I fought to save your life, you see. But then I realized it was you who was saving me. I am different now. At least I hope to be. One of Heaven’s strange ironies.
 

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Immediately after Mitchell’s diagnosis, he was put on a rigid dose of steroids. For reasons not completely understood by doctors, these steroids are known to keep these young boys ambulatory a little longer. The moment DMD children stop walking, they are introduced to a host of new troubles. So, keeping them on their feet as long as possible is important.

“I can’t think of a hardship in my life that hasn’t been an agent of change and growth. Those bitter pills I’ve had to swallow in the past have helped me – sometimes immediately, but more often over time. ”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

For the first few weeks I remember watching my sweet wife break into tears as little Mitch would spit the medicine out, not wanting to take them. “How do I help my child do this important thing?” she asked. It wouldn’t take long for tiny Mitch to accept his new reality and that taking medicine was part of life for him. 

I remember this moment so vividly. It was a warm summer morning and our kids were anxious to play in the back yard. Mitch sat on our kitchen counter and looked at his mommy, wanting only to make her happy. Such is the heart of a child. He swallowed a bitter pill with a smile and then dashed off to some childhood adventure. He didn’t know why he needed to do that unpleasant thing – he trusted his parents that it was helping him.

And that is how things went over the next few years. Little Mitch always trusting and obedient, Natalie ever faithful and true to her baby boy. Never have I witnessed a more beautiful relationship than between these two. Mitch wanted only to make his mommy proud, and Natalie wanted only to keep her child healthy and happy. That is the most beautiful yet agonizing thing about parenthood – the moment we have a child our happiness and fulfillment comes in and through our children. If that is how it works for mortals, I can only imagine how it feels to our Father.

Fast-forward a few short years, in what felt like the blink of an eye, I found myself trembling at the knees as my son was dying. Mitch wanted to live and desperately didn’t want to hurt his mother’s feelings. I remember just as vividly that quiet winter night when he clung to life by a tattered thread. I imagine he, at least in spirit, looked toward his mommy in this same way. Eyes filled with love … wanting only to make her happy. Such a vision in my mind breaks me on the inside.

I remember being awoken by an unseen influence. It was as real to me as anything I have ever known in mortality. I was in a deep sleep on the floor beside his bed – exhausted beyond measure – then suddenly I was wide awake. I had a distinct impression I needed to tuck Mitch in. I rose to my feet, then fell to my knees beside him. With one hand holding his and another on his forehead, I leaned in and whispered to Mitch that I was tucking him in, just as he liked it. I told him to not be afraid. I told him I knew he was tired and in need of rest – that he could go and we would be okay. I told my son how proud his mother and I were of him. I told Mitch that he was all we ever hoped he would be, and so much more.

Thirty minutes later, he was gone. I know he heard me. I know it. 

The death of my son has been the most bitter of pills to swallow. I have never known an agony of the soul such as this. Grief is a daily dose of sorrow that is bitter to the taste. Yet grief need not make us bitter, for I believe it has the power to make us better.

Since the passing of my son I have thought often about the bitter pills, we must swallow in life and the bitter cups from which we must sometimes drink. They are awful in the moment. Sometimes they are terrifying. But they are necessary if we are to grow. I have come to learn that bitter pills can be blessings. I can’t think of a hardship in my life that hasn’t been an agent of change and growth. Those bitter pills I’ve had to swallow in the past have helped me – sometimes immediately, but more often over time. I have discovered that with heaven’s help, the things which seemed to hurt me actually helped me. 

So, when I have moments of grief … when it seems I am choking on that bitter pill … I will follow my son’s example and trust my Father; I will have faith that my struggles are helping me be something I don’t yet have a mind to see.