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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

I remember sitting at the cemetery with my family as we remembered Mitch once summer evening. The air was warm and the grass was cool – it was a perfect summer moment. Yet in our hearts was a dark cloud of grief and I wanted so much to shield my family from that pain and sorrow. 

To each family member I handed a pendant with Mitchell’s finger print; a gift given to our family from a loving client. Each of us held, almost in disbelief, an evidence our son once lived and walked among us. In our hearts we asked ourselves, “How could this be?” It didn’t take long before we started reminiscing about Mitch – we laughed and cried as we talked about the happy times and the sad times. Most of all, we shared our gratitude for all the good things in our life, Mitch being one of them. Though we were all hurting, a little healing happened on that day.

It was this unlikely summer evening that I began to experience growth through gratitude.

Three years have passed and my heart and soul are still tender to the touch – and sometimes my sorrow overtakes me and I weep. Yet despite the grief I feel for losing my son, I have learned to live again – and that is a blessing I intend to keep. 

At least for me, I have begun to see a 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. 

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.

As far as I can tell, I experience healing and growth when I find gratitude. That is how I am coming alive again. Gratitude.

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I submitted this article as part of the #oncomingaliveproject by Lexi Behrndt, a mother who has turned her grief into a platform to help others. Follow the link below to see what others had to say about how to come alive again. This is a remarkable project and I was grateful to be a small part of it.

http://www.scribblesandcrumbs.com/oncomingalive

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When Mitch was tiny, he would sit in the back of a trailer attached to a 4-wheeler while his uncle drove short distances at a quick speed. Mitchell’s chubby little fingers gripped tightly the side of the trailer as he screamed and laughed like a baby pirate in pursuit of childhood treasures. Laura-Ashley and Ethan sat beside him and giggled at how fearless their little brother seemed. 

Afterward, I would show Mitch the photos I took and he would say, “Dat made my tummy gig-go.” I would burst out in love-filled laughter, then hug and kiss his cheek. To this day, I can almost feel his little arms around my neck as I hugged him.

As he grew older, Mitch loved rollercoasters. He was fearless and enjoyed the rush and thrill of any ride – no matter how big and scary it may have seemed to an adult. During his last few years, I would have to reach over and hold his head steady on rollercoasters because his neck muscles were getting weaker. Sometimes while Mitch was laughing on a ride I would find myself crying; the combination of tears and the rushing wind blinded me from seeing my son’s smile. I cried because I knew everything my son enjoyed was coming to an end; not through death per se, but because DMD was destroying his muscles and I knew there would come a time he wouldn’t have the strength to lift his head from a pillow. A bitter irony for a little boy who drank life in by the goblet and spared no opportunity for adventure. 

When I look back at this time with tiny Mitch, and the million-and-one other times just like this, my heart overflows with gratitude. Yes, heartache happened, but so did indescribable joy and fulfillment. Hurt is the eventual price we pay for love – whether we love a parent, sibling, child or pet … one day, we will lose all of them to time, circumstance and death. But that hurt is a small price to pay for a shot at love. I wouldn’t trade all the hollow pleasures and treasures of earth for this kind of love. It simply doesn’t compare.

This little boy happened … and with him came a hurt I never imagined, not even in my darkest nightmares. But so also came a love and joy I never supposed, not even in my most heavenly dreams. 

This happened, the good and bad, and I am better for it. I thank my Father every single day on bended knee; for I know love and sorrow, and now I see.

I am posting a few other photos from this series on Instagram:
instagram.com/mitchells_journey

 

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Mitch was home on hospice for a few days and was anxious to play a new video game that had just been released. We wanted him to enjoy what little time he had left, so we paved the way for him to play. The thunder of crashing sounds and music filled the air. Mitch was audibly in awe of the game’s graphics and I could hear him down the hall saying, “Oooooh, that is so cool!” 

Suddenly there was silence.

“Oh … no. Not now. Please, not now.” I cried inside.

Panicked, I ran down the hall with the speed of an Olympian to see if Mitch was okay – after all, his cardiologist said he was at risk of instant death. He was sitting strangely quiet on the couch when I said in a worried tone, “Mitch, are you okay?” 

Mitch smiled softly and whispered, looking toward his hand, “Dad, look.” I then saw baby Marlie who had rested her head softly on his hand and began to sleep. Mitch didn’t move a muscle. 

In this very moment my heart burst with love and gratitude. I loved my son with all of my heart and was grateful he was entrusted to me. I loved this puppy for what she did for my dying boy’s heart and soul. I loved my father-in-law for becoming an instrument of love and mercy – for finding this puppy for my sick child before he passed away. And most of all, I loved my Father for the many tender mercies that were in my life – however undeserving I may have been. 

Though we were hurting deeply, we were also being helped by an influence unseen – and that is no small thing. Yes, Mitchell’s Journey is a story of love for a sick child … but it is also a story of Heavenly love. Somewhere in all my heartbreak, deep in the shadows of sorrow, I have discovered that Heavenly love anew. 

I lost track of the many winter nights when I wept and pled for my son – that somehow Heaven would make things right. Eventually an insight, like a flash of light, broke through; “Be patient, my child, death is not the end, and there is something I want you to learn about you.”

Slowly time passed – and I found myself in agony over moments lost. Days turned into weeks and months turned into years. Over time I have learned to walk again and see far past my tears.

It’s microscopic moments like this, between a baby dog and a sick little Mitch, that change the way I see. Instead of focusing on grief and hardship I’ve learned to appreciate our many, many tender mercies. If we’re not watchful, we could complain about the pain and sorrow all day – blinded by grief, unaware of the blessings and heavenly helps along the way. 

I look for microscopic moments to be grateful, because they all add up. And before I know it, those little blessings fill my empty cup.

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I think that nightmare scenario crosses every parent’s mind at one point or another and we ask ourselves: “What would I do if I lost my child?” In every way that matters, we are asking ourselves what would happen if we lost part of ourselves – for that is what our children are to us. That’s what our children will never understand until they have children of their own: they become more important to us than we are to ourselves.

Just after we were told Mitch had days to live, Natalie’s mother and father came rushing to the hospital to offer love and support. Over the next few weeks, my wife and I would keep the knowledge of our son’s impending death from Mitch. Peace of mind and childhood was our gift to our son – at least for a little while. You see, we didn’t know if he was going to die in an hour, or a day, or in a month and we wanted to help Mitch make the most of what time remained. 

“I know that I cannot take their troubles away. But, like this good father I will walk beside them … even with bare feet and broken bones. Until my dying breath, I will walk beside them and try to lead them home.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

Palliative care workers circled our room and visited daily asking for permission to talk to Mitch about his death. Each time we told them no. Knowing our time with Mitch was short weighed heavy on our souls. We hid our broken hearts behind a soft smile and we put away our dashed hopes and shattered dreams under a blanket of hugs and loves. Though we didn’t know how to protect him from death, we could protect him from worry and fear. And that is what we tried to do. That was all we knew to do.

When these good parents arrived, Natalie and her father found an empty room in the cardiac intensive care unit. A curtain was drawn and a tender conversation between a daddy and his little girl ensued. Tears of deep grief and anguish fell to the earth. I wonder if the heavens wept just a little that day – not out of sorrow, but empathy. I don’t know what they talked about. I only know that empty room became hallowed ground between a good father and his little daughter. 

I stayed with Mitch and his grandmother in his CICU room. My mother-in-law is as good a woman as there ever was. Her heart was broken for Mitch and her daughter and our family. I’ll write of her another day.

After some time had passed Mitch asked me to get Natalie. When I went to get her I stumbled into a most tender and beautiful scene. I saw a good father embrace his daughter as she wept. In her trembling hand was a pamphlet about how to talk to your child about death and dying. That impossible scenario we couldn’t imagine living suddenly became a harsh reality.

When I saw my wife and her good father I sensed something similar between our Father. I thought of those times I knelt by my bed with bruised knees pleading for a way out for my son; the nights seemed to stretch out into infinity as I wet my pillow with tears. I felt the words in my heart, “I cannot take your troubles from you, but I will walk with you and lift you when you fall.”

Somewhere out there lives my son. And when I see him next I will drop everything and I will run … boy, will I ever run. The heavens will weep once more – but this time out of joy – for a family will be reunited with their young, fallen boy.

When I think of my own children, two of whom are teenagers and my youngest now ten, I know that I cannot take their troubles away. But, like this good father I will walk beside them … even with bare feet and broken bones. Until my dying breath, I will walk beside them and try to lead them home.