View fullsize

“It’s okay, Mommy.” He said those same words just a few days prior when he told my wife and me that he didn’t think he could survive. In his moment of realization … when he knew he wouldn’t survive, he didn’t seek comfort from his mother … instead, he handed it to her selflessly. ‘I’ll be okay, Mommy.’”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

Natalie had wept for a few hours. Exhausted from grief, she curled around her young boy’s head as if to comfort him – even though she was in the depths of hell and very much in need of comfort herself. 

There, in the quiet of a winter night, the world had fallen away into oblivion … and all that remained was our son whom we fought valiantly to save, but could not. As the warmth of his body drew cold, darkness gathered round us. How pitch black that darkness felt, I have not words to describe.

Just then, in that moment of profound agony, when hell seemed to open its mouth wide open … as if to swallow us whole, something sacred happened. Natalie felt a distinct impression that Mitch lingered … that he was with her in Spirit and she felt as if he whispered, “It’s okay, Mommy.” 

Comfort was his parting gift to his mother’s weary and broken soul. Comfort, and a knowledge that he still lives and loves her and that, at times in her life, he will be near to help. 

“It’s okay, Mommy.” He said those same words just a few days prior when he told my wife and me that he didn’t think he could survive. In his moment of realization … when he knew he wouldn’t survive, he didn’t seek comfort from his mother … instead, he handed it to her selflessly. “I’ll be okay, Mommy.” 

I don’t know why such heavy things were placed on his tender shoulders, for he was an innocent boy of deep faith and enduring goodness. He was honest, faithful and true. At 10 years old, he was everything I have ever hoped to be. Yet, he died. 

Some might say God is cruel or indifferent by letting such hardships happen to children. What they forget is that nobody makes it out of here alive. What’s more, the purpose of life is not to build homes and garnish them with material things. We are here to struggle and walk by the dim light of faith … and in our struggle, we will be made strong. That is an immutable law of nature that not only applies to our bodies and minds, but our souls. Struggle makes us stronger.

I have always appreciated the words of the French philosopher Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, who once observed, “We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience.” Those are words to remember, especially when our bodies fail us and those we love.

I don’t know the meaning of all things, for I am yet a child who is learning to hear the voice of his Father. While I have much to learn, I have discovered a few things as I have stumbled in the valley of the shadow of death. I have come to know things I cannot deny: I know we are loved by a Father in ways we cannot yet comprehend, but I have felt a portion of that love and it has changed me from the inside out. I know that our spirits live on, for my dear wife and I have felt the presence of our son. I know that those who go before us can visit and offer us comfort in times of trouble.

As ancient Elisha once observed, “Fear not: for they that be with us are more than they that be with them.” I hope that my spiritual eyes will be opened so that I may see what is often hid from sight while living in mortality. I will always remember this dark winter night when my wife sensed our son’s presence, just beyond mortal sight. “It’s okay, Mommy” … a comfort and plea … whispered from a sweet little boy who wanted his mommy to see. 

--------------
NOTE: I gave this to Natalie on Mother’s Day. We both wept as we reflected on this sacred evening where there was both the darkness of grief and the light of God. This art will be part of a book I plan to release later this fall.

View fullsize

“Mitchell’s Journey isn’t only about what happened to my son, but what is now happening because of him. ”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

Over the last 3 years, I’ve written much on grief because that was my overwhelming reality. I have discovered that, when it comes to the death of a child (which is different than any death I’ve ever experienced), you don’t get over grief … you don’t move past it … you just learn to live with it. You learn to live with chronic pain. Because of that reality, I will still write of grief and my personal journey of healing – but I have much more to say than my personal songs of sorrow.

Mitchell’s Journey isn’t only about what happened to my son, but what is now happening because of him. So, not only will I write more stories of his life and struggle, I’m going to expand my musings by writing more about peace, family and all of the good things in life; a kind of potpourri of perspectives that have come because of little Mitch. Some stories will be funny, others will be filled with textures of peace and love.

Today I feel an overwhelming sense of peace and gratitude, and I have my Father to thank for that. When I look at this photo of Mitch, one warm summer day, I feel a deep sense of joy because he was happy. 

This journey has been the hardest experience of my life, but also the most fulfilling. If I had my way in life, being human, I would have avoided pain at all cost. After all, I am human. Yet, in avoiding everything that hurts, I would have ignored the part of me you cannot see … the thing that makes me, me. For comfort, I would have forfeit the opportunity to struggle and grow. That is something my Father knows. I have learned that because of my pain, I have changed. And I think that change is good. 

I am grateful to be happy. I am grateful to be human. I am grateful for this little boy, no matter the cost.
 

View fullsize

“I’m convinced the only label that should be applied to people is, “Handle with Care.” For we’re all sons and daughters of somebody ... loved beyond compare. After all, without love, what else is there? I’ll tell you: a life filled with shiny things, yet empty and bare.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

Mitch sat quietly on the edge of his bed as his mother carefully opened care packages from all across the world. His little heart was weary and about to fail; so we learned to appreciate not just moments, but the moments between moments. Every second counted. Time was worth more than all the riches of earth … for soon this little boy would leave our home on a journey from which he would never return. Soon our hearts would break in ways we couldn’t imagine.

We no longer had heart monitors, respiratory readings, blood oxygen reports and the million other hospital things that reminded us he was dying. Instead, we had our little boy back. He was home. For a short time, we enjoyed the illusion everything was okay. But things were not okay. Not one bit.

Young Mitch was always touched by care packages from others; many of which bore labels on them, “Handle with Care.” It was such a tender time for our son and those words “Handle with Care” always seemed to soothe my troubled soul. Yet my son’s countenance bore a heavy burden – for I could see he knew his time was limited – which made every act of caring more special to him.

Elementary school teachers from far-off places, hearing of our son’s fate, had their classes write notes to Mitch with loving words of encouragement. Other young children taped quarters, nickels and dimes to paper and wrote with their tender hands, “Hi Mitch, here is my allowance. I hope it helps.” I wept every time I saw such letters to Mitch and I prayed that those little souls, and their caring families, would be blessed 100-fold for their kindness.

Young Mitch was confused that people he didn’t know would care so much about him. He would read letters from others and say with shallow breaths, “They are so nice to me.” 

While Mitch slept, I would kneel outside his door and thank my Father for the tender mercies in our life. I knew we would not be spared from sorrow [no one ever is], so I learned to be grateful for the comforts that were found in our sorrows.

One man from New Jersey sent Mitch a Halo book which arrived the night he passed away. When we opened the package and told Mitch what it was, he squeezed his mother’s hand as if he wanted to wake up and see it. Oh, how he wanted to see it. His profusion was so low he was unable to open his eyes or sit up – but he could signal us, and that broke our hearts. For inside his broken little body was a spirit of a little boy who was very much alive and wanting to enjoy all the world had to offer. 

Handle with care. I can’t get those words out of my soul, and I don’t want to. I saw what it did for my son and what it did to my family - and I am forever grateful for the loving kindness of others. I will spend the rest of my life paying it forward. 

I’m convinced the only label that should be applied to people is, "Handle with Care." For we're all sons and daughters of somebody ... loved beyond compare. After all, without love, what else is there? I'll tell you: a life filled with shiny things, yet empty and bare.

Perhaps that's what little Mitch has left behind ... messages of love that he wants me to find. 

View fullsize

I will never forget when Mitch sat at the bottom of our steps, struggling to catch his breath after playing one of his last Nerf gun battles. He said to me, “Dad, why can’t I be like a regular kid? I know I will not get better. I know I will die.” In that very moment, keeping my composure consumed what little strength I had left. I was a broken father, stumbling over pebbles and powerless to rescue my son. Still, I hid away a river of tears so that I might comfort my little boy and not frighten him. Though the prospect of losing Mitch frightened me deeply. “Mitch, my son, I don’t know why we have to do hard things. I only know that our Father loves us and that we are on this earth to learn and grow.”

I don’t know how much those words comforted my son in that moment of childhood grief – but I do know he thought deeply about life and death and what happens on the other side. As his father, I did my best to teach him – not to believe my words, but rather I tried to give him the tools so that he might learn for himself … so that he didn’t need to simply believe on my words, but that he might have a knowledge of things for himself. After all, that is the greatest gift we can give our kids … “Don’t believe me. Let me show you how to find out for yourself.” As he neared the end, Mitch came to know (in sacred and undeniable ways) there was more to life than what we saw with our mortal eyes.

So many of the experiences my tender wife and I had leading up to (and during) our son’s death are the kind of life traumas that you never get over. They are not the stuff of nightmares … they are the stuff beyond nightmares. I have discovered that you don't set it aside and move on. That is impossible. Instead, we have to learn to live with those memories and decide what meaning they have for us. 

Though I often write of hard things in this place, I don’t live in a constant state of grief. I have grief moments, but thankfully they don’t last as long as they used to. In a manner of speaking, I no longer see a light at the end of the tunnel – for I believe I have passed through the tunnel. That doesn’t mean all is well and that things are as they used to be. I am forever changed over the loss of Mitch. I will miss him the remainder of my mortal days and I have learned to live with chronic grief. 

At least for me, Mitchell's Journey is like cleaning a deep wound. It's not for everybody. What's more, because my wound is deep, I tend to go deep and it hurts a lot. But that deep cleanse is necessary so as to not allow sorrow to infect my soul.

As I continue down this path of reflection over my son’s journey, I don’t write to wallow. I write to examine. To think deeply. To discover the meaning of suffering and other things. I write because I don’t ever want to be that person who forgets the lesson. I think that’s a universal human struggle: to remember and to see clearly. For when pain passes, we tend to forget and go to what’s easy. Mitchell’s Journey, at least for me, is a place to remember and a place to see. 

I write so that I might remember what I’ve learned at such a terrible price. I write lest I forget and become what I used to be. For where I was yesteryear is no place for me.