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“The paradox of pain is that it can push us forward, if we’ll allow it.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

A few years ago, I was on a business trip travelling throughout Asia Pacific. As business trips go, it was my favorite of all time. I loved spending time in China and found its people to be incredibly kind and sincere. I also spent quite a bit of time in Perth, Australia. I loved that country and its people, too. 

On my final leg of the trip, I was in Sydney for a few days before I embarked on the long journey home. By this time, I was tired and anxious to see my family. I knew Mitchell’s heart was in trouble, but I never thought I would lose him within 6 months. Time was precious and every moment, more precious still.
 

While in Sydney, Natalie and the kids each took turns to have a Skype conversation. I loved talking to each of them … I loved hearing their stories, seeing their faces and listening to the sound of their high-pitched voices. Though I was grateful to see their faces and hear their voices, I couldn’t wait to give each of them a big hug.

A few weeks before I left on my long trip, Mitch said, knowing a little about Asian art and culture, “Dad, will you find me a gold dragon?” Mitch loved gold, not because his heart was set on material things, but because he understood gold was a precious metal and that it was both rare and beautiful. Rare and beautiful, just like him, only he didn’t know that. 

I searched for a gold dragon but couldn’t find one I could afford – so I came home empty-handed. On my 30-hour journey home I worried about disappointing my tender son – and when I told Mitch I didn’t have one, he said softly, “It’s okay Dad, I’m just glad you’re home.” 

Later that night I thought about Mitchell’s words and I cried. Not because I was sad, but because I was overwhelmed with gratitude. “I’m just glad you’re home.” Those were my son’s words yet they were the words of my heart. I couldn’t wait to get home. Though I loved seeing the wonders of the world, none of them compared to the little souls that lived under my roof. Though I was grateful to see the world, my family was my world and everything else was a distraction.

Home. A beautiful word. Family, more beautiful, still. 

In many ways, grief is the longing for home. At least to me, home isn’t so much a place, but a state of being. If my physical home were swallowed up by a fire or an earthquake, I’ll have only lost things, not my sense of home. Where I live is immaterial, because home, as that old adage says, is where the heart is.

So, when we lose a loved one, the home in our heart changes forever. I can replace a couch or a television, but I cannot replace Mitch. Even with billions of people on the earth at this moment, there is none like Mitch, nor will there ever be again. My heart … my home … was my wife and 4 children. Now, one of them is gone and my heart and soul searches for him. That invisible sense of home we built by service and sacrifice … that place in the heart we lived in, was forever changed. My kitchen table will always feel profoundly empty. Family photos, missing a sweet smile I yearn to see. My heart will always have an empty space that Mitch once occupied. Thus, I will always be longing for home … the home I once knew. The home I so deeply loved.

Though painful, I am learning to channel my longing for home into making my new home better. There will always be a sacred, empty room in my heart – but the rest of it will be filled with more love and more moments that matter than ever before. The paradox of pain is that it can push us forward, if we’ll allow it.

I miss my old home. I miss little Mitch. But I know he is in that place beyond the hills and one day I will go there, too. I hope to hear him say, “Hi Dad, I’m glad you’re home.” 

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“You can do it; the same is true for all of us, each and every one. We have great potential. We are engineered to become.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

I dropped little Mitch off at school. He had an electric scooter parked in his classroom so he could keep up with friends at recess or make a journey down the school’s halls, but he could still walk short distances. I was grateful for every step he took – for it could have been worse. Much worse. 

I loved taking Mitch places, even to school. Maybe I loved it because of the conversations we had … or maybe it was just because of the way he held my hand. Though I was his father and wanted to bring him comfort, the truth was, he brought me comfort, too. Sometimes I think he did more for me than I ever did for him. No, I know that’s true.

Mitch began to walk toward the building with a backpack stuffed with homework, a peanut butter & jelly sandwich lovingly made by his mother, and a few treasures he liked to keep near him. At one point, he turned his head slightly to see if I was still there. I unrolled my window and yelled out, “Hi Mitch! You can do it! I love you!” I wanted him to know I was watching out for him; that I had his back, his front, and his sides. I wanted my child to know I believed in him. Natalie taught me how to do that, and I am forever grateful. 

It didn’t take long before little Mitch began talking to a classmate before their teacher came to get them at the first bell. I stayed a while and wondered what my son was talking about. I always listened carefully to what children had to say, for their words were a window to their soul and I couldn’t help but try to look in. Perchance, I might get a glimpse of heaven. For of such, children are.

Little Mitch kept looking at me and smiling, each time my heart melted, and I thought myself the luckiest guy on earth. Without question, being a father has been the most rewarding experience of my life. I wouldn’t trade it for all the riches of earth.

No matter where Mitch went, I wanted him to know I was cheering him on. And when he didn’t know how to do a thing, I always tried to show him. 

I think the most important gift we can give our children, and others, is belief-in-self. I don’t mean a grandiose, false bravado; I mean a quiet kind of confidence where they can stumble and get back up again and still believe they can go on. A self-confidence that isn’t attached to social acceptance, material things and looks … but rather a knowledge of who they are and what they have the potential to become.

“You can do it, Mitch.” I said those words often, and I think he started to believe me. I wish I had more of that when I was a kid. I could have used the boost. Now, I try to give my children what I wanted, but in greater abundance. I am not good at it, and I stumble often, but I believe if I keep trying, I’ll get better at it. 

Today, when I face implacable odds and incredible challenges (and I have many), I hear my son’s voice in my mind, “Dad, you can do it.” Then, a quiet confidence stirs within me, not because of who I am today – for I am flawed; but because of what I have the potential to become. Though I stumble, I get back up, and I run. 

You can do it; the same is true for all of us, each and every one. We have great potential. We are engineered to become.

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“There are fringe benefits that come with being engaged, industrious and self-sufficient. It may sound ironic, but in many ways, I believe these fringe benefits are the greater benefits. The wood we burn will disappear, but what we become by preparing it will forever endure. That is a recipe for living.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

Whenever Mitch went to the public library with his mother, he would always add a cookbook to his checkout. Tucked between a pile of books on amazing facts, science fiction adventures, and other boyish topics … a how-to-cook book was always in his mix.

Natalie would then drive to the grocery store and get whatever ingredients we didn’t have at home so he could create something delicious. Once he had the raw materials, little Mitch would quietly get to work. He was independent and seldom asked for help. DMD had weakened his arms considerably, so he didn’t have the physical strength to lift and pour a gallon of milk, but he could do most of everything else. Had Mitch not died of heart failure 3 years ago, by now he would likely have very limited use of his hands and barely the strength to lift a spoon. That is what DMD does to these beautiful children.

For Mitch, cooking was like assembling culinary Legos; he loved the challenge of following instructions … except when he was done cooking, he got to eat and share his creation. 

I always loved walking into the kitchen to see my little boy whipping up some recipe. He had cooking down to a science; when he needed to microwave something delicate, he knew exactly how many seconds to heat the item and how long it needed to rest. I remember when he told me in his sweet, soft voice exactly how many seconds it took to perfectly melt cheese for nachos, warm a frozen burrito, or melt butter. 

Mitch had an appetite for learning, doing, and becoming. He often reminded me of Henry Ford’s sage wisdom, “Chop your own wood, and it will warm you twice.” There are fringe benefits that come with being engaged, industrious and self-sufficient. It may sound ironic, but in many ways, I believe these fringe benefits are the greater benefits. The wood we burn will disappear, but what we become by preparing it will forever endure. That is a recipe for living.

When I look at this picture of little Mitch, I can’t help but think of the many recipes for a good life. I don’t think the recipe for a good life is much different than any recipe for a good meal … for each is different and the ingredients are unique to the dish. 

The ingredients for someone with a disability will be different than that of an Olympic athlete … for their steps and victories will be different, but the principles the same. Although little Mitch lived a short life, he taught me about some ingredients that I try to use every single day: 

• Follow instructions, learning from others who have figured something out is always the better path. 
• Get busy doing something, nothing gets done when nothing gets done.
• Work hard, for whatever you build is also building you.
• Be kind, for when you sweeten the life of others, you can’t help but taste of that sweetness, too.
• Help others along the way, for the heavenly paradox is when we help others, we help ourselves.
• Be patient with others, for they are struggling to change, just like you and me.
• Sprinkle gratitude over everything, for gratitude begets more gratitude, and that is a good thing. 
• Trust the process, though long and hard our struggles might seem, life’s difficulties will make us stronger, if we’ll allow it.

I remember laying by my son in his bed the night before he passed away. He was in a deep sleep and all I wanted to do was wake him up so that I might have more time. I couldn’t wake him, so I just cried and held him in my arms and wet his pillow with my tears. In that moment of quiet agony, I thought of ordinary, yet beautiful moments like this … where Mitch loved life and tried to make the most of everything. I vowed then, and vow again today, to make the most of every moment … so one day I can say, “I followed the recipe and lived a good life.”

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“Of grief and healing, I have much to say. Despite the heartache and deep dismay, I’ve discovered portions of peace aren’t so far away. ”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchells Journey

Tiny Mitch was seated at our old kitchen table about to celebrate his second birthday. He was a gentle child who had a loving and tender disposition about him. I always felt like Heaven loaned us something special when it came to Mitch. I know that all of our children are special, truly special, but there was something unique about this little boy and I couldn’t put my finger on it.

Natalie made cupcakes which our kids and some cousins decorated. Ethan had cheated and already stuffed a cupcake in his mouth, as evidenced by the crumbs on his face. He was a turkey, but we loved him so. Laura-Ashley stood by her baby brother with her eyes set on the cupcake she wanted. The cousins stood transfixed over the mouth party that was about to take place. Oh, to be a child again …

Mitch curled his tiny fingers as Natalie slowly lit each candle. As I took this photo I received that same impression I had on the day of his birth … that something was wrong with my son. I wondered to myself, “Who are you little Mitch? What is happening with you? What are you meant to do?” I couldn’t see into the future; I only sensed a storm was brooding over the horizon and my soul shuddered. 

After the candles were lit, tiny Mitch attempted to blow the candles. After a few attempts, the candles were out and the kids were enjoying their sugary treats. My memories of this evening are vivid and I can’t help but think how grateful I am that the time spent investing in our children pays dividends for a lifetime. I am glad I wasn’t too busy to be a dad. I know I’ve got a lot to improve on – but I got this day right.

Later that night I rocked tiny Mitch in my arms. As he lay softly in my embrace, he would reach up to touch my face with one hand as he held his sippy cup in the other. I would sing songs to him, tell him fantastical stories, and say him I loved him repeatedly. Soon, my baby drifted off to that place of magic and dreams – and the little boy in me wished I could follow him to Neverland. In that moment, never a child seemed so at peace. Never a father just the same. I held him a little longer, not wanting that heavenly moment to end, grateful for the gift of parenthood. There was nothing in the world I wanted more than what I held in my arms in that moment. As I tucked him in, Natalie, the sweetest mother I have ever known, kissed his face ever so gently. 

I remember kneeling at the edge of my bed that night, long after everyone was asleep, thanking God for the gift of family. I was deeply flawed and felt inadequate as a husband and father, yet I was given the greatest gift in all of humanity: family. 

A year later we would learn Mitch had DMD and that he would likely die in his late teens or early twenties. We were told his muscles would soon atrophy and he would stop walking before he was a teenager. Not long after, he wouldn’t be able to lift his arms or turn over in his bed. His sweet little body would get weaker and weaker until he wouldn’t be able to breathe on his own. Eventually, his heart, also a muscle, would succumb. Death was certain, but when was not.

It was at this same table I wept while reading medical texts that described the horror show I would soon witness. Not only did it detail what DMD does to the body, but what it does to the family. We were told by many that most marriages don’t survive … that this would not only break our hearts but most likely break our family. So, as if one were to brace for a tidal wave, Natalie and I clung to each other and promised to never let each other go.

It was at this table, in the still of night, I knelt in prayer begging my Father for a way out. My son would not be spared. In fact, because of early heart failure, he would die much sooner than anyone imagined. Exactly the opposite of my heart’s desire. Just because I didn’t get want I wanted, doesn’t mean Heaven doesn’t care. In fact, I recognize tender mercies that show me He is here, there and everywhere. Most importantly, I see evidence that He cares.

Mitch had an impression similar to the one I had about him, another tender mercy. When he came home from the hospital, not knowing he was going to die, he said, “Mom, my birthday feels so far away. Can I have an early birthday?” It was unlike him to ask for any such thing – and we knew that he sensed change was happening. Mitch had an early birthday – which was a gift to our son and our family. He was just as tender that day as he was in this photo.

Tomorrow is my son’s birthday; he would have turned 14 years old. It’s been 3 years since he left our family and I wish I could say grief was a thing of the past … but it is not. As long as I’m mortal, deep grief will last. Grief is a struggle; sometimes peace seems so far away. That is until I recognize healing is a process, not a destination, and I can nurture it each day. 

Of grief and healing, I have much to say. Despite the heartache and deep dismay, I've discovered portions of peace aren’t so far away.