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“When I think of heaven in all its splendor and promises yet to be, I can’t help but wonder if I’ll see mothers ... as far as the eye can see. Nothing would be more peaceful ... nothing more heavenly.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

When Mitch was scared of the future, he always received great comfort from his mother. My life experience tells me that is how things have always been: in times of trouble we cling to faith and our mother's embrace. 

I don't think that's a coincidence either, for mothers are the closest thing there is to heaven. I have seen the power of both, and I am forever grateful. 

As long as mothers walk the earth, there will be a measure of comfort and peace for weary souls who seek relief. Even a hug from my wife, when I find myself deep in grief, brings my heart a comforting peace. When I think of heaven in all its splendor and promises yet to be, I can't help but wonder if I'll see mothers ... as far as the eye can see. Nothing would be more peaceful ... nothing more heavenly.

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“And in the pitch of night, as I looked heavenward I saw a heavenly sight … forever, it seemed, I could see tender mercy upon tender mercy. In that dim light, I learned to see far beyond the veil of mortality.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

It was a punishingly hot summer day. Evening was almost upon us when we stopped by our home which was under construction. We sold our previous home because it had too many stairs and we wanted to have something that would accommodate Mitchell’s growing physical needs.

When we arrived, our kids bounced out of our van and ran around the home to see what had changed. They were freshly bathed and smelled vaguely of soap and shampoo and were dressed in their jammies in preparation for a den party back at our apartment. Mitch and Ethan ran into what would soon be their room. Like little children do, they began making plans about where their beds would go, the forts they would make and where they would store their favorite toys. The little boy in me wanted to join them in their youthful adventures – but this was their time, and I loved watching a little of me in them.

Mitch, wearing his cute yellow t-shirt, ran to the corner of their room and said, “Effie, this is where we’ll sleep!” Ethan smiled, “Sweet, dude” and began to share his excitement about their brotherly plans.

It never occurred to me the hell I would experience in this very corner just a few years later. This spot where you see Mitch standing is exactly where he would die.

This was the same place I fell to my knees a thousand times and pleaded heavenward for my son’s deliverance from death. This is where I bartered with my Father and asked that He might take my life instead. The same place my wife bowed her head, broken and defeated in grief when Mitch would awaken long enough to tell his mom he would be okay. This is the exact same place, to the very inch, she would sense his soul linger after he passed away … where she heard a whisper to her soul, “It’s okay, Mommy.”

In this unremarkable corner of suburban America, this infinitely tiny speck the universe is hallowed ground. This is where I peered into the abyss, which is death, and found myself gasping for air as I was swallowed up in the darkness of grief. Yet, as my spiritual eyes began to adjust … as my soul began to search heavenward, I started to discern the many tender mercies heaven put in our path so we might bear our burdens more easily. The recognition of these invisible blessings were like little flecks of light – and the accumulation of these blessings presented themselves like a heavenly constellation so I could find my way in the pitch of night. Oh, what night grief can be. So dark … so heavy, one cannot see or scarcely breathe.

Yet, there, in this corner where I wished to die so that I might escape the grief of losing my child, I was given eyes to see Heaven’s tender hand and many loving mercies. Even still, I was required to walk the dark path of grief and was greatly pained therewith; for I wanted my son to be with me. 

This insignificant space, this speck in the universe … this is where I knelt with bruised knees: a plain, ordinary, and flawed man, begging for relief. And in the pitch of night, as I looked heavenward I saw a heavenly sight … forever, it seemed, I could see tender mercy upon tender mercy. In that dim light, I learned to see far beyond the veil of mortality.

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“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. 

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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.

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“Though at times, I may feel my plate to be small and my chicken nuggets few, I can find gratitude with what I have … for I have a plate and chicken nuggets.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

Little Mitch sat quietly at our kitchen counter ready to eat lunch. His dear mommy prepared a plate of warm chicken nuggets and a dollop of ketchup. Chicken nuggets and macaroni and cheese were among his favorite lunchtime meals. Though we were struggling to make ends meet at the time, Mitch always felt like he ate like a king. It didn’t matter if he had a bowl of Top Ramen or a grilled cheese sandwich, Mitch appreciated everything.

While his older siblings were at school, Mitch found ways to keep himself company. Wherever he went, he carried little treasures with him. Every day, we would find them in his small pant pockets, his backpack, lunch pail and in his tiny hands. As I watched my little son, I began to discover these things were more than tiny treasures … they were symbols of his affection. Suddenly, I was reminded of the passage, “Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.” When I saw my son’s treasures, I knew where his heart was. 

So, on this warm afternoon, I saw my tiny son carefully place his little treasures around his small lunch plate. On the left was his favorite racecar; Mitchell’s muscles were weak, but he was learning to be more active and he loved how he felt when he was on the move. This car was a symbol of his love for movement. Next to this car stood his puppy, which reminded him of our family dog and the love he felt for her. Then, a figure of a little boy which represented himself. Standing next to him was another figure Mitch called dad. Never did I see those two characters apart … they were always, always together. Finally, on the far right was Buzz Lightyear, his noble protector, a shield from anything that might cause harm to the things he loved. My heart melted when I saw this tender display of affection.

Later that day, I started to notice the same thing with my other children. Each had treasures unique to them. I wasn’t just fascinated by what they treasured, but how they treasured it and what each treasure revealed about their hearts. Every bookcase, drawer and collection revealed something about their little minds and hearts. What might have looked like a mess was actually a message. And suddenly, I was listening.

My sweet wife always seemed to notice our children’s treasures (and hearts) naturally … but I had to learn the slow way. But, at least I learned. 

What I learned from my children was everyone has tiny treasures, even adults. What we do, and cling to, is an evidence of where our heart is. 

What always struck me about Mitch was how he seemed to treasure everything and that he was grateful for whatever he had. During his darkest moments I heard him say things like, “Well, at least I can walk” or “At least I’m alive.” I may be guilty of many things, but I never want to be guilty of ingratitude. Little Mitch taught me that no matter how difficult a moment may seem, I can always find something to be grateful for.

Though at times, I may feel my plate to be small and my chicken nuggets few, I can find gratitude with what I have … for I have a plate and chicken nuggets.