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There isn’t a day that goes by I don’t think of Mitch a thousand times.  On my commute to-and-from work I drive with him in my mind.  Sometimes I imagine him sitting next to me in my car, like he used to, when he would have a father/son day at work.  I want to reach out my hand toward that empty chair and hold his – but he is not there.  Nor will he ever be.  For he has gone from this place and my heart is changed because of it. 

“ To be stuck WITH grief is to carry our sorrows as we move forward in life. It is to have our backs made stronger as we climb to new heights, while we shoulder the weight of sorrow. To be stuck IN grief is to be tethered, as though we were chained to a boulder … circling our pain again, and again, and again. ”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

I used to cry all day.  In the beginning, while I was at work and when meetings were over, I would often go outside and salt the earth with my tears.  Sometimes I could hardly breathe.  Save this blog, I kept my sorrow to myself – hiding my broken heart behind a soft smile and a warm handshake. 

At night, I would look at my pillow with a measure of fear … for that space between sleep and wake terrified me.  It was during that transition to-and-from sleep I would experience the loss of Mitch all over again. Sometimes that unfiltered grief was so raw, it would startle me to the point I couldn’t go back to sleep.  For that reason, I was afraid of the night. 

I think it’s safe to say I have been to hell and back.  What matters, I suppose, is that I’m back.  I am grateful to say I am no longer in hell, though grief will sometimes sweep me back to hell from time-to-time.

Not a day goes by Natalie and I don’t talk about our little boy.  We remember his goodness and the lessons he taught us.  We think back on his sense of humor and his tender soul; and when we talk about Mitch, we often do it with warm hearts and a feeling of gratitude. 

Each day is met with memories and a tender longing for our son.  That is what children do to parents … they become the better parts of us and if they are taken away, we spend the remainder of our days in search of that which was lost. 

I often hear people reference others as being “stuck in grief.”  It is a label sometimes carelessly handed out by those who often know very little of grief themselves.  Yet, I have thought a great deal about what that means – at least to me.  When I think of the word stuck, I think of something that is immovable.   When it comes to the loss of a child, grief is a chronic, life-long condition.  Grief isn’t something you experience, like the flu, and move on.  Grief alters every part of you.  You become a spiritual amputee and you must learn to live without a once vital part of your heart and soul.

So, in a manner of speaking, I suppose I am stuck WITH grief – but that doesn’t mean I am stuck IN grief.  I cannot restore the loss of my son any more than an amputee can regenerate a missing limb.  But I can learn and adapt to my new reality and grow – and therein lies the difference, I believe.  To be stuck WITH grief is to carry our sorrows as we move forward in life. It is to have our backs made stronger as we climb to new heights, while we shoulder the weight of sorrow.  To be stuck IN grief is to be tethered, as though we were chained to a boulder … circling our pain again, and again, and again. 

I am not circling, I am climbing - and when I write of grief, I speak of that which I’m carrying … not that which I’m circling.

Mitch was the better part of me.  A million times over, he was everything I could ever hope to be.  Not a day goes by I don’t fall to my knees and thank Heaven for giving Mitch to me.  Because of him, I see things differently.  I am a different me.

This morning, as I left for work, I couldn't help but notice the sunrise and think how much Mitch would have loved it.

“Mitch has taught me something about the duality of grief; though I may suffer chronic grief, my heart can still be filled with gratitude.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

Because little Mitch is never far from my mind, when I saw this display of light and color, my heart swelled with gratitude and I thought to myself, "Oh Mitch, that sunrise is for you." In a way, I felt like I had Mitch beside me - even though he was not. Not the way I want him to be. That, my friends, is grief. It is to feel great pain, despite our spiritual beliefs. A longing for what was lost and aching for relief.

Mitch has taught me something about the duality of grief; though I may suffer chronic grief, my heart can still be filled with gratitude. I can be afraid and still have courage.

I think that's how I've learned to survive grief ... I acknowledge my sorrow, but then I look for reasons to be grateful. I can smile through the tears.

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Never had the closing of a door been so terrifying. The funeral director reverently moved the flower arrangement so the casket could be sealed shut … sealed for as long as the earth would last. My hands began to shake, and my knees trembled as I stood agonizing over the finality of it all. My little son, who loved life and thought I could save him from harm, was gone.

This moment that you see here was one of the hardest moments of my life. I couldn’t bear to see my little boy’s likeness being swallowed up in the shadow of the casket door. I had to look away, for I could not bear the sight of it. I looked down and wondered if I could ever gather up the broken pieces of my heart … for there were more than any mortal could count.

“If life matters, so does death … and every moment in between. ”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

Desperate for comfort, little Wyatt leaned his tear-drenched face into me and wept. And my sweet, tender wife felt a grief so deep, death would have been a sweet release.

Everyone in my little family was broken, and I couldn’t fix it.

C.S. Lewis, an author I have long admired, said this: “It is hard to have patience with people who say ‘There is no death’, or ‘Death doesn't matter.’ There is death. And whatever is matters. And whatever happens has consequences, and it and they are irrevocable and irreversible. You might as well say that birth doesn't matter.”

If life matters, so does death … and every moment in between. Those who walk in grief carry a heavy burden and pain that cannot be seen. Some are impatient or insensitive with those who grieve … others are simply mean. To them I say, it matters, the life and death of a human being.

It hurts because it matters.

Last week, while attending a #ppmd conference, Natalie and I met several families with whom we discovered an instant bond. I gave this young boy, Logan, one of Mitchell's medals from our annual#milesformitchell run. I wanted him to know that he was remarkable and that I admired him. He was such a sweet child and reminded me of my son. I was also grateful to have met his parents, who were as strong as anyone I've ever known. I only wished there was enough time to sit down with every family and learn their story.

Losing our son didn't just break our heart; strangely, it enlarged it. Since then, we have learned to love others and empathize in ways we never imagined. The further I head down#mitchellsjourney the more I'm beginning to realize that we may not be able to save lives, at least tomorrow, but perhaps we can help save families. For if we save a life, yet lose our families, we may have won a battle but will have certainly lost the war.