HARD THINGS

Little Mitch was so nervous on his first day of school.  I had just given him a fatherly hug, told him how proud I was of the young boy he’d become and that I believed in him.  I told him that of all the people I have ever known, I knew he [above all other people] could do hard things. 

I believe, in matters of the Spirit, we experience similar help from those on the other side – however much we may feel alone at times.
— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

With that, I whispered, “I love you, son.” Mitch sniffled and said softly, “I love you too, Dad.” As I turned to walk out of the classroom, Mitch said, “But … Dad?” I responded, “Yes, son.” “Will you be here to pick me up from school? I don’t want to fall. I’m afraid.” “Yes, sweet boy, both Mom and I will be back to get you. We will never leave you alone.”

Mitch swallowed the tender lump in his throat, held back his tears and tried to muster whatever courage his little heart could find. Natalie lingered in the classroom so she could make sure his new teacher and aids understood our son’s special needs. Though Mitch felt alone at times, he had a small battalion of people helping him. I believe, in matters of the Spirit, we experience similar help from those on the other side – however much we may feel alone at times.

There was a part of me wanted to take my son’s hardships away – to shield him from difficulty, pain, and sorrow. The other part of me knew that through struggle comes strength – both in matters of the body and the soul. Instead, I just prayed to my own Father that my son would be blessed with strength beyond his own.

As I waited in the hall and watched Mitch dig deep to find courage, I began to choke on the lump in my throat. Mitch wasn’t worried about making new friends, nor was he afraid of school work. He was nervous about being knocked over and that nobody would be around to help him up. Little Mitch was worried teachers would understand that he’d be asked to run and jump like regular kids – that he wouldn’t have the muscle strength to do what he was asked and that somehow, he’d get in trouble for it. This little boy wasn’t just worried about keeping up; he was worried about being left behind, getting knocked over in the hall and being trampled on by a swift river of students going from one place to the next. Such was the mind of my little child … innocent and pure.

True to our word, Natalie and I returned to pick Mitch up from school. Mitch carried a look of relief and determination on his countenance. As his Dad, I was so proud of him. He wasn’t perfect – nor did I expect him to be. He tried, and he grew because of it … and that made my heart glad.

I was then, and remain today, an imperfect dad.  Having kids was hard, losing one was harder and learning to live without him is hardest.  Sometimes I feel like Mitch in this photo – unsure and afraid.  But then I remember my Father sits just out of view, looking in, knowing that through struggle comes strength.

Being mortal, it’s easy to forget the things that hurt and sometimes break us are the same things our Father uses to refine and shape us. And when, like Mitch, we think we’re on our own – if we look up and around – we may sense help from beyond … and strength beyond our own.

This I know. I know it in my bones.

 

LETTERS TO MY SON: FOREVER SEARCHING

This video is the first installment of a 5 part video series entitled "Letters to My Son." In these visual essays, I narrate letters I wrote my son after he passed away. Collectively, these meditations explore my journey with grief, thoughts on healing, living a life of significance and life's search for meaning.

In this video, you'll see a collection of videos I shot with my drone while returning to Mitchell's favorite places to visit. Everything you see in this video are actual locations that were near to Mitchell's heart ... places he and I forged memories and talked about our dreams.

These are the meditations of my heart.


In the month of September, Mitchell's Journey will be focusing on the theme of growth and change. 

This Essay is part of the September Seasonal Content.  Visit each month to get more.

August  -  September  -  October  -  November  -  December

BEING SEEN

“Mom, will you go with me?” Mitch said softly as he pointed toward a towering set of stairs leading to a waterslide.  Mitch loved his mom and always felt safe when she was near.  Natalie lifted Mitch in her arms and began to make the long upward journey.  It was unseasonably hot for that time of year – so any chance at getting in the water was welcome.

As Natalie rounded the stairs, Mitch saw me in the distance and waved with his fingers.  My heart melted as I saw a boy whose muscles were made weak from disease and a mother who was made strong through the struggle.  Those two made a beautiful symphony whose songs I still hear in my heart.

... being seen wasn’t about vanity, it was about validation
— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

As I look at this photo, I can’t help but think of the thousands of photos where my kids looked over to see if mom and I were watching them.  Not only do I have photos of them looking over at us, but I also captured their expressions of relief, appreciation, and fresh courage when they knew they mattered.  Growing up, I remember how often being seen by an adult mattered to me.  At least for me, being seen wasn’t about vanity, it was about validation.  And it didn’t take many moments of validation to make a profound difference in my life.  Being seen was as simple as having a parent ask me how my day went, a scout leader taking a moment to make a personal observation about me, or my high school English teacher who saw something in me I did not.  To those adults, those encounters may have seemed insignificant – but to me, they were pivotal moments … shaping moments.  I’ll never forget those good people for their positive contribution to my life.

Mitch also had great school teachers who saw him – and when they saw him, he felt empowered to be the best version of himself.  His principal, Shelly Davis, always took the time to let Mitch know she cared.  She had mastered the art of seeing the children in her school – and every single one of them felt noticed and special.  I am forever grateful for Mitchell’s Principal and teachers who made my little boy, who was unsure of his place in the universe, feel that he mattered and that he had an important role to play.  That is, in my experience, the best education of all; to learn that no matter how big or small, each of us has something to contribute.  Everybody has value.

As the school year starts, I think about my 3 remaining children.  Laura-Ashley is in college forging her way through young adulthood with plans to pursue nursing.  Ethan is a Junior and already taking college-level classes in film and cinematography.  Wyatt is now in 6th grade – showing signs of a bright and promising future.  Though I have many things on my mind and work tugging for my attention, I will not forget the lessons I learned in my youth and those same lessons I saw play out in Mitchell’s life.  Today, tomorrow, and for as long as I live, I’ll make sure I take the time to see my kids and recognize the good in them. 

Although both are vital for healthy relationships, it’s my experience giving your attention has a greater impact than giving someone your time.  With technology at our fingertips, it is so easy to spend time with someone – but never really show up.  Twenty minutes of sincere connection has more influence than 20 hours of being somewhere but nowhere.  Those pivotal moments in my youth were short conversations – but they were focused and sincere.  These good people gave me their attention – and that made all the difference.

I hope as Mitchell’s life was coming to an end, that his mind was filled with moments like this photo – where he was seen, loved and validated.  Of all the gifts we can give each other, those are chief among them.


This Essay is part of the September Seasonal Content.  Visit each month to get more.

August  -  September  -  October  -  November  -  December

ON SILENCE & SUFFERING

It had only been a few hours since I knelt at this very bed and whispered into my son’s ear how proud I was to be his daddy and that he didn’t need to hold on any longer.  I knew he was tired yet didn’t want to leave for fear of hurting us.  I also believe part of him didn’t want to leave because he loved to be alive – I mean, he truly appreciated life.  I told my little boy how much I would miss him but that he would be okay and he didn’t need to be afraid. 

This sacred room had become a spiritual train station and my little son had departed on a one-way trip.
— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

I often hear parents agonize over saying goodbye to their children at the airport as they go to college, serve missions, or move to some other place.  Though I understand the sorrow of saying goodbye, temporarily, to a loved one … I’ve come to know a deeper, inescapable, nearly suffocating sorrow when you must say goodbye to a child for life. 

The morning sun had broken and I was still in a state of shock.  Incredulous, I went back to Mitchell’s room, wanting to see if it was all a bad dream hoping to discover my little boy was still with us.  My heart broke as I saw my dear wife sitting where Mitch once giggled just a few days prior. 

Natalie was surrounded by everything that gave Mitch comfort in hopes of feeling close to him.  I knew how much she loved her son and how devastated she was to lose him.  Little Marlie, sensing Natalie’s suffering, jumped on her lap in the same way she tried to comfort Mitch when he was dying.  Natalie closed her eyes and wept.  She had a profound spiritual experience earlier that morning, under the cover of a winter’s night sky – but that didn’t take away the pain of losing him.

This sacred room had become a spiritual train station and my little son had departed on a one-way trip.  Though I said goodbye, I remained unsettled that I didn’t say everything my heart wanted to say.

Our journey with grief was just beginning and things would get worse … much worse … before they would start to get better.  This photo was taken a little over 4 years ago.  We have healed a great deal since, but we still mourn the profound loss of Mitch.  Not a day passes we don’t think of him a thousand times.  However, behind our smiles and cheerful dispositions are hearts that are still tender … still mending.

There comes a point where observers no longer feel sad with that person, and they begin to feel sad for that person. 
— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

It wasn’t long after the passing of Mitch from heart failure, a neighbor/friend down the street received a heart transplant.  I remember visiting him at the hospital while he was in recovery, with some of our neighbors.  At one point, I had to step into the hall to weep a little.  I was sincerely grateful this good man had a second chance at life – in fact, I wept for his family and prayed fervently he’d survive his own struggle with heart failure.  So, watching him smile softly in his recovery room brought me great joy.  But, without warning, the pain of my son’s loss to heart failure overcame me and I struggled to catch my breath.  In that moment, I felt like a young child who missed the bus as I saw it drive into the distance … that overwhelming sense of doom and panic that maybe I didn’t do enough to fight the system that denied my son a transplant.  Agony coursed through my veins like a drug and I was in emotional hell.  As my friends and I left the hospital, they were oblivious to my silent suffering – and it was then that I realized after all is said and done, the journey of grief is traveled by one.

At what point does grieving the loss of a child become decidedly sad, improper, or morose?  On the surface, such a question seems unconscionable.  Except, the hard truth is there is often an underlying expectation that those who grieve move on at some point.  There comes a point where observers no longer feel sad with that person, and they begin to feel sad for that person. 

So, what does moving on mean?  I know what moving on looks like for observers … at first, they feel deeply for a season but then their mind and attention shifts to other matters in their own life.  That is as it should be.  Everyone has their own set of struggles and in time, those issues take center stage in their lives – especially as time passes.  Moving on for the sufferer is not so easy – particularly when it comes to the loss of a child.  When someone becomes a parent, they are changed forever in ways that are difficult to describe.  That little soul we ushered to life becomes a deep part of our identity and whatever happens to them, happens to us.  When we lose them, we lose a part of us we can’t get back.

Observing how others respond has been interesting:

  • As time passes, some of those closest to us avoid conversations about our fallen child for fear it would make us sad.  (Don’t worry, we’re already sad.) 
  • Some are uncomfortable because they don’t know what to say or how to say it. (I’ve found the most helpful thing to say is, “I want you to know I care.”) 
  • Others worry they’ll say something wrong and offend.  (Perhaps the most powerful thing you’ll ever say is, “I’m listening.”)
  • Still others avoid talking about pain because of their own struggles with pain. 
  • On the other side of the spectrum are those who think they have all the answers … they say things like, “Don’t be sad.  Your child wouldn’t want you to be sad.” 
  • Some, foolishly, will square their shoulders, look you in the eye, and tell you they think it’s time to move on – as if their bold, armchair counsel can do in a moment what psychologists can’t do for their patients in months or years.  

Whether people pull back or lean in, it seems to me all those things serve to further alienate the sufferer.  They silence their pain and take it to a deeper place, far from view or criticism from others – often not knowing what to do or where to go.  Sometimes that hidden pain becomes emotionally cancerous, other times it leads to deep depression, anxiety, or unspecified anger.  This can be a dangerous state of being.

Because memories are subject to fade ... some parents want to talk about their loved one(s) – not so much that you won’t forget … but so they won’t. 
— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

I have discovered that for many who have lost a child, talking about them is a form of therapy.  In part, it helps because we don’t get to make new memories with them – we only have yesterday's.  Because memories are subject to fade, I’ve observed some parents want to talk about their loved one(s) – not so much that you won’t forget … but so they won’t.  We cling to details because that’s all we’ve got and they are treasures beyond price. 

Suffering is hard enough.  Suffering in silence, harder still. 

If you have a friend who suffers, lend an ear, a caring heart, and a soft shoulder to lean on.  Even if their loss was years ago – no matter how well they hide their hurt, it is there.  Letting them know they’re safe with you and that you care can help those who hurt work through their struggle.  With your love and heaven’s help, perhaps they can put a few pieces back together.

[This photo was taken on March 2, 2013.  7:50 AM]