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Every-so-often we’d take our kids bowling for family night. In my culture, that’s a long-held tradition of dedicating one night a week to spend as a family. On these bowling adventures, we always enjoyed getting a plate of nachos, a chili dog, and a basket of french fries. The food was never good. In fact, it was awful. But, to spend time with family always seemed to make up for terrible food. Mediocre nachos just taste better when you're giggling.

“Heaven is never so close as when we’re with loving family and friends.  And when someone is going through hell, we can bring a little piece of heaven into their lives by simply being a loving friend.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

Surrounded by bad food and good company, we’d spend the next hour or two cheering each other on while competing for the highest score.

By this point in his life, Mitch wasn’t strong enough to hold a bowling ball, so family members helped by positioning the ball on an adaptive bowling ramp.  Mitch smiled as he squinted his eyes and slightly moved the ramp at just the right angle.  Then, softly, he’d push the ball down the ramp, and it would hurl down the lane.  When he’d get a strike, Mitch would chuckle as I’d blend sports terminology.   “Great!  You got a goal!” or, “Nice touchdown, son.”  Mitch and I shared a pocket full of inside jokes that always made us smile.

On this occasion, Natalie’s sister and her family joined our bowling adventure.  Mitchell’s closest cousin, Hunter, was always by his side, cheering him on – both bowling and in life.  At one point, Wyatt placed his hand on Mitchell’s back and said, “Nice job, Mitch!”  At this moment, I thanked my Father for the gift of family and friends.  I was especially thankful Mitch had a loving circle of his own.  Mitch was blessed with genuine friends.

Just today I had lunch with a dear friend and colleague.  He’s had a blessed career, and I have admired his desire to serve others with his good fortune.  About two years ago, however, he experienced a tremendous personal hardship that broke his heart and shook his soul.  During his darkest hours, I remember praying fervently that he would find a measure of peace each day as he learned to walk his own journey with grief.  As we were catching up on each other’s lives, he shared something a friend told him during a moment of darkness, and I learned a beautiful lesson.  His friend said, “I can’t imagine what you’re going through.  I don’t know how to help … but I know how to be a friend.”

When I heard that tender phrase, I was overwhelmed by its power and simplicity.  It’s another way of saying, “I want you to know I care.” 

Those are beautiful, healing words: “I don’t know how to help, but I know how to be a friend.”  It acknowledges the uniquely difficult journey of the sufferer while offering a shoulder to lean on, a listening ear, and an understanding heart. 

Heaven is never so close as when we’re with loving family and friends.  And when someone is going through hell, we can bring a little piece of heaven into their lives by simply being a loving friend.

So, when I look back on this tender moment with little Mitch surrounded by kids who didn’t know what to do, but knew how to be a friend, I’m reminded of the supernal goodness of children. 

I cherish this memory. 

When I feel grief cast its shadow on my soul, I scoop into my pocket of cherished memories and pull out little gems, like this moment.  They fill my heart with gratitude, meaning, and purpose – which, combined, serve as a lamp unto my feet when the path grows especially dark.  Today I was reminded of another gem to serve a broken heart: that to be a friend is one of heaven’s healing arts.

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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.

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The night Mitch passed away a caring friend, knowing death was near, offered to have our youngest son stay the night at their home. Our family was about to suffer one of life’s greatest blows – and they wanted to help.

“As a father, that is the best I can hope for … to teach my children what to do, then get out of the way and let Heaven do its work … so they may know for themselves.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

That next morning little Wyatt returned home and entered our front door, unaware his older brother had just passed away. “Wyatt, sweetheart, will you meet Dad and I in our room? We want to talk to you about something”, Natalie said softly. Wyatt dropped his pillow and blanket to the floor and said, “Sure thing, Mom.”

As young Wyatt entered the room, we sat on the floor at the foot of our bed. “Wyatt, I’m so sorry ... Mitchie passed away last night,” Natalie said with a cracked and tattered voice. That very moment, Wyatt’s eyes filled with enormous tears and began streaming down his cheeks. “Can I say goodbye?” Wyatt said in a trembling tone. “I’m afraid you can’t, sweetheart, he is already gone. I’m sorry.”

Wyatt buried his head into his mother’s embrace and wept. For the next 30 minutes, I sat breathless as I saw my wife, a tender-hearted mother, grieve deeply over the loss of her son while at the same time trying to comfort her youngest. In a way, coping with the loss of a child while helping our children can feel like we’re trying to save someone from drowning while we're drowning ourselves. That heavenly paradox keeps us afloat: for when we comfort others, we somehow find comfort.

In this tender moment I, too, wept for Mitch, for my wife, for my children. I wept for the whole world. I didn’t want anyone to suffer and would have given my life to save my family (or any family) from such sorrow. Sorrow, it seems, is a mortal’s birthright.

After an extended period of tears, Wyatt lifted his head. Just then, Megan (our pet dog) worked her way between them to kiss Wyatt’s cheek. It was as if she knew how badly he hurt. Wyatt smiled softly as Natalie continued to embrace our son.

For the next year, young Wyatt was afraid to be alone. Though we often talked about life after death and our knowledge that Mitch was in another place, Wyatt’s young mind struggled to come to terms with the finality of death. Often, while playing in our living room, if Natalie stepped into another room or was out of sight, Wyatt would yell out with a worried tone, “Mom?!?” Sometimes his tone was that of a startled and drowning child - he was so afraid to be alone. In time, Wyatt learned that he would be okay and that he needn't worry about his own mortality. Those are difficult lessons for a 7-year-old child to learn.

There are people who ask why God would allow such suffering to happen to an innocent child, as though He were indifferent or uncaring. I have a different view of my Father, and I fall to my knees with gratitude, despite the sorrow my family has experienced. Although Wyatt experienced the trauma and sorrow of losing his brother, he also had profound experiences with prayer during that time … almost as if it were a Heavenly compensation. Wyatt had personal experiences that taught him he is not alone. Through his own suffering, Wyatt gained a deep testimony of prayer. He no longer believes in my words, he knows for himself. As a father, that is the best I can hope for … to teach my children what to do, then get out of the way and let Heaven do its work … so they may know for themselves.

I am not grateful for pain and sorrow; in fact, the mortal in me wishes to avoid it. However, I am grateful for the heavenly lessons we can learn from hardship. For as that old Zen proverb states, “The obstacle is the path,” the very things that challenge have the potential to change us for the better, if we allow it.

My Father knew it. I came to know it. Now my little son knows it. The obstacle was, and always will be, the path.

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We sat in the upper level of Shriners Hospital waiting our turn to visit with the orthotics department. From a distance, I saw Ethan and Mitch whispering in the corner of a vast open space designed to let children play. I could tell by the looks on their faces these young boys were conspiring to have fun. A few moments later I saw Ethan sit on a scooter and Mitch started pushing him with his electric chair. They both laughed and laughed as they scurried about the hardwood floor, sometimes at exhilarating speeds.

Along the wall of this open corridor, I saw a chalkboard where a young child wrote, “I’m sad.” I’ll post that photo in another story about suffering. As I read that simple phrase, clearly written by young hands, I began to cry for that mystery child. My heart broke and I wished I could share a portion of my own health and give it to others in need, including my son. I would have given my life to save my son.

“So, when I seem to struggle or get lost and can’t find my way, I stop to catch my breath … then find someone I can serve that day. It doesn’t take much to turn a bad day around – if I can help someone in need and my heart goes from lost, to suddenly found.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

As I turned attention back Mitch and Ethan, my eyes began to dry and my heart was filled with gratitude. Though life can seem cruel at times, I saw evidence of heaven’s hand right before me. My eyes began to see the tender mercy these two boys were to each other. In that moment, I knew that while God wouldn’t remove Mitchell’s hardship, He sent Ethan to help ease the way.

Mitch was about to endure a great inconvenience. Within a few hours, he would have both legs placed in cast for a few weeks. These casts were shaped in such a way to stretch his heel cords – which stretching would help keep him walking a little longer. However, just a few short months from this photo Mitch would go into catastrophic heart failure – and all that we tried to do to keep him healthy would become painfully irrelevant.

Ethan, knowing his younger brother’s options in life were limited, knew just how to serve him. He always allowed Mitch to wrestle him to the ground and let him win, even though Ethan was much stronger than his younger brother. He helped Mitch build blanket forts when his arms were weak. Sometimes Mitch would sit in the middle of the room with a smile as Ethan built a big pillowy, blankety fort around him. Mitchell’s smile would always grow in proportion to the size of the fort. Though life was difficult, it was also glorious.

Ethan found ways to serve Mitch so he could feel like a healthy child. Ironically, by allowing his older brother to serve him, Mitch was serving Ethan at the same time. When I think back on my own life, not once have I served someone and regretted the decision. In fact, I have always felt more blessed than the person I was trying to serve. Heaven’s paradoxes are as sweet as they are beautiful.

So, when I seem to struggle or get lost and can’t find my way, I stop to catch my breath … then find someone I can serve that day. It doesn’t take much to turn a bad day around – if I can help someone in need and my heart goes from lost, to suddenly found.

That’s the flipside of service: by allowing people to serve us, we are also serving them. The very act of giving can change or heal a heart … times ten.