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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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Time was ticking.  We didn’t know when the biological bomb in my son’s chest would detonate.  We only knew the hour was late and there wasn’t much time left.  Would Mitchie’s heart stop on the drive home?  Or would we have a few precious days with him?  There was no way of knowing whether death would come suddenly or slowly … or whether it would be painful or peaceful.  The only thing we knew for sure was we has that very moment. 

“... tender lessons are sometimes taught through hardship.  Losing my son broke me … boy did it break me.  But the new me, at least who I hope to be, is better because of it.  ”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

Little Mitch had just received his PICC line that pumped medicine through his arm and directly into his heart.  Within about 30 minutes of this photo we would leave the hospital with heavy hands, anxious hearts.  The blue bed to the side of Mitch (on the right) was where Natalie and I cried ourselves to sleep.  We never really slept.  We drifted somewhere between this world and that world of dreams.  With each beep of the heart monitor, interruption of the nurse, or any noise at all, we’d spring to our feet to see if our son was okay.

If he were to go, we wanted to hold his hand and let him know he wasn’t alone.  We were spared that agony for a few weeks, but soon came to know that hell in the quiet of a winter night.

In this photo, Mitch is looking at a photo I took with my iPhone of the sunset a few hours earlier.  Mitch said in a soft, breathless tone, “Is that from tonight?”  He paused a moment then said, “I wish I could have seen it with my own eyes.  Maybe tomorrow I’ll see something like it.”  I kissed the top of his head and said, “Son, I want to see a million more with you.”  My throat began to tighten and I struggled to find my breath – I was about to lose it.  Somehow, I gathered my wits and kept from weeping until later that night.

As we packed our things so Mitch could live out his final days at home, I struggled to reconcile with reality.  Mitch didn’t look sick and part of me kept thinking the doctors had it all wrong.  I also kept saying to myself, “Is this a dream?  When will I wake from this nightmare?”  But then I’d see the pump on his lap which gave his weary heart a steady drip of medicine and I was reminded of my son’s unforgiving truth.

As Natalie pushed our son in a wheelchair, Mitch looked up at me and smiled softly as if to say, “Dad, I’m so glad I’m going home.”  My eyes were bloodshot from a week of unending, salty tears.  I smiled back and once again fought the urge to weep.

The thought occurred to me that though Mitchell’s body was broken, he wasn’t broken where it mattered most.  I was grateful that hospitals weren’t like country clubs.  We had fantastic doctors and (mostly) amazing nurses who fought valiantly to save our son.  I remember the moment we were told Mitch likely had days to live – the chief cardiologist fought back tears as the father in him was pained over such hard truths.  When he saw the look of devastation on my wife’s face, he struggled to keep it together even more.  Opinions are divided as to whether doctors should be strictly clinical – but as a father, I prefer a human over a robot.  Compassion is a form of medicine, too.

What would the world be like if we traded country clubs with hospitals?  When I say hospitals, I’m not referring only to medical institutions … but places that have the potential to fix broken things.  The last time I checked, everyone has broken stuff.   Humanity could use more mending and less isolating.

I've seen people turn the very places meant to help and heal into places that hurt others. Whether at school, church, support communities, and other groups, sometimes people hurt others when they shouldn't. I then try to remember that hurt people, hurt people.

In our race to save my son’s life, I’ve come to understand that sometimes we are broken so that we might be set straight. I wish it weren’t so – but it seems the order of Heaven; tender lessons are sometimes taught through hardship. Losing my son broke me … boy did it break me. But the new me, at least who I hope to be, is better because of it. If everyone on earth is broken to one degree or another, perhaps we could all learn the healer’s art and help each other mend broken things.

The heavenly paradox is in helping others heal, we heal a little, too. That's a good thing.

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As far back as I can remember, Natalie and I always enjoyed having people at our home; we enjoyed serving those we love with a great meal, and we enjoyed good conversation even more. On this day, we had extended family over for a BBQ. It was a hot, muggy afternoon. The cousins were in the back yard playing on an inflatable water slide. Little Mitch didn’t have a lot of muscle strength to do what the other kids were doing, so he stayed behind and wanted to be near me, which I loved.

“On my grief journey, I had to learn I could never go home again … at least to the home I once knew. That time before, with little Mitch, was my old home. Today is now, and that is where I’ve learned to live.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

I was busy preparing our meal on the grill. My tripod and camera were on-the-ready to capture any moment that caught my eye. Little Mitch asked if he could wear one of my favorite hats that had artificial gray hair sprouting in every direction from the top. At the time, I didn’t have any gray hair to speak of, and it was one of my favorite hats. Since I’ve lost Mitch, I have grown quite a bit of gray hair; which to me is a visible testament to the price we pay for grief and heartache.

Mitch always wanted to sit next to me when I was at the grill. He’d sit on a stool and quietly talk to me about things that were on his mind. Sometimes he didn’t say anything at all. Mitch just wanted to be – and that’s okay, too. Often, he'd make observations that were both insightful and witty. There wasn't a moment I didn't adore.

I remember this summer afternoon so vividly. I also remember having a distinct impression this day that a terrible life storm was on the horizon and that darkness was near. I didn’t understand that feeling at the time, but looking back, I can see it was my loving Father preparing me … in effect, warning me, to make moments matter.

For almost 2 years following the death of Mitch, certain places in my home evoked the most tender feelings. Whenever I was at my grill, I’d instinctively look to my side hoping to see little Mitch next to me, only to find emptiness. I’d burst into tears, and my heart would break all over again. For a season, all I saw was emptiness, everywhere. I had an aversion to certain rooms in my home – for they reminded me of my absent son and those places became a source of deep pain.

Over time, however, I knew I needed to create new memories in those empty places – to fill those voids with something of joy and happiness. It took time. Step by step, new memory by new memory, I began to replace that sense of profound emptiness with something new.

I think part of my grief was magnified because I wanted to go home … you know, the home I once knew and loved. Yet everything stood as a testament that I was no longer home and that I could never go there again.

Author Thomas Wolfe wrote a book, You Can’t Go Home Again (1940), where, among other things, describes how the passing of time prevents us from returning “home again.” On at least one level, it is a brilliant meditation on life and making the most of the time we have.

On my grief journey, I had to learn I could never go home again … at least to the home I once knew. That time before, with little Mitch, was my old home. Today is now, and that is where I’ve learned to live.

I chronicle my journey with Mitch here, not to fixate on yesteryear and on sorrow – but instead, I write my memories as though I were a weary traveler who discovered a treasure, a memory I wish to keep. I put it here for safe keeping.

Pain has been my teacher and has shown me how to appreciate my present. Whether through death or simply the passage of time, all that we have today will be different tomorrow. In a few short years, my children will have graduated from high school, and I will never be able to go back to this home I have now again. So today, I will live in my home … my current reality … and I will love that place and all that dwell therein. For on some tomorrow, I’ll have a new home, and I’ll learn to adjust once again.
 

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This evening I asked Natalie if she wanted to go on an adventure. Excited to go outside and explore, we packed two sandwiches and went on a hike up a local canyon near our home. Our kids were at various functions - so we had this time to ourselves.

“In my heart, knew I was living what Mitch taught me - to be nice to [others] and to be glad I was alive. Today, nothing else mattered.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

While driving to our destination we laughed at how excited we were to explore - and that it felt like we were dating again. We both vowed to never stop dating each other, to never stop trying, and to always catch each other when we fall.

As we hiked up the canyon, we started to talk about our kids, our future, and lessons from our past. We even talked about how much we adore and miss little Mitch. When we're together, Natalie and I always talk about Mitch - for we don't get to have new memories with him. All we have is what we've done so we cling to memories like treasures without price.

At one point, I took this photo of my wife with my iPhone and added a painterly filter to it. Then, this quote by Victoria Erickson came to mind and made me think of Natalie ... and I smiled. I started to think how much I admire her and how I wish to be as strong as she is one day.

If it's true that you are the average of the 5 people you hang out with the most, I want to hang out with (and be like) her the most.

I was grateful for this hike in the woods - for I felt a certain joy in my heart and gratitude for my own life journey, no matter how difficult it has been.

In my heart, knew I was living what Mitch taught me - to be nice to [others] and to be glad I was alive. Today, nothing else mattered.

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