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It was late spring, Mitchell’s headstone hadn’t yet arrived and each day was getting a little warmer than the day before. It had only been a few months since I lost my son and my soul was still dizzy with grief. Quietly, I was grateful for warmer days because the cold winter air carried with it vivid memories of the cold morning my dear son was rolled away from our home, never to return.

“At this moment I realized my responsibility as a father wasn’t to keep my son from hurting, for that is impossible. Instead, it was to teach my son how to mend broken things. I wanted Wyatt to understand real strength isn’t found in pretending to be unbreakable but in having the courage to admit our brokenness, then make broken things strong.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

On this spring afternoon, Wyatt asked if I would drive him to the cemetery so he could visit Mitch. I told him I'd be glad to. “Okay, just a second,” Wyatt said as he dashed into Mitchell's room. A few second passed, and he returned with one of Mitchell’s favorite Halo characters and said, "Okay, let's go." As we arrived at the cemetery, I was curious what Wyatt had in mind, so I gave him some space and said, "Take your time son, I'll be nearby."

With that, he handed me Mitchell's Halo figure and gave me a soft grin, a confident nod, then sat on the grass and started talking to his older brother. I sat several yards from him but had one of my larger lenses so I could take photos without interrupting my son. I could faintly hear Wyatt’s young voice as he told his missing brother summer was around the corner, school was quickly coming to an end and a little about the movies he knew Mitch wanted to see. Wyatt told Mitch about some of the new friends he made throughout the year and how his teacher was so kind to him when he cried in class because he missed him. Wyatt continued to tell his brother about the tree Mitchell's school, and City Council planted in his honor.

It was a tender thing to see my youngest son struggling to sort things out. I sat in the distance and cried as I overheard Wyatt tell Mitch how much he loved and missed him.

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The protective father in me was tempted to sweep Wyatt away – to try and rescue or insulate him from hardship. Part of me wanted to distract Wyatt from the harsh realities of life or to soothe him with artificial comforts. But I knew better. I knew that in trying to insulate my son from pain, I would cause more harm than the original pain itself. Instead, I wanted to help Wyatt learn how to deal with hard things – for life is full of hard things. If I was to pass something on, I wanted it to be a knowledge of how to survive the storms of life. If there is one thing we can be sure of, it's we’ll all come to know hardship, and we’re all going to get broken in one way or another.

At this moment I realized my responsibility as a father wasn’t to keep my son from hurting, for that is impossible. Instead, it was to teach my son how to mend broken things. I wanted Wyatt to understand real strength isn’t found in pretending to be unbreakable but in having the courage to admit our brokenness, then make broken things strong.

If there’s one thing I pray most to teach my son – it is there's always broken things to mend, and if he’s wise, he’ll seek Heaven’s help and therein find the strength of a million men.

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For Valentines Day, I wanted to share another video of Mitch from the Letters to My Son series. When we took Mitch home from the hospital he wanted to share a message with our family about love - a fitting topic for this time of year.

There was a tender irony in the timing of things. His heart was failing during a holiday that celebrated matters of the heart. Though his physical heart was weak, the heart of his soul was strong. He was the giant, and me ... very much the child.

In this video, you'll see Mitch tenderly listening to a book he asked his mother read. I believe Mitch wanted us to remember its message, long after he would pass away. And in this story is a message within a message.

I'm just a regular dad who struggles to be the best he can be. I have a long way to go - yet, however much I stumble, I can feel an invisible string that connects Mitch and me.   

Here is the transcript of the video:

Dear Mitch,

I had a dream about you last night and I awoke in a panic.  In my efforts to replace my thoughts of anguish with something of peace, I remembered something about you – and it calmed my weary heart.

When it was time for you to leave the hospital, you couldn't get out of there fast enough.  You were anxious to be a little boy again and to put the labor of medicine behind you. Your mother pushed you in a wheelchair to the curb and gently helped you get seated in the car.

As we were about to leave, you said, "Mom, isn't it my turn to teach family night?" Our hearts swelled and broke at the same time – you see, you were less concerned about playing with friends and toys and more about sharing something that was on your mind and heart.

You had a lesson in mind and you wanted to share it us – and it is a lesson we’ll never forget.

Your mother said, "Yes, Mitch, it's your turn.  Do you really want to teach a lesson for family night??"  You nodded your head and said “Yes, mom.  I have it all planned out.”  With that, it was settled – you were going to share a lesson with us and we were excited to learn from you. 

What followed is best described as the longest drive of my life.  We were on a one-way trip.  There would be no more doctors, no more hospital visits to keep you healthy.  Our job was to usher you to the other side of the veil.  I worried whether we did enough to teach you – but it was realizing it was you who was here to teach me.

The next day you awoke, and you began preparations for family night.  You chose a few books to read and prepared some important talking points about what it means to love.

You asked your mother to read the books - which she did ... like she did every night.  I think you would have read them just fine, but I think you wanted her to read them so it would start to feel life was getting back to normal.

The first book you chose was called, The Invisible String … a story about a string of love you cannot see with your eyes, but you can feel with your heart.

Like that beautiful author described, there is an invisible string between you and me.  It tugs at me daily.

The look on your face said all that needed to be said.  You were listening so close to the message of the story – a story about love and the bonds that tie us together.

I couldn’t help but notice you breathing hard because your heart was weak.  A friend of mine observed, after you passed, that it was ironic that a child whose heart was broken could teach so much about love.  You loved that story because it spoke the thoughts and feelings of your heart – that no matter where we go on earth or in heaven, there will always be an invisible string that connects us.

That book will forever be treasured by our family – for as long as we live.  For like the author wrote, there is an invisible string and we will always be connected.  Looking back I wonder if that was one of the messages you wanted us to know before you left us.

You’re gone now … far from view.  But I can still feel that string tug at my heart – and it will always tug at me – for as long as I shall live.  That is the magic children have on their parents.  Now, and forever.

Love,

Dad

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This video essay is part of a series entitled, Letters to My Son.  You can see other letters from this series by clicking the button below.

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I took this photo of Mitchell's brothers and sister last January. Standing in the frigid snow, I was startled to see 3 of my 4 children suddenly grown up. It seemed like yesterday a much younger version of these kids were gathered around Mitch loving and supporting him when he was home on hospice. Sometimes I forget how fast time passes. On the one hand, it feels like Mitch was with me just yesterday ... but then again, it also feels like a lifetime ago.  

Later that night, I looked at this photo and recognized all three of my children have endured profound and private grief over the loss of their little brother. I don't write of their struggles because I respect their privacy. But they struggle in their own, tender, and very real ways. Because of this, I have spent many nights on my knees praying for their well-being and that heaven will help them weather the storms of life; today, and with whatever storms the future might hold.

Teenage years are hard enough - and having to deal with such a personal loss at such a young age only makes the storm of growing up even more difficult.  Through it all, I can see my kids maturing in certain ways faster than I would have wanted.   

Ethan (center) was Mitchell's closest friend and brother. Today he plays a vital role – a kind of sibling glue that keeps our kids together. He didn't ask for that responsibility, but he fulfills that role well as he's learning to honor the memory of his fallen brother and do his best to make good life choices.

Like all parents, I am constantly worried about their wellbeing.  I’m also learning that the work of parenting will never really be done, it just changes as our children grow older. My heart thrills over their growth and it takes compassion when they hurt – and sometimes the protective father in me becomes a roaring bear. I stay up at night waiting for them to return home safely. I worry about the choices they make and the friends they associate with. I often remind my kids they’ll become the average of the 5 people they hang out with the most - so I encourage them to choose wisely.

Becoming a father has taught me more about the struggle of love than all the books I’ve ever read, more than all the songs that have danced inside my head.  I wouldn’t trade any part of my life, not even grief for glee – for all of it has blessed my life and shaped my soul.  All of it has made me, me.

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Tonight, Natalie and I went on a walk around a nearby reservoir. During summer months, Mitch loved to visit the sandy beach here and splash in the shallows. Sometimes his older sister or brother would take him to the deep while he sat in the safety of a little raft. Mitch would say, ‘Whoa, it’s deep out here” and then he’d cling tightly to the side of the inflatable boat.

Natalie comes here often to keep a promise she made Mitch when he was home on hospice. I'll never forget how softly he asked her, "Mom, will you be sure to take Marlie out on adventures?" Though he never used the words, "When I'm gone," that was the meaning behind his words. He knew his time was short, yet he loved his puppy and wanted her to enjoy the world.

Natalie, ever the faithful mother in life and in death, has kept that sacred promise to her sweet little boy.

When I think back on the tender mercies along my son’s journey through life, and beyond, this little dog is a bright star among a sometimes-darkened sky. She played such a unique role comforting Mitch in his darkest hours – and I have stories I’ll share in March about that. Some of the photos and stories will be hard to process – but they are necessary because they are true. Often, life’s most profound discoveries are buried deep in our greatest struggles.

To this day, little Marlie provides a great deal of comfort to our family. I adore the special love Marlie seems to have for Natalie – and I know that would make my little boy smile.

When I took this photo of my darling wife tonight, little Mitch and these words crossed my mind, “A promise made, a promise kept.” Though I missed my son, I smiled inside instead of wept.