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WHEN THE TIME COMES

Recently, our family went on a short trip to spend time together and heal a little.  On the drive home, we saw a spectacular sunset, and I couldn’t help but think of little Mitch and his love of atmosphere and beautiful evening skies.  At that moment, I was overwhelmed with feelings of love and gratitude, peace and grief.  I wonder if I’ll ever get used to feeling so many things at once.

“If you remember only one thing from this post, remember this: our loved ones understand everything we feel.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

As Natalie was driving, I took a photo of my two favorite things … sunsets and my sweet wife.  How I love this woman and the goodness that is in her.  Whenever I’m with her, I am a better me.  A heavenly gift I don’t take lightly.

In this same moment, memories of little Mitch wrapped around me like a blanket, woven with feelings of the softest thread.  For a few moments, it felt like I was being smothered in Mitchell’s love.  Tears filled my eyes as I allowed those feelings to wash over me – and that, too, was healing.  I couldn’t tell if Mitchell’s spirit was nearby or if I was simply reveling in the love I have for my son.  Either way, I was grateful for this moment of supernal peace.

After a few minutes, I began to realize night was soon coming, and I wondered if my night terrors would return.  I now recognize that I suffered from a form of PTSD and had no practical support to guide me through the process of healing.  I just learned to write it out, here on Mitchell’s Journey.  Only recently have I not been afraid of the night – those moments between sleep and consciousness; where the rawness of loss would cause me to wake in the middle of the night in a heartbreaking panic, then I’d weep until I could hardly breathe.  I am grateful that no such nightmares visited me that night, as they have so many times before.  I think, for the most part, that part of my grief journey is over.  Even still, those nightmares visit me from time to time – and it is as though I lost my son all over again.

What I’ve discovered on my grief journey is moments of peace will come when I least expect it.  Then, in like manner, the terror of loss will take me to my knees.  Between those opposites, I also experience everything in between. 

At least for me, I’ve discovered something that helps along the journey of grief … and life for that matter.  I’ve learned that when the time comes, I’m better off if I allow whatever feelings I experience to take their course.  When joy comes, I embrace it fully.  I don’t feel guilty for being glad … instead, I’m glad that I’m glad. In many ways, that makes me even more glad.  When I’m sad, I don’t brush it away or pretend those feelings don’t exist.  The suppression or denial of feelings only serves to canker and become strangely malignant.  I suppose the only feeling I don’t entertain is hatred or anger – which, if left unchecked, poison the soul. 

Some people who grieve worry that feeling joy, peace or gladness is a betrayal of their love and loss.  That somehow stepping into a place that isn’t so painful is to step away from the one we lost and suggest no longer care for them.  That is simply not true.  We can grieve and grow at the same time or at separate times – and that’s okay.   Then there are some well-meaning, yet deeply misinformed people on the other side of grief who say foolish things like, “Be happy!  Don’t be sad; your loved one wouldn’t want you to be sad.”  That is blubbering nonsense.  If you remember only one thing from this post, remember this: our loved ones understand everything we feel.  They’re not disappointed in us when we’re sad – they understand how much we love and miss them.  When we’re happy, they don’t feel betrayed – but glad for our own gladness.

This night, as I saw my beautiful wife and the evening sky that brought my heart close to Mitch, I felt a potpourri of feelings and I allowed them, unrestrained, into my heart and soul.  It was both painful and beautiful.  Mitch taught me that when the time comes, face it … whatever it is.  He did that in life and in the face of death.  When he realized he was at his life’s end, he faced hard things with dignity and courage.  Though I stumble drunkenly in his shadow, I try to follow his quiet example … when the time comes, face it and embrace it.   

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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.

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Toward the end, Mitch was becoming increasingly weak. His fate was slowly becoming visible – which was difficult to watch. You see, to have a child with DMD (or any fatal illness) is to watch your child die in slow motion.

“I’m pretty sure if my little boy were still with me he’d add, “And help each other along the way. Life’s too hard to do it alone.””

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

On this day, we had just taken some family portraits - something I rarely did because I never felt I was very good at it. I preferred more candid photos of our family anyway. Mitch was so cooperative and tender when it was his turn – and because of that, we were blessed to capture a portrait of Mitch that was a mirror image of his sweet soul. I will forever treasure that photo.

When it was time to move on, Mitch said softly, “Mom, will you help me off the ground? I can’t do it by myself anymore.” Natalie’s smile faded slightly, and a pang of sorrow showed through her countenance.

By conventional terms, Mitch wasn’t strong – but he was strong where it mattered ... and that's all that mattered. The notion of strength these days seems to masquerade as brute force, chest-thumping, and vitriol. The irony of anger imitating as strength is when everybody is yelling, nobody is yelling anymore. Outrage becomes the new normal – and never have I seen a man more careless and weak as when he was drunk with rage.

Author Eric Hoffer observed, “Rudeness is the weak man’s imitation of strength.” I’ve seen plenty of rude people in my life. Ironically, in their perceived strength, they were weakest. I’ve seen successful people fail at being true leaders when there was an opportunity to do a good work for humanity and mentor a rising generation with capacity and great desire. I’ve seen some of them abandon reason and their religion for madness and disillusionment. While they were pointing to the failures of others, the more searching question they ignored was who really failed who.

In contrast to those would-be-giants who took a low road, I see my son in this photo … weak, inexperienced, yet sincere at heart. Even in all his weakness, I discovered tremendous moral strength. Mitch learned what so many forget these days, to “Be nice to each other and be glad you’re alive. Nothing else matters.” I’m pretty sure if my little boy were still with me he’d add, “And help each other along the way. Life’s too hard to do it alone.”

I’ve been taught that we are given weaknesses in this life so that we might become humble. And, if we humble ourselves and seek God’s help, those weak things can become strong things. In matters of the mind and soul, weak things don’t automatically become strong. In fact, they will remain weak, and possibly become weaker still, if we aren’t conscious of turning those weaknesses into strengths. Heaven knows I have many weaknesses and I often seem to fall short of who I want to be. But then again, who doesn’t? Any more, I focus less on being discouraged over where I think I should be and instead more on what direction I’m headed. The journey is kinder and more rewarding that way. If you haven’t tried to see life through that lens, give it a try.

Just yesterday I was speaking with a colleague about whether the notion of “living with no regrets” is attainable. He thought for a minute and wondered where the truth was. I then said, “I believe that is a false promise. Everyone has regrets because everyone is human and makes mistakes. Instead, I believe we should learn how to turn regret into resolve. The most realistic aim in life is not to live a life of no regrets, but rather to live in such a way we’re glad we lived the life we lived. We’re glad of the joys and sorrows, successes and failures – because, if properly examined, they each contribute to making us wiser and stronger.”

Throughout my life, I have been injured by some who masqueraded their weakness as strength. In stark contrast, I’ve been inspired by a little boy whose weaknesses revealed his true strength. What’s more, my son’s journey taught me however much I stumble and fall; I have a loving Father who can help me through it all.

I am a lowly beggar in search of understanding and peace, and the heavenly paradox is it only comes when I try to bring others relief. As I get a little older, I worry less about the many and more about the one. In God’s arithmetic, it isn’t about the 99, but instead about the one. That is, and will ever be, where the work of the soul is done.

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Fall was almost in full swing when Natalie and I took our kids to a nearby park.  We decided to visit one of the older parks, where the trees were mature, and blankets of earthy leaves covered the ground.   

“I can’t do much about trouble, but I can find ways to rise above it and be grateful for life. ”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

Mitch was known to do a funny, signature skip and hop when he was happy.  I’ll share a video of that soon.  Because his muscles were growing weaker each day, his happy skip became more uncoordinated and labored as time went on.  That never stopped him from doing it, however.  In fact, as his body grew weaker, his sense of happiness seemed to grow stronger.  I always enjoyed watching him at the park; sometimes, in the distance, Mitch would have a conversation with himself, then suddenly it was as though he was struck by a bolt of joy and he began skipping out of the blue.

On this occasion, when Mitch tried to skip, his legs gave out, and he fell.  Ethan, his older brother, quickly reached down to see if Mitch was okay and offered to help him up.  My heart swelled with gratitude for my family and the lessons of love and service my children continually taught me.  At that moment, I was overcome with an impression that despite the hardship our family was facing, Heaven was using that experience to help shape us – not just Mitch, but all of us.

Over the last few years, I’ve watched my surviving children cope with grief in their own, unique way.  It has been a difficult and sometimes dark, treacherous journey.  I don’t write about those experiences because I respect my children’s privacy – but I will say, it hasn’t been easy.  Sometimes the grief journey was made more difficult by outsiders meddling, other times our grief was made complicated by inexperienced psychologists, forever shutting the door of a young mind in need of that kind of help.  In my book, which will be completed soon, I share some of the challenges we faced and what we learned because of it.  I hope it helps others who navigate their journey with loss as we share a kind of “if we could do [certain things] over, we’d do this differently” observations.

I wish weren’t so, but our troubles after Mitch passed were just beginning, and we had to navigate a labyrinth of issues that were as complex as they were bewildering.  During that difficult time, I remembered F. Scott Fitzgerald observation on the difference between trouble and discouragement, “Trouble has no necessary connection with discouragement. Discouragement has a germ of its own, as different from trouble as arthritis is different from a stiff joint.” 

I am certainly not immune to discouragement – and sometimes trouble stirs those feelings up.  But when I remember Mitch, who never let his troubles make him feel discouraged, I’m reminded to step back and recognize that trouble is only temporary.  Discouragement, if not managed, can become a chronic condition.

As I consider this tender moment between little brothers – I’m reminded that no matter my troubles, I can step back and find gratitude for something.  In fact, I can find gratitude for many things.  Anymore, I’m beginning to see that it’s not trouble that weighs us down … it’s discouragement.   

I can’t do much about trouble, but I can find ways to rise above it and be grateful for life.