I sometimes wonder why we wait until it’s too late. We send flowers at funerals when those flowers might have lifted a heavy heart when that loved one was living. We honor our family and friends with eulogies after they pass – when our gratitude and love may have healed a weary, forgotten soul. I know it’s not practical to write eulogies for the living or send bouquets of flowers every day – but we can send a text or give someone a call when they come to mind. That counts, too. I’ve discovered the little things are always bigger than we imagine.

Today Mitch would have turned 19. He passed away a few months before his 11th birthday—a tender age, to be sure. As a little boy, he loved his Mom with all his heart. He still believed in Santa and loved building Legos. Although he was very much a young boy, he also looked forward to becoming a husband and father when he grew up.

Grief hurts even after 8 years. But I’ve also discovered grief refines us – if we do the work to transform our pain from our tormentor into our teacher. It isn’t easy. Grief is clumsy work, really … especially in the beginning. I remember the days I would shut my door at the office and weep. For the first few years, every minute was a waking nightmare. I sometimes prayed for my own death to escape the pain.

Yet, despite all the pain Mitchell’s death has caused me, he has brought me even more in love, joy, and meaning. Little Mitch was then and remains today, one of my most sacred teachers. He didn’t mean to be my teacher – he was just a little kid. Mitch was innocent and the embodiment of goodness.

As my teacher, Mitch gave me two gifts embedded in 2 profound lessons. I am so very far from perfect, but try to emulate these every day:

ONE: SEE WITH YOUR HEART

“When you see with your heart, you see everything that matters.” ~ Mitchell Dee Jones

Mitch taught me to look beyond someone’s jagged edges and see their heart. Even in the midst of being treated poorly by some adults, my little boy taught me to look for their pain. He understood that hurt people hurt people – and though we should not tolerate abuse and unkindness, we can practice the healer’s art by seeing the person behind the pain. Mitch taught me everyone is worthy and deserving of love.

TWO: BE KIND AND GRATEFUL

“Be nice to each other and be glad you’re alive. Nothing else matters.” ~ Mitchell Dee Jones

Little Mitch taught me the formula for a joyful life is found in gratitude and kindness. He showed me that kindness is contagious, and life is limited. So, I’ve learned how to spread one and treasure the other. We’re only on this earth for a few minutes – why not shine while we’re here?

Today, as my little family celebrates Mitchell’s birthday, I will double my efforts to see beyond – to see with my heart. I’ll share love and kindness to everyone I meet … and I’ll treasure what precious seconds remain in my own short life.

I don’t know what happens in that place beyond the hills. But I dream of seeing my 10-year-old son on some path’s horizon, a great way off. And when I see him, I will run at reckless speed to embrace him. My love for Mitch has only grown since I last saw him. I will thank him for being my son, my teacher, and my friend. While I walk my own path between now and then, I’ll do my best to stop and help the weary travelers I encounter and serve them in word and deed. For unqualified love is the greatest gift indeed.

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Journal Entry: February 10, 2013

Today was a mixture of grief, peace, fear, and love. Mitchell was so happy to be home. It was almost dreamlike. There were no hourly stats being taken by a nurse. No more chaotic mess of cables wired to his body effectively chaining him to his bed. No monitors with alarms that signal the biological horror show that is playing out under the surface of his skin. Just smiles and 100% focus on family.

For the most part, Mitchell was comfortable today. He was able to play with one of his best friends. We made more Legos, cuddled, played UNO, built a base in Minecraft, had lots of conversations, played other video games, watched a movie, and just spent time together. At this very moment, I can hear his sweet little voice in my mind …. as if it were an audible sound. I love the sound of his voice … the way he thinks.

So we try to live each moment as though it were our last. We will only have now – for tomorrow will be different, it will be less. Certainly, less of something and more of another . . . but it will be less, nonetheless.

To me, it is strange to think that ~15 years ago there were 4 less people on the earth . . . and I was quite content without them. But now that I have them, I cannot imagine a day without them – not even a minute. There’s the saying: “Making the decision to have a child - it's momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart walking around outside your body.” I always admired that quote – but now it has taken on a much deeper meaning.

Mitchell’s left eye became very blurry twice; once in the morning and a second time this evening. The second episode was more intense and lasted longer than the first. Our nurse informs us that his profusion is so low that organs will begin shutting down very soon. It looks like his vision may go soon. He is getting dark rings under his eyes. We’re also told it won’t go away and will get worse. Sometimes his chest pounds so hard it looks like there’s someone inside his rib cage trying to violently punch their way out. Those are scary times. Very scary.

The truth is, grief comes in massive waves … almost instantly …. and without consideration or apology. And between the agony of the inevitable and moments of calm, I sometimes feel a panicked rush ... the horrific feeling that I need to race to do something else for my sweet little boy. Oh ... how my heart wants to... I yearn to save him. My mind understands what’s happening and why. But my heart sometimes desperately searches for a way out … something we missed. Then, it occurred to me in a moment of profound spiritual peace … that perhaps in all my rush to save my boy, a greater purpose to all this suffering is at play … and in the end, he will be the one who saves me.

There is a transformation occurring. Something profound. His life, his sweetness, his goodness … it is changing me. And I want to be a better husband, father, friend, and human because of him. His short and tattered life has a divine purpose. And while painful now, all will be made whole in the end.

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NOTE ABOUT THIS ESSAY:

I’ve been getting messages from a lot of readers lately sharing their grief, wondering if they’re normal (if there is such a thing), and if the night will ever end. My heart goes out to everyone who suffers in whatever way they suffer. I wish I had the power to heal others – that is my heart’s deepest desire.

I thought I’d share a sacred journal entry exactly 8 years ago today. This was my grief. This was my son. I share this journal entry for those who sit on the edge of significant change. I stand with you in the sacred space of your suffering.

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Somehow, he knew. It was written in his eyes. With each passing day, Mitch seemed to sense his time was coming to an end.

A few days after Mitch was home on hospice, he asked his mom if he could have an early birthday. "My real birthday feels so far away. It just feels so far away…" he said in shallow breaths. That request was out of character for Mitch. He was a boy of routine and rigor; he followed rules carefully, always took his turn, and never asked for more than he had. However small his cup may have seemed compared to others, to Mitch, his cup was always running over. Mitch asking for an early birthday told us he was listening to something deep within – as if his soul was preparing for the great transition from this life to the next.

With tears running down her face, Natalie made a few calls, rallied a group of his best friends, and hosted a birthday party two days later. My sister, Diane, a tender and loving soul, came over and filled the room with balloons that hugged the ceiling and made everything seem light. I had never thought much about balloons until this day. Seeing the joy it brought my son changed all of that. To this day, I look at balloons with a child's eye.

Tiny Marlie sat faithfully on Mitchell's lap and was a great comfort to him. I thank my Father that He cared enough about my son (His son) provide little tender mercies such as that. Experiencing my son's death has been utter hell, yet I can see a lot of heaven's hand during that difficult time. I know we were not alone.

So, on this impromptu, sacred celebration of Mitchell's birth, I sat against the wall while all the neighborhood boys gathered around our son and played games. From years past, an old friend of mine had compassion and arranged to have a local sports mascot surprise Mitch. He didn't need to do that, yet he did, and his act of love and compassion was a gift within a gift. Mitch laughed and smiled, and for a moment, it felt dreamlike, as if everything was normal again.

Almost like shifting temperatures in the ocean, I could see in Mitchell's face a shifting tide of emotion; one moment, he was a little boy with his friends, and the next moment he was swept away to some place a great way off. A place that was unfamiliar to him, a place not as warm as the world he had grown to know. Mitch sensed things were changing, but he didn't know what.

Knowing Mitchell's tendency to over-worry, we would wait a little longer to tell our son. That was our gift to Mitch: to be a child for just one more day. He would soon confront the coldest of all realities and face his impending death with courage and more care for his mother's broken heart than his own.

Not many days later, Mitch would lay in his bed, struggling to breathe, saying, "I don't think I can survive." A few minutes later, Mitch closed his heavy eyes and drifted to sleep. Natalie wept silently wet our son's hands with her kisses and tears. Then, in a moment of profound triumph, this little child became more a man than I could ever hope to be when he awoke and told his mom he would be okay.

Looking back, I wonder if Mitch wasn't interested in getting gifts after all. Maybe that birthday was his gift to us. One last celebration of all that was our son. One last chance to tell him how much we cared.

I love my son. Of all the gifts I tried to give him, none compared to the gift he was to me. The gift he still is to me. Though this gift is heavy to carry, each day, it is making me stronger. Though my wounds are still tender to the touch, I am learning how to tend to wounds that medicine cannot entrust.

The more I examine my son's difficult journey, the more I recognize gifts within gifts. Someone once said, "it is less important what happens to us than what happens within us." I wonder if when we finally see what lies beyond death's great abyss, we may be surprised to understand pain and struggle was, in fact, a gift within a gift. Nothing of value comes easy. No, not a thing. I suppose it's as true on earth as it is of spiritual things.

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One of my favorite memories with our young kids was sitting on the porch on a hot summer evening eating popsicles and enjoying the approaching sound of crickets. I can still smell their freshly shampooed hair and feel the softness of their pajamas – just out of the dryer. When I look at this photo, I’m reminded of Gretchen Rubin’s observation of raising a family, “The days are long, but the years are short.” Oh, how the years slip by.

One hot summer evening, Mitch tapped my shoulder and said, “Dad, get some Windex and come check this out. Something weird is happening.” Mitch held my hand as he led me toward a light along the edge of our driveway.

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When we were about 10 feet from the light, Mitch whispered, “Shhh, Dad, … listen.” We could hear a faint buzzing noise, and the closer we got to the light, the louder the sound became.

Mitch pointed to the silhouette of a hornet busy building a home in the warm embrace of the light. “I think he’s building a house in there, Dad,” Mitch said with the tone of a detective. Mitch also knew that a generous spray of Windex on a bee sting helps take the pain away. Always prepared, he was a good little Scout.

“Should we dig it out?” I asked. Mitch furrowed his brow as if to weigh the options. “Let’s investigate.” He said. Mitch put his hands on his knees as he bent over as he looked more closely. “I don’t want to hurt them, but I’m afraid they’ll sting me.” Mitch was right – hornets can’t be domesticated, and all the benevolence in the world won’t change that. So, we carefully placed a net around the light and gently removed the growing nest. “Dad, will you put the nest in the secret forest? That way, they can make a home up there.”

With that, I ran to the top of our yard and gently placed the hornets’ nest at the foot of two large boulders – far from where the kids would ever play. The next morning Mitch asked if I’d check on the nest; all the hornets were gone. “Oh well, at least I’m safe now.”

At an early age, Mitch gained a healthy respect for the things that would hurt him. Because his muscles were weak, he was always prone to trip and fall; he lacked the coordination and strength to break his fall – so pain was often his companion. I was ever moved by Mitchell’s compassion toward insects and every living thing. He knew their nature – and while he didn’t want to hurt them, but he was wise enough to keep his distance.

Since losing Mitch, I’ve tried to emulate his kind-hearted way of being. Yet, we’ve encountered some hornets on our grief journey. Though difficult at times, I had to remind myself that “hurt people, hurt people.” Remembering that truth doesn’t make their sting hurt less – it only reminds me that sometimes the healthiest thing we can do for our mental health is to remove the hornets from our lives. Like Mitch, I didn’t want to hurt them – but I had to create safe distance so we could do the work of healing. Thankfully, there haven’t been many of them.

Even though we removed the aggressive hornets, we’ve experienced the sting of indifference from people close to us: the impatience that we haven’t ‘moved on’ (as though we could magically stop loving our child), the Monday-morning quarterbacks, the pious pontiffs, and the well-meaning but misinformed. As if grief isn’t tricky enough.

What Mitchell’s life has taught me is that strength comes through struggle – and we’re often better because of it. Perspective has become my Windex – and when I feel a sting from someone fumbling or someone mean, I apply it generously. At least for me, that’s the only way to be.