Love Soars the Skies, A mother's quest to reach her son

By Linda Ann Jones

A mother's love lasts for all eternity.

Grief struck -- paralyzing, debilitating -- the day she prayed would never come.

The personal story of how one mother coped, to find answers and to somehow make sense of it. She knew that to reach her son in the place he now resides was her only hope.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alphabet Anatomy
• Release date: Oct 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9780990795278

Linda Ann Jones

Linda Ann Jones grew up in beautiful upstate New York which probably had something to do with her love for poetry. Quite unexpectedly, that eventually led her to write an award-winning children's book series titled Alphabet Anatomy. In 2014, she became a grieving mother, which led her on a path to reach her oldest son in the place he now resides. She and her family live in sunny Arizona with three lively dogs and one remarkable cat. Her motto for writing has always been, "Say what's in your heart, and touch someone else's."

Book preview

Chapter 1

To See With New Eyes

No one else would even notice the shattered fragments, mere trash to be swept up and disposed of. But when a piece of your heart has been literally ripped from your body, you learn to see with new eyes. In fact, it’s a method of survival. When the very sanity of your mind threatens desertion, you reach beyond the five senses. You implore the universe to mercifully expand and lower its invisible, life-sustaining bridge to connect heaven and earth.

August 31, 2018: It’s going on five years, and the sadness of missing you so much is completely immobilizing. Another tidal wave of grief is on the horizon. Despondency sets in, and I want to give up. Two weeks of persistent mental torture. Flashbacks of your face, your smile, your laugh—constantly replaying in my head. I want to remember every single mannerism, every tiny detail—of all that you were. I can hardly imagine even more years elapsing, when life has been so cruelly altered that even happy moments are tinged with sorrow—because you’re absent now.

And the void you left is bigger than the sky.

I pray to stay grounded. Deep down I know I must. The battle between rational self-talk and all-consuming gloom is a constant nemesis that must be purposely kept in check. Still, sometimes the gloom grows fiercer, and hints at victory.

Thoughts of you routinely fill my head as I force my body out of bed. A morning walk is the most anticipated portion of each day, when I cling to the sustaining assurance that you walk with me. Some say nature is earth’s antidepressant. For a sorrow this enormous, it’s been my best hope. After all, it is home to the clouds and stars and sun, where the most wondrous of miracles are continuously nurtured and revealed on a magnificent life-breathing canvas. And I have needed many miracles.

I achingly wish for another sign, to allay the haunting fears of my wayward thoughts, for confirmation that you’re happy and thriving. That this most excruciating phase in my lifetime is our soul path, though each on our own separate journey, intertwined eternally by the most indescribable pain but also the most indescribable love.

Beauty is most definitely in the eye of the beholder when ordinary and even tattered objects become extraordinary and priceless. Because they represent a lifeline that saves me from the unthinkable despair of no longer communicating with you. Because they validate my unwavering belief that a mother’s love has the inexhaustible power to transcend all boundaries and reach you wherever you’ve gone. And what better setting for this most potent love to forge two worlds into one than in the boundless, exquisite splendor of nature.

Every morning, I walk and watch and listen, at our refuge that feels almost sacred, so aptly named Discovery Park. Always on the lookout for proof that you’re with me, and so grateful for all the treasures so far.

*The sunglasses set on my car hood, out of nowhere, as I thought about my need to eventually see the world through a different lens.

*The monarch butterfly that lit upon my windshield and stared straight at me, telling me you’ve transformed and live on.

*The paper plate with painted roses, when I reminisced of our shopping trips together to the garden shops at Home Depot and Lowe’s, where we admired their beautiful colors, and you talked about how you always wanted to plant some for me.

*The Snoopy and Woodstock card indicating a crossroads of two paths to travel, and Woodstock’s pondering over which one to pick, while knowing I too have two paths to choose now.

*The emerald-green pieces of broken glass, when I read about the Emerald Tablets of Thoth, just one of many ancient histories you told me about, while I marveled at your grand wealth of otherworldly knowledge.

*The three of hearts card, with the same angel design as the deck on our kitchen table, which contained multiple messages and synchronicities.

*The lighter in your favorite shade of blue, assuring me you’ll help light my way.

*The large heart-shaped rock set under the front window, because hearts represent love—which can never, ever die.

*The sky-blue painted rock with the smiley sunshine face when I read about the health benefits of daily sun exposure and absorption of natural vitamin D.

*The many other heart-shaped rocks, all of which remind me of your penchant for rock-collecting from the time you were little.

*The two lion-head rocks, because they were your favorites among all the big wild cats, and now I must call upon the lion’s mighty, unshakable courage every single day.

*The pennies dated 2014, the defining year of transition for both of us—you transcending this earth, and me transcending almost everything of my former self in an effort to somehow find you.

*The hundreds of feathers, all of which symbolize comfort and protection, but also bestow diverse messages according to which type of heavenly courier the appendage is from.

The very first feather was nine inches long and pure white, starkly erect against a sturdy, dark trunk. It stood out against expansive green foliage a mere two weeks after losing you, as I numbly walked along a dusty park trail, a rookie inmate to the harshest mental mind prison from which there is no genuine escape—just acceptance of its alternating severities of penalty. And yet, the feather represented the onset of my new vision and the corresponding gift of new eyes, so I can still breathe and find a way to navigate the consuming darkness.

New eyes develop out of the darkest of dark, kindled from a lone resilient spark that refuses to be extinguished by the fire, though suffocated profusely. From that point forward, they enable one’s vision to unceasingly fuse with the heart. A vaster, broader view is established. A vantage point from a higher vista never known of before—insight into one’s sight.

My old eyes could never perceive the grandeur within these innocuous items and explore their veiled yet captivating significance. But I was certain that if it’s possible to reach you, you would help me do it. And you would master whatever skills are required on your part as well. You were always exceedingly wise beyond your years, and I am overcome with pride and wonder. 

Still, I need recurring reassurance of your presence because even almost half a decade later, it still seems unreal and impossible. And some days the ache in my heart is so crippling that I think it could halt its own beat—when darkness exceedingly overshadows even the faintest spark of light.

This one item isn’t recognizable at first, broken pieces of an abstract form. An analogy of my heart, is my initial thought. I pick up one piece and continue walking. Turning it over, I notice the lined crevices. I gather the remaining parts the second time around and arrange them together in my hand, like a puzzle that has yet to be interlocked. It’s so out of place—a single broken seashell on the dirt trail of a community park in the Arizona desert? I imagine the expansive blue ocean and its rumbling waves cascading on the sand. That’s where this belongs.

Our first trips to California come to mind. First when you were two and then three, with your white-blond hair, looking like a perfect little angel as you laughed and played on the beach. Seashells everywhere, and you were a fine collector. Even all grown up, you brought big white ones back from Mexico. I think you knew their magic way back then. But I had yet to discover, not until living meant needing new eyes.

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Nathan and me on the beach in California, 1987

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Nathan at the ocean in California, 1987

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Nathan searching for seashells, 1988

Chapter 2

The Clutches of Grief

New eyes become necessary when the most ferociously fearsome storm strikes without warning and severely damages one’s vision. Physically, I may look fine. But these are the gravest of attacks because they operate invisibly yet pierce the heart and soul with vicious precision, causing the deepest of wounds. The black curtain lowers to the floor on the grand stage of life. But there is no applause, just the dimness of an empty theater. Bewilderment and shock take root, and that final act redefines my future. It’s the instrument by which time is now measured. Life is parted into two segments, the before and after.

Grief is the intermission of sorts, but it is not brief by any means. It is not a time to rise and stretch my legs, quench my thirst, or grab a snack. It is more like plunging into a bottomless canyon that failed to warn of its danger. The only escape is to claw my way out. If not, the falling continues.

For the longest time, I didn’t even care. If falling forever was my destiny, so be it.

Occasionally, I manage to notice and grasp one of the canyon’s jagged ledges to hold on. But the ledges give way too, and they’re very slippery. Sometimes I feel a speck of stability, on fairly safe footing, only to dip lower once again.

Others kindheartedly cheer me on, but they’re incapable of any rescue, no matter their efforts. Only I can save myself, and I know that accepting this realization is foremost in the travel guide to maneuvering such a grueling climb.

The most intense navigation takes several years. It is truly a dreadful and lonely mission. Even when I finally raise my body to full sunlight with that final upward step, the relentless ravaging of the arduous trek remains molded within my being, changing me forever. And I acknowledge that the full warmth of the sunlight will never feel quite the same.

You were my firstborn son, an answer to prayers, the fulfillment of dreams. Because of you, I was blissfully initiated into the illustrious halls of motherhood, where love at the most supreme level blossoms and flourishes, growing ever deeper and stronger, like the roots of a mighty oak tree.

June 11, 1985, 5:38 p.m., our love was born—a perfect ten pounds and 22-½ inches. The nurse held you up as I smiled in awe and held your tiny hand for a few seconds. I couldn’t hold you until several hours later because meds from the C-section put me in a deep sleep. But once I did hold you, I knew my arms had never been so utterly filled with joy.

Helpless eyes look up at me

A whole new world in you I see

Tiny fingers grasp my thumb

A whole new person I’ve become.

A brand new life I must help mold

From this pure innocence I hold

All my thoughts are now of you

You have made a dream come true.

Unimagined love – so much

Your smile, your smell, your laugh, your touch

I thank each day the Lord above

For you, my miracle of love.

(Excerpts, Miracle of Love)

Complete enthrallment ensued as I constantly marveled at your perfection. You filled my world with something undefinable, something I’d never known before. My heart expanded a thousand-fold, for how else could it contain such boundless adoration?

As I hold him the reflections always seem to fill my mind

In slow motion all the replays of the very sweetest kind

His precious grins and laughter and small, angelic ways

That cause my heart to melt and add such joy to all my days.

And then I have to wonder, as this angel clings to me

How did I get so lucky that I could get to be

The one he reaches out to and needs so desperately

To guide his life and share his dreams and love so endlessly.

I softly whisper thank you as I kiss him on the head

I lay my angel down and then I tiptoe off to bed.

(Excerpts, Goodnight Little Angel)

Proudly, I noted each new accomplishment, documented each new word, logged each new milestone, and charted each momentous event—all on a baby calendar, with cute little stickers for your first two years of life. They’re packed securely away now with your crocheted blanket and patchwork quilt, the storkie that hung over your crib, your baby shoes, white christening outfit, and various other keepsakes.

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Nathan eating lunch in his highchair, 1986

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Nathan calling Grandma on the telephone, 1987

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Nathan with Aunt Diane’s puppy, 1988

It was during those days that my fairy-tale dreams had come true, because your daddy was my Prince Charming and having you made life even more ideal.

Here lies a child from above

Uniquely made, born of our love

Sent just for us to guide and mold

With stars to catch and dreams to hold.

And in this child we can see –

Such endless possibility

What then shall we choose to impart

Upon his precious little heart?

What priceless gifts can be instilled

For love to grow and trust to build

The treasures worth far more than gold

We pray our child shall behold.

We’ll make a wish each day will bring

The very best of everything

Unto this child so very dear

Whose heart we’ll hold forever near.

For now he’s just a little one

A brand new life that’s just begun

But years shall pass and he’ll be grown

Someday he’ll go out on his own.

His light will shine and we will know

We did our best to help him grow

Love’s treasures are what we’ll impart

Upon his precious little heart.

(Excerpts, Love’s Treasures)

That fairy tale is also packed away now, somewhere very far, never to return.

Countless times my mind retraces the moments, weeks, and months that comprised your twenty-eight and one-half years. I’m exceedingly grateful for all the precious memories, and for the human mechanisms that facilitate those memories to be safely tucked away and recalled at will. The perilous clutches of grief will never take those from me, for they remain a part of my very soul.

In my heart there lies an album

Which grows dearer every day

With the very special memories

That I’ve safely tucked away.

Though time looks to the future

And swallows up the past

It cannot fade nor take these

For I’ve put them there to last.

I just turn back the pages

And there I still can see

The innocence within your eyes

As you looked up at me.

So many countless moments

I felt my heart be stilled

As I shared each small endeavor

I knew my heart was filled.

It’s love that has the power

To hold these things in place

All the beautiful reflections

That time cannot erase.

(Excerpts, Memories)

It was clear early on that you were gifted, conversing in sentences at age two, excelling in grade school, possessing multiple talents and skills. In fourth grade, your teacher sent home a note stating what an amazing young man you were. I think you were the teacher’s pet most every year through junior high. You played the Mouse King in the third-grade production of The Nutcracker, learned the saxophone, and easily made the honor rolls. Football became your sport beginning in eighth grade. Your towering six-foot-two frame as a freshman made you an easy pick for first-string offensive and defensive tackle.

In a college English course, your teacher one day had you instruct the whole class. You were so proud. Never the least bit nervous to stand and speak before a group, you brimmed with confidence. You were fearless. I thought you would conquer the world.

Your three younger brothers had come along by then, and life was immensely busy. Even though the balancing act was trying at times, I always realized how incredibly blessed I was. I tried to put into words how full my heart felt, wrote some poems, and even sold several in the scrapbooking market.