Judy read this obituary to me. It was printed in The Charleston Gazette on Friday, April 16, 2010. I am usually not moved by the typical obituary, but this one gives a person not only the character of the individual, but relates the terrible moments that all 29 of the miners' families faced after the tremendous mine explosion in Raleigh County.

Edward Dean Jones

Monday, April 5, 2010, the alarm went off. It was 3:20 a.m., his set rising time for a day of work. Edward Dean Jones roused from his well-earned slumber and quietly extricated himself from the embrace of his beautiful son, whom he had held throughout the night.

His lovely wife busied herself getting things ready to get him on his way. They parted with a kiss and an “I love you.” She called out to him, “Be careful. Come back safe.” He looked back as he walks away at the peaceful setting that was his home, with his wife silhouetted in the open door. It was still dark as he walked down the sidewalk to his truck. He proudly drove away, knowing his family was safe and nestled together in the place of love that he worked for and helped create.

His focus now changes. He is thinking about his other family that awaits him at the work site. He drives the winding, twisting roads through the beautiful countryside of West Virginia for one hour. The trees are blushing green. The redbuds have bloomed. Trilliums cover the hillside. The river provides music as it rushes and then babbles. Fields of green are ready for mowing or plowing. God has painted a beautiful scene. His spirit is calmed and lifted by all this beauty, all is right in the world. He turns across the bridge to go to the job that defines his long career of over 30 years. He readies himself by stopping by his office and his locker. He likes to get there early, before his shift starts at 6 a.m. It gives him time to plan and prepare for the day ahead. There is time for talk and updates, for lighthearted banter between this band of brothers.
He is proud of the job he does. His best is what he gives. After all, he watched his dad, whom he loved and admired, spend 38 years doing this same job. “I'm going to be a man like you, Dad. I'm going to be a man just like you, Dad,” was his calling.

His dad created this same picture in a beautiful little “holler”, so familiar to those of us who call West Virginia home. The daily ritual was similar, as his dad drove away to join his band of brothers and spent long hours toiling for his family of five children and his faithful companion for life, who prayed for his safe return each day. She, his beloved mother, stayed behind to rear her children to be the best they could be. God guided her hands and her heart as his mother lovingly taught him to be God's man. His mom and dad role-modeled for him what living life with meaning and purpose was. He grew strong with his nurturing and guidance from the angel he called his mother and the great soul he called his father.

He left this idyllic scene for college, to start his own life and career. He studied to make his family proud. His dad's toil paid for his education and his parents beamed when he graduated with his mining engineering degree.

Yes, they were miners, a time-honored position for us West Virginians. He, his dad, his band of brothers, and thousands more like them labored side by side to extract this black gold that powers a nation. It lies deep below the beautiful, old Appalachian Mountains, compressed in its seams. They mine it miles below, away from the light of day. A “Sky of Stone” is their vista and narrow paths in the dark tunnels are where they toil. He earns his living doing this job and brings it home to create a better life for his family of three and his beloved canine companion to make four. His life is good. He is happy.

The love of his life, introduced to him by a coal mining colleague, waits on the front porch in her rocking chair for him to come home. She is warmed by the sun of the beautiful day. She surveys the yard. The weeping cherry tree has bloomed and so have the daffodils. She makes a list in her mind of things they need to do. He loves his beautiful home. Planting flowers and maintaining his yard is one of the things he loves to do with her. Dinner is warm on the stove, and he is late. She is not alarmed, as she knows her husband is dedicated to completing the task at hand to the best of his ability. He is sometimes late. The phone is ringing inside. She does not hear it as she is wrapped in her thoughts and her vigil for him to drive into the driveway. It rings and rings until his son, his sunshine, his reason for getting up in the morning, leaves the comfort of his Steelers recliner to answer it. His beautiful son, whom he loves with every fiber of his being, is also waiting. They will have dinner together and then they will spend the evening together. They love “The Andy Griffith Show.” He has purchased his son all the episodes on DVD, and they watch them over and over. They love watching old westerns, the kind that he grew up watching as a boy. They love the Steelers. He has filled his son's whole room with Steelers' memorabilia. They love WVU football and basketball. They love to wrestle and play and their beautiful golden retriever joins in the play. They are constant companions, bonded in a way that most do not know. His son is sick. His son has cystic fibrosis, a progressive and debilitating illness, for which there is no cure. He has spent many sleepless days and nights pleading for his son's life and health. He adores him and wants to be there for him. He wants to comfort him in hard times and laugh and play with him in good times. He wants his son's life to be full and blessed. He will lead him safely to manhood. They will blow out the candles together on his May 1st 14th birthday; since last year his son was too ill to have a birthday cake. They are best buddies. His greatest ambition was to be a good father.
His son hands the ringing phone to his mother. The world as they knew it collapses. “There has been an explosion at the mines.” He is not home.

She cries out in disbelief. It cannot be! His family rallies. The mother-in-law he loves comes to care for his most valuable treasure, his son. His distraught wife gathers her sisters and drives to his worksite. They will not leave till he is safe. The vigil begins. Day turns to night and another day begins. They wait along a wall, “The Sisters”, for any news. They are joined by other grieving families. All wait together, joined by a common cause, united by a common tragedy. Friends are made. Communities rally. There is love and support from a worldwide family. One day turns to two with tidbits of information being given regularly. His family believes he is safe inside the emergency tent. He is there. We will bring him home. The waiting wears on his family's bodies, minds, and souls, but they wait without wavering. He will be among the miracles that are possible in this disaster. Two days lead to three, then four. Day five is the day. It is late. There is a somber tone in the room. It is crowded, more so than ever before. The air starts to get tense as state troopers station themselves throughout the room, and mental health workers are dispensed to the different families. People stand in silence, waiting for the officials to bring word. Time stands still. Tortured is the word that describes our hearts and minds. The word comes - ALL MEN ACCOUNTED FOR - NO SURVIVORS!

Life as his family knows it has ended. His darling wife and child will never see his smile again or feel his touch or hear his voice. His son's ritual of turning the bed down for daddy at 8 p.m. will end. He will not be there when his son is sick and his wife needs his body to lean on. His 83-year-old mother is losing her zest for life. She has given so much of her bouquet to God's bouquet that she questions her ability to go on. She lost her helpmate of 51 years, his father, in 2004. She watched her treasured daughter, his sister, fight ALS for five years, only to lose the battle in 2007. Her darling grandson, his nephew, lost his lifelong battle with cancer in 2008. Now, she cries for her baby, the two-month premature boy who came with a companion, his minutes older twin brother. She nurtured them to health at a time when preemies in a small rural hospital do not usually survive. How can she bare yet another loss? How can she give yet another child? God has been her steady companion. He is faithful. She will hold on as three of her other precious children remain who look to her for love and her comforting arms.
His band of brothers will not hear, “Holey Moley, boys. What are we going to do?” anymore. Their playful teasing of him is now quiet. His expertise and loving kindness to them will be silent as well. They are left with their memories as they trudge back into those dark tunnels to harvest this dark fruit called coal.

Who is this man?

Edward Dean “Dean-O” Jones, 50, was born January 24, 1960. He died on April 5, 2010, deep inside the Upper Big Branch Mine of Performance Coal, Massey Energy. He was working Headgate Section 22 when a tremendous explosion instantly took his life.
He is survived by his beloved wife, Gina “Gin-O” Jones, and his precious son, Kyle Dean Jones, and his faithful canine companion, Mattie. He was the son of Ruby Nell Lafferty Jones and the late Dallas Edward Jones. He was the brother of Judy Jones Petersen and Cheryl Sue Jones.

He was preceded in death by his sister, Vickie Jones Dixon.

His twin brother, Dallas Gene Jones, is left to stand in the gap for us.
Gina's parents, Alice and Dallas Peters, loved him dearly and he loved them. He knows they will be there for Gina and Kyle.

He was a graduate of West Virginia Institute of Technology, where he earned a mining engineering degree in 1982. He had over 30 years of mining experience. The last 14 years, he has worked for Performance Coal, Massey Energy.

He was defined by family and work. Kyle Dean, his son, was gifted with the best and most dedicated father a boy could have. Gina had the most loving, generous, hard-working husband a woman could have. They would have celebrated their 16th wedding anniversary on May 27, 2010.

There is a great void left in his family that no one can fill. However, our faith sustains us. God's will is perfect, though our understanding is clouded. God has planted eternity into the human heart. We WILL be together again.
The services will be promptly held at 5 p.m. Sunday, April 18, at Blue Ridge Funeral Home, Beckley.

In lieu of flowers, please make a donation in Kyle Dean Jones' name to the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation, 6931 Arlington Road, 2nd Floor, Bethesda, MD 20814. We need a cure. Help us find it. Dean-O and Gin-O thank you.

Online condolences may be sent to the family at www.blueridgefuneralhome.com.
“Give yourselves to God…surrender your whole being to him to be used for righteous purposes.” Romans 6:13