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I don’t often look at photos of the funeral. Most of the time, I prefer to look at other parts of my son’s life and the things he taught me. Today, as I browsed photos of Mitch, I stumbled into this image, and I immediately welled with tears.

We were gathered as a family to say our final goodbyes to Mitch. Soon the casket would close, and I would never again see my son’s physical form in mortality. The funeral services would begin shortly, and Natalie and I would give the most difficult addresses of our lives.

At one point during this family gathering, I saw my nieces from across the room; I could tell they were emotional and struggling over the loss of their cousin. My heart was filled with compassion for them, so I excused myself from a conversation and walked in their direction, wanting to offer a little hope and sunshine during a dark time.

I asked if I could share something with them, and they smiled softly, then nodded yes. I showed my nieces a screengrab I took of Mitch guiding me through Facetime to find a specific Nerf gun for one of his neighbors and best buddies, Derek Mackerell. I was fumbling around Walmart’s toy section pointing to options … and all of them swiftly rejected. Mitch was particular – he was making plans to have an epic Zombie battle in our basement, and he thought Derek would be a great sniper. He also wanted this gun to be a gift to him.

Were you to look closely at this image; you’d see Mitch smiling (almost laughing) at me. I had become what I thought I’d never be: a clueless parent when it came to childhood pop-culture. As a kid, I wondered why my parents couldn’t figure out how to use a VCR or remote control. Cables confused them, and I had become a childhood tech geek. Things were much simpler back then. Now I get it.

In this case, I didn’t know the make and models of Nerf guns … I only knew the basics: they were plastic and shot foam darts. Beyond that, I was useless, and Mitch thought that was pretty funny. At one point, Mitch laughed, then put his hand on his forehead and said, “Dad, how can you not know these things?” We both laughed, and I finally found the sniper rifle he so wanted for his friend.

The boys would have an epic battle soon after. I can still hear the youthful laughs of those kids immersed in make-believe. Mitch would pass away about a week later, and the sound of his laughter, as unique as a fingerprint or a snowflake, as beautiful as a songbird, would be silenced forever.

Gosh, I miss him today. It hurts, but that’s okay.

Having passed away just before his 11th birthday, he would have turned 18 today. I wonder what he would have been like. I’ll always wonder. Such is the burden of those who grieve.
A few years would pass, and we’d walk down the street to give that Nerf sniper rifle to Derek, thanking him for being such a good friend to our boy. I’ll always love that young man for being such a good friend to Mitch.

I don’t know where the time goes, but it moves much faster than grief.

I’ve learned that I can be happy and sad at the same time. In this very moment of journaling, my heart is broken, but it is also gushing with gratitude and love. My heart is heavy as lead and my soul, light as a feather.

Tonight we’ll celebrate Mitchell’s 18th birthday as a family. Because of the pandemic, we’ll be ordering Orange Chicken from Panda Express and eat at the cemetery. We’ll play UNO, share our favorite memories, and just enjoy each other’s company. My kids miss Mitch, too, and they’re allowed to feel all the feels - however and whenever they come.

I suspect it will be all the things: happy, sad, nostalgic, and forward-thinking — a beautiful potpourri of real.

If there’s one thing my little boy has taught me, it’s this: of all the things we give and take, the only things we truly keep are the memories we make.

Happy Birthday little boy, raising you was such a treat, now I treasure the memories I keep.

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This was Mitchell’s last time at his grandmothers – the place, other than home, he loved to be above all others. I’m not sure if it was the chocolate cake from Costco she would get especially for him, or the small 4-wheelers he could ride into the woods, or if it was the escape from life as he knew it, maybe it was the unbridled love he received – but whatever it was, he wanted to be there. 

As we stood at the door and said goodbye my mother reached behind Mitch, who is as shy as he is sweet, and kissed his cheek. I could tell Mitch felt so good inside. I think everybody deserves to feel good inside. 

I captured this tender moment with my phone. As we left her place there was a certain heaviness in my heart. I didn’t know where my feelings were coming from – I just sensed something was happening. Something significant. As we drove away I struggled to swallow the lump in my throat. Had I known this was his last trip there, I would have begged to stay another day or two. My mother said after we left she just sat on the floor and wept. Perhaps her soul, not knowing the end was coming, was being prepared for this loss.

It was the last few days of November and the Christmas holidays were just around the corner. I could tell Mitch was excited to see what Santa would bring –but he was even more excited about the gifts he was going to give everyone else. Mitch always gave to others freely. I think deep inside he felt no matter how much he gave, he always got more in return. 

Even when Mitch was home on hospice, he spent his hard-saved money on a collection of Warheads (very sour candy) and gave them away. I remember sitting with him on the edge of his bed as he separated the flavors. He softly pointed to the blue raspberry ones and said almost in a whisper, struggling to breathe, “These ones are rare. They’re my favorite.” He then grabbed my hand and put the precious 3 candies in my palm, then closed my fingers and pushed my hand back to me. I said to him, “Oh, no Mitchie, these are yours. You keep them because I know you love them.” As I reached to give them back he pushed my hand back to me with a gentle smile and said, “No, you keep them. And I want you to eat one right now.” My heart sank a little because I wanted him to have his favorite treats, but I realized in that moment that letting Mitch give was the gift he really wanted. 

So, I opened one quickly and put it in my mouth. Mitch began to smile and giggle as I puckered and writhed over the intense sour candy that was destroying my taste buds. Mitch finally burst out in laughter as he saw me cry out “I can’t take it!” For Mitch, giving was a win to him. And seeing me almost gag over the super-sour candy was a second win that paid dividends of giggles and laughter.

I still have those other two candies in a special box that contains treasures from Mitch. 

Mitch reminds me daily what it means to win. Sometimes life gives us double-wins when everything turns out as planned. Other times we do our best and appear to fail; but if we are honest and do our best we have already won, regardless of the outcome. What is winning, really? It is doing the right thing – no matter the cost. Mitch always did the right thing. And more often than not, he won twice.

With all his double-wins, my little boy lost his battle with life … yet he won his soul by the way he lived it. And, by the grace of God, while I stumble and fall a million times as I chase after my son, I hope to hold him once more. I hope to look into his innocent eyes and thank him for helping me understand to do good and be good is what it means to truly win.

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There is a saying that reads, “Do not teach your child to be rich. Teach him to be happy. So when he grows up, he’ll know the value of things, not the price.” I always loved this saying for many reasons and have tried to help my children appreciate the little things: soft pillows, macaroni and cheese, and blanket forts. After all, true value has little (if anything) to do with price –and the things of greatest value cannot be purchased with money. Not at any price.

“Once I discovered this, the relationship between the highway and this canyon began to serve as something of a metaphor to me – a reminder that sometimes I can’t see a thing until I step back and look from a different vantage point. ”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

During his last summer of life, Mitch spent some long-awaited time at his grandmother’s ranch in Southern Utah. On this day life couldn't have been more awesome; the weather was perfect and glee was floating in the air like spring pollen. On the horizon, you could see the ancient fingers of Kolob Canyon which stood towering into the sky as a majestic reminder that our lives are but a blink and humans are only transients on this planet … this classroom of rock and water.

Before my mother moved to her ranch I drove by this canyon a thousand times, oblivious to the true beauty of the landscape I was passing. The highway hugs the mountain range and base of Kolob Canyon in such a way you cannot see it (not even a little bit) because the road is too close to it. Without the proper perspective, everything feels ordinary. But, if you take an exit near the canyon and get a little distance from the highway, you will see the most amazing mountain range. This canyon is one of Utah’s best-kept secrets – invisible to the casual traveler.

Once I discovered this, the relationship between the highway and this canyon began to serve as something of a metaphor to me – a reminder that sometimes I can’t see a thing until I step back and look from a different vantage point.

My experience with Mitch taught me the same thing. As I travel the long road of grief, when I step away from my sorrow and look upon the landscape of this experience from a different vantage point, I see beauty. I also see reminders this place is not home … that I, too, am a transient and will one day travel to a better place.

I love this photo because it reminds me Mitch lived a good life. If there were one image that best illustrated my son, this is it. Mitch was happy – not because of things, but because he was loved by his family and he discovered ways to find joy in everything. I have recently discovered many videos of my family where you can see Mitch skipping in the background (unaware he was on camera) because he was simply happy. Although the road he traveled was hard, and he could have found a million-and-one reasons to complain about life not being fair to him, he always stepped away from his limitations and appreciated life from a different vantage point. He saw the canyon.

While having lost my son has been a source of great sorrow, he is also a great source of inspiration to me. And though I walk imperfectly, I will learn from my little boy. Like Mitch, I will find a reason for glee. For indeed, as I step away and look upon my life differently, I can clearly see there is beauty all around me.

Thank you, Mitchie, for teaching me to be happy – to always find a reason for glee.

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About a year after Mitch passed, Wyatt asked to visit the cemetery, so he could reflect on life and remember his older brother.  Young Wyatt began to notice his memories were fading and said in a tearful tone, “I’m afraid of forgetting my brother.”  Wyatt and I sat on the west side of Mitchell’s headstone as the sun began to set.  I just listened to Wyatt share what was on his young mind and little heart and how much he wanted to be a good boy and follow the example of his brother.   

“... to be remembered is not the substance of life – but paving the way for others is.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

On Mitchell’s headstone, I could see Wyatt’s reflection inside his shadow and took this photo of what I saw.  I couldn’t help but think how quickly memories can fade if we’re not careful to record them.  I also began to think how quickly we can forget some of life's most important lessons.  I hope always to remember the people and the lessons – so that I might grow from the love I felt and the things I’ve experienced.  That’s why I do the work of remembering (writing about) little Mitch and our journey with him.

I recently read an article about grief where the author said the greatest fear of a parent who lost a child was having their child forgotten by others.  While that may be true for some, that’s not how I feel. 

It wasn’t many years ago I was working on a documentary and stumbled into an old funeral program from the early 19th century.  Printed on the cover was an almost daguerreotype image of someone reminiscent of the pioneer era.  Written boldly on the cover of the program were the words, “Gone but not forgotten.”  I immediately thought to myself, “If only that were true.”  There, in my hands, I may have been holding the only visual breadcrumb of that man’s existence … evidence he walked the earth and had an impact in his sphere of influence.  It was clear he would be missed by those who knew and loved him, yet generations had since passed, and that lone memorial somehow found its way into my hands.  As far as I could tell, the memory of that good man was all but a vapor.  His memory scattered like dust by the winds of time.

As I’ve reflected the harsh reality, I began to examine why I write of little Mitch. I determined that I don’t write to fixate on the past but to learn from it and change how I step into the future.  I don’t write to keep his memory alive in others – instead, to keep his memory alive in me.  I write so I can make sense of suffering and remember the lessons I’ve learned through heartache and a veil of tears.  I write so I might look heavenward and learn what I must – for all too soon, my time will be up, and I will fall into that deep sleep from which there is no return.  One day, I will be like billions before me --- gone and soon forgotten.  That’s fine by me; for, to be remembered is not the substance of life – but paving the way for others is.                                                                                           

I suppose that’s why I share my journals – so perhaps a flickering candle of faith might light the path for someone else walking a dark road.  When people write me private messages after having read an entry and share how they went their knees and asked their Father if He lives, and how they received an answer, I weep tears of gratitude.  When a mother or father shares how they’ve become more loving or in the moment with their child, my heart is made glad.  Those are the reasons I share stories of Mitch – not that people will remember my son, but that individual lives might see something anew and make a change for the better. 

This work of remembering (Mitchell’s Journey) is about the examined life and making a change for the better.  For it isn't enough to remember the people and events in our lives ... but instead to find meaning.  And if all these stories amount to helping a single soul, even if it’s just one;  my heart will be full, and an important work will be done.