View fullsize

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.

View fullsize

Tucked carefully just under Natalie’s pillow is a purple blanket, worn out and threadbare. It was one of Mitchell’s favorite blankets when he was as a toddler. Among the many places she might keep that treasured heirloom, it rests to this day quiet and unassuming, near her head when she sleeps.

When Mitch was a tiny little boy, he found special comfort in soft things. I’ll never forget when Natalie handed Mitch two small fleece blankets – one was purple and the other green. Mitch immediately smiled and pushed the blankets up to his cheeks. His chubby little fingers felt the soft fabric, and he was in love.

“Once again, I was witness to the beautiful, unspeakable love of mothers.”

For many years, Mitch clung to those two blankets as if were imaginary friends. I didn’t realize how much he treasured them until the day I found him quietly whispering to himself as he was stuffing both blankets in the produce drawer of our fridge, for safe keeping. When I giggled, Mitch turned his head and smiled and said, “Hi, Dad. One second … one second.” He finished securing his treasure in the fridge, then ran up to my leg and hugged me.” I asked him, “You love those blankets, don’t you?” He said softly, “I wuv them. Mommy gave them to me.” At that moment, I began to see the beautiful, unspeakable love of mothers anew. To our tiny child, those blankets weren’t just a warm fabric from which to cuddle on a cold winter’s night; they were a symbol and an extension of his mother’s love, and it comforted him so.

As the years passed, Mitchell grew up and out of those two blankets. Because they meant to him as a toddler, we kept them safe knowing one day; they would mean more to us than perhaps they ever meant to him. As Mitch grew older, he discovered other symbols of his mother’s love – and he clung to those in times of comfort and in times of trouble.

Years later, when we discovered Mitchell’s heart was about to stop beating, Natalie instinctively ran to the gift shop at the hospital to find something that might give her baby comfort, once again. After scanning the shelves, Natalie finally saw a soft teddy bear whose broken heart was patched and stitched, with a kind of homemade variety. Most importantly, you could tell that tender heart was being held up with love. Natalie’s eyes filled with tears and said, “Chris, this is it. This is what I want to give Mitchie.”

As we walked back to the Cardiac Intensive Care Unit, Natalie clung to the teddy bear as if to transfer a portion of her love to it so that it might, in turn, transfer that loving care to her sick and dying child. Once again, I was witness to the beautiful, unspeakable love of mothers.

When we returned to his room, Natalie said softly, “Here you go Mitchie – here’s something to cuddle with. I hope you like it.” Mitch smiled and said, “It’s really soft. I love it.” By this time, Mitch was beginning to feel sick and said, “Mom, will you tuck me in with this teddy bear?” Mitch fell fast asleep that night – and I can’t help but think it was in part because of his mother’s tender love.

I’ve watched this sweet mother quietly grieve the loss of our child for 1,866 days now. That’s not 1,866 days of wallowing in self-pity – but instead, learning to live a parent’s worst nightmare. The nightmare doesn’t change over time because the inescapable, irreversible facts of death don’t change.

I’m just a brokenhearted father who loves his family and who misses his son deeply … but however much I miss my son, I can tell the space between a mother and her children is a sacred place. Today, like little Mitch did so many years ago, she clings to the symbols of love she had with her son.

Natalie has learned to put her love and pain (which is grief) in an invisible treasure box – for you can’t have one without the other. I'm forever humbled to witness the beautiful, unspeakable love of mothers.

View fullsize

Never had the closing of a door been so terrifying. The funeral director reverently moved the flower arrangement so the casket could be sealed shut … sealed for as long as the earth would last. My hands began to shake, and my knees trembled as I stood agonizing over the finality of it all. My little son, who loved life and thought I could save him from harm, was gone.

This moment that you see here was one of the hardest moments of my life. I couldn’t bear to see my little boy’s likeness being swallowed up in the shadow of the casket door. I had to look away, for I could not bear the sight of it. I looked down and wondered if I could ever gather up the broken pieces of my heart … for there were more than any mortal could count.

“If life matters, so does death … and every moment in between. ”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

Desperate for comfort, little Wyatt leaned his tear-drenched face into me and wept. And my sweet, tender wife felt a grief so deep, death would have been a sweet release.

Everyone in my little family was broken, and I couldn’t fix it.

C.S. Lewis, an author I have long admired, said this: “It is hard to have patience with people who say ‘There is no death’, or ‘Death doesn't matter.’ There is death. And whatever is matters. And whatever happens has consequences, and it and they are irrevocable and irreversible. You might as well say that birth doesn't matter.”

If life matters, so does death … and every moment in between. Those who walk in grief carry a heavy burden and pain that cannot be seen. Some are impatient or insensitive with those who grieve … others are simply mean. To them I say, it matters, the life and death of a human being.

It hurts because it matters.

View fullsize

When our children were little they looked forward to our Friday night den parties. I remember these nights so well. After they were bathed and dressed in their jammies, each child would carry a Sippy cup of juice mixed with a little water, a small bowl of popcorn and their favorite treat into our family room to watch a Disney movie. We didn’t have much – so we made what little we had count. Despite our struggle to make ends meet life was sweet back then and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. 

I had a lot of self-doubt at the time, wondering about my place in the world and what I was supposed to do with my life. But one thing I never doubted was my desire to be a good husband and a loving father. I loved being a dad. I wasn’t the best at it … I really wasn’t … but I tried. Looking back, I would have done so much differently as a father. Yet, I don’t let my failures of the past haunt me … instead, I try to forge those failures into a personal lesson learned. A kind of mental note I take, so I can avoid future mistakes. I’m not sure I am good at that, either. But I keep trying to learn and grow from my wins and losses. One of the many beautiful things about children is their unconditional and abundant love. No matter how many times I might have disappointed them, been grumpy or impatient, they forgave me freely … and for that, I am eternally grateful. 

It is interesting how forgiveness begets deeper love – and deeper love begets more forgiveness. Another note taken.

So on this ordinary summer night, Mitch became especially giddy. This tiny boy, the youngest of the bunch, loved being with his older siblings at every opportunity. He wanted to be just like them. 

Mitch danced around the room in his cute little sweat pants and Spiderman shirt singing incoherent songs. He would then run back to this table, take a quick drink, then prance around some more. I could never pick him up and kiss him enough – sticky cheeks and all.

Reflecting back on good memories has been an important part of my healing – and I am grateful for so many of you who have listened with caring hearts and mourned with those that mourn. There is healing in that, too. Though I reflect on my memories in this place, I am actively creating new memories with my family – and that is just as important to my own healing. I need them both. 
As ordinary and routine as life may have felt at the time, looking back, these moments now serve as a counter balance to sorrow and loss. When grief seems especially heavy, these sweet memories give me something to be grateful for. And gratitude is no empty thing: for it fills my heart and causes my soul to sing. Gratitude, my friends, soothes grief’s terrible sting. 

Note taken.