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As far back as I can remember, Natalie and I always enjoyed having people at our home; we enjoyed serving those we love a great meal, and we enjoyed good conversation even more. On this day, we had extended family over for a BBQ. It was a hot, muggy afternoon. The cousins were in the backyard playing on an inflatable water slide. Little Mitch didn't have a lot of muscle strength to do what the other kids were doing, so he stayed behind and wanted to be near me, which I loved.

I was busy preparing our meal on the grill. My tripod and camera were on-the-ready to capture any moment that caught my eye. Little Mitch asked if he could wear one of my favorite hats that had artificial grey hair sprouting in every direction from the top. At the time, I didn't have any grey hair, and it was one of my favorite hats. Since I've lost Mitch, I have grown quite a bit of grey hair, which to me, is a visible testament to the price we pay for grief and heartache.

Mitch always wanted to sit next to me at the grill. He'd sit on a stool and quietly talk to me about things on his mind. Sometimes he didn't say anything at all. He just wanted to be – and that's okay, too. Often, Mitch would make funny observations that were both insightful and witty.

I remember this summer afternoon so vividly. I also remember having a distinct impression this day that a terrible life storm was on the horizon and that darkness was near. I didn't understand that feeling at the time, but looking back, I can see it was my loving Father preparing me … in effect, warning me to make moments matter.

For almost 2 years following the death of Mitch, certain places in my home evoked the most tender feelings. Whenever I was at my grill, I'd instinctively look to my side, hoping to see little Mitch next to me, only to find emptiness. I'd burst into tears, and my heart would break all over again. For a season, all I saw was emptiness everywhere. I had an aversion to certain rooms in my home – for they reminded me of my absent son, and those places became a source of deep pain.

Over time, however, I knew I needed to create new memories in those empty places – to fill those voids with something of joy and happiness. It took time. Step by step, new memory by new memory, I began to replace that sense of profound emptiness with something new.

Part of my grief was magnified because I wanted to go home … you know, the home I once knew and loved. Yet everything stood as a testament that I was no longer home and could never go there again.

Author Thomas Wolfe wrote a book, You Can't Go Home Again (1940), which, among other things, describes how the passing of time prevents us from returning "home again." On at least one level, it is a brilliant meditation on life and making the most of the time we have.

On my grief journey, I had to learn that I could never go home again … at least to the home I once knew. That time before, with little Mitch, was my old home. Today is now, and that is where I've learned to live.

I chronicle my journey with Mitch here, not to fixate on yesteryear and on sorrow – but instead, I write my memories as though I were a weary traveler who discovered a treasure, a memory I wish to keep. I put it here for safekeeping.

Pain has been my teacher and has shown me how to appreciate my present. Whether through death or simply the passage of time, all that we have today will be different tomorrow.

--- UPDATE ---

Since I first posted this story, my daughter has graduated as a nurse and is married with two children. My oldest son Ethan is married and going to college in California, and my youngest, Wyatt, will graduate high school next year. We sold our home and almost everything we owned - in part, to step into the sacred practice of detachment (from things).

We live only a few miles from our old home. The truth is, I miss that place, not so much the place (even though it was lovely); I miss my little children who used to live there. However much I yearn to go home again, I will never be able to return to that place again. Even if we still lived there, it would be a different home than it once was.

Today, Natalie and I live in a different place, making new memories with our children and grandchildren. I carry the light of hope in one hand and a treasure chest of gratitude in the other. Somewhere, between my hands, my heart still carries a longing for home. A longing for what once was. That is grief.

Though grief is heavy and it hurts, it also teaches me. The home I used to have is forever gone. But I have today. And that's something. My grief has taught me that home isn't so much a place but a condition of the heart, and I intend to make the most of the home I have today.

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I took these photos the night Mitchell was released from Primary Children's Hospital. The hospital wanted to keep working on him because, as an institution, that's what they do. But our cardiologists were compassionate and knew better. Their personal advice was to go home as quickly as possible and love this boy with all that we had because the end was coming, and there was nothing they could do to save him.

I'll never forget the look on sweet Mitchell's face when we told him we were going home. In his soft voice, tempered by shallow breaths, he said, "Dad, really? ... I get to go home?" Mitch was relieved and excited. My wife and I were overflowing with fear. We were not doctors; our medical experience was limited to Band-Aids and Neosporin. But within hours, we were given a crash course on how to run oxygen tanks, manage the device that would pump medicine into his heart 24 hours a day, flush his lines, manually administer other drugs through an IV, and more. We were overwhelmed with sorrow, new information, and the inevitable.

Doctors inserted a PICC line that ran from his arm directly into his heart (no small procedure). This line was connected to a little computer that would administer Milrinone, the drug that would keep our boy alive a few more weeks. Without it, he would have become very, very sick within hours. Without it, he would have died rather quickly and painfully.

At the moment this photo [on the left] was taken, I had asked Mitchell if he was excited to go home. His soft smile and loving eyes melted my heart. But inside, I was falling apart. Inside, I was stumbling over the rubble of dashed hopes and dreams. I was trying desperately to feel my way through ashes and darkness. All the while, I tried to contain my fear and emotions so as not to frighten him. I wanted him to be happy. I had to find a way to live in the moment and let tomorrow be.

After he was discharged, Natalie rolled him to the curb – he was so anxious to live his life free of hospital constraints, to reclaim the life he loved so much, to be a little boy again. He had a look of determination in his eyes – an appetite for living I seldom see in anyone. At the time, he didn't know this was a one-way trip. And that trip was the longest, most painful drive of my life.

Once loaded, before we even left the parking lot, Mitchell reminded us it was his week to lead Family Night (a tradition we have once a week to spend time together as a family). We were humbled by Mitchell's desire to contribute, but Family Night was the last thing on our mind. We told him he didn't need to worry about it, that we could do something different instead if he wanted. Mitchell had a tremendous sense of duty. Once he understood a rule or expectation, he lived it to the letter of the law. A more obedient soul I've never known. Mitchell felt it was his duty (a duty he loved) to serve his family.

Two days later, Mitchell would humbly teach a Family Night lesson that focused on love and service. I filmed his heart-felt, soft-spoken lesson. He had prepared some ideas to teach us and games to reinforce what he taught. It was an evening never to be forgotten. Our boy, hanging by a thread, struggling to breathe, put what little energy he had into teaching us about one of life's most important lessons. Perhaps one day, I'll post the video of his lesson to our family. At this moment, my frail son sat on the edge of his couch to share his ideas on love. I was mesmerized. As great as his lesson was, the most powerful lesson wasn't found in his words but in his humble and faithful actions. This little boy, broken and withering away, was magnanimous. I stood in his shadow ... in awe.

Seven years have passed, and not a day passes that I don't reflect on Mitchell's longing for home. Home was where he felt safest, where he could love and be loved. And despite his love for his physical home, a simple touch, a hug, a kiss on the forehead took him home, no matter where he was. Mitchell taught me home isn't a place; it's a condition of the heart.

For the first few years after his passing, my physical home felt profoundly empty without him. There was, and remains, an echo in my heart that will last a lifetime. I don't get to see Mitch when I come home anymore – and I never will for as long as I live on this earth. So, I choose to remember the tender lesson Mitch taught me; that home is not a place but a condition of the heart – and in that way, Mitch is home in my heart and soul. It's not the same, but it's all I've got, and that will have to do.

But alas, there is another home where he now resides. I cannot see it … and oh, how I wish I could. But I have felt it. And it is that home that I long to be.

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As far back as I can remember, Natalie and I always enjoyed having people at our home; we enjoyed serving those we love with a great meal, and we enjoyed good conversation even more. On this day, we had extended family over for a BBQ. It was a hot, muggy afternoon. The cousins were in the back yard playing on an inflatable water slide. Little Mitch didn’t have a lot of muscle strength to do what the other kids were doing, so he stayed behind and wanted to be near me, which I loved.

“On my grief journey, I had to learn I could never go home again … at least to the home I once knew. That time before, with little Mitch, was my old home. Today is now, and that is where I’ve learned to live.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

I was busy preparing our meal on the grill. My tripod and camera were on-the-ready to capture any moment that caught my eye. Little Mitch asked if he could wear one of my favorite hats that had artificial gray hair sprouting in every direction from the top. At the time, I didn’t have any gray hair to speak of, and it was one of my favorite hats. Since I’ve lost Mitch, I have grown quite a bit of gray hair; which to me is a visible testament to the price we pay for grief and heartache.

Mitch always wanted to sit next to me when I was at the grill. He’d sit on a stool and quietly talk to me about things that were on his mind. Sometimes he didn’t say anything at all. Mitch just wanted to be – and that’s okay, too. Often, he'd make observations that were both insightful and witty. There wasn't a moment I didn't adore.

I remember this summer afternoon so vividly. I also remember having a distinct impression this day that a terrible life storm was on the horizon and that darkness was near. I didn’t understand that feeling at the time, but looking back, I can see it was my loving Father preparing me … in effect, warning me, to make moments matter.

For almost 2 years following the death of Mitch, certain places in my home evoked the most tender feelings. Whenever I was at my grill, I’d instinctively look to my side hoping to see little Mitch next to me, only to find emptiness. I’d burst into tears, and my heart would break all over again. For a season, all I saw was emptiness, everywhere. I had an aversion to certain rooms in my home – for they reminded me of my absent son and those places became a source of deep pain.

Over time, however, I knew I needed to create new memories in those empty places – to fill those voids with something of joy and happiness. It took time. Step by step, new memory by new memory, I began to replace that sense of profound emptiness with something new.

I think part of my grief was magnified because I wanted to go home … you know, the home I once knew and loved. Yet everything stood as a testament that I was no longer home and that I could never go there again.

Author Thomas Wolfe wrote a book, You Can’t Go Home Again (1940), where, among other things, describes how the passing of time prevents us from returning “home again.” On at least one level, it is a brilliant meditation on life and making the most of the time we have.

On my grief journey, I had to learn I could never go home again … at least to the home I once knew. That time before, with little Mitch, was my old home. Today is now, and that is where I’ve learned to live.

I chronicle my journey with Mitch here, not to fixate on yesteryear and on sorrow – but instead, I write my memories as though I were a weary traveler who discovered a treasure, a memory I wish to keep. I put it here for safe keeping.

Pain has been my teacher and has shown me how to appreciate my present. Whether through death or simply the passage of time, all that we have today will be different tomorrow. In a few short years, my children will have graduated from high school, and I will never be able to go back to this home I have now again. So today, I will live in my home … my current reality … and I will love that place and all that dwell therein. For on some tomorrow, I’ll have a new home, and I’ll learn to adjust once again.
 

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“The paradox of pain is that it can push us forward, if we’ll allow it.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

A few years ago, I was on a business trip travelling throughout Asia Pacific. As business trips go, it was my favorite of all time. I loved spending time in China and found its people to be incredibly kind and sincere. I also spent quite a bit of time in Perth, Australia. I loved that country and its people, too. 

On my final leg of the trip, I was in Sydney for a few days before I embarked on the long journey home. By this time, I was tired and anxious to see my family. I knew Mitchell’s heart was in trouble, but I never thought I would lose him within 6 months. Time was precious and every moment, more precious still.
 

While in Sydney, Natalie and the kids each took turns to have a Skype conversation. I loved talking to each of them … I loved hearing their stories, seeing their faces and listening to the sound of their high-pitched voices. Though I was grateful to see their faces and hear their voices, I couldn’t wait to give each of them a big hug.

A few weeks before I left on my long trip, Mitch said, knowing a little about Asian art and culture, “Dad, will you find me a gold dragon?” Mitch loved gold, not because his heart was set on material things, but because he understood gold was a precious metal and that it was both rare and beautiful. Rare and beautiful, just like him, only he didn’t know that. 

I searched for a gold dragon but couldn’t find one I could afford – so I came home empty-handed. On my 30-hour journey home I worried about disappointing my tender son – and when I told Mitch I didn’t have one, he said softly, “It’s okay Dad, I’m just glad you’re home.” 

Later that night I thought about Mitchell’s words and I cried. Not because I was sad, but because I was overwhelmed with gratitude. “I’m just glad you’re home.” Those were my son’s words yet they were the words of my heart. I couldn’t wait to get home. Though I loved seeing the wonders of the world, none of them compared to the little souls that lived under my roof. Though I was grateful to see the world, my family was my world and everything else was a distraction.

Home. A beautiful word. Family, more beautiful, still. 

In many ways, grief is the longing for home. At least to me, home isn’t so much a place, but a state of being. If my physical home were swallowed up by a fire or an earthquake, I’ll have only lost things, not my sense of home. Where I live is immaterial, because home, as that old adage says, is where the heart is.

So, when we lose a loved one, the home in our heart changes forever. I can replace a couch or a television, but I cannot replace Mitch. Even with billions of people on the earth at this moment, there is none like Mitch, nor will there ever be again. My heart … my home … was my wife and 4 children. Now, one of them is gone and my heart and soul searches for him. That invisible sense of home we built by service and sacrifice … that place in the heart we lived in, was forever changed. My kitchen table will always feel profoundly empty. Family photos, missing a sweet smile I yearn to see. My heart will always have an empty space that Mitch once occupied. Thus, I will always be longing for home … the home I once knew. The home I so deeply loved.

Though painful, I am learning to channel my longing for home into making my new home better. There will always be a sacred, empty room in my heart – but the rest of it will be filled with more love and more moments that matter than ever before. The paradox of pain is that it can push us forward, if we’ll allow it.

I miss my old home. I miss little Mitch. But I know he is in that place beyond the hills and one day I will go there, too. I hope to hear him say, “Hi Dad, I’m glad you’re home.”