Time is such a slippery thing. This moment with Mitch popped up in my memories. It feels like a lifetime ago, and then again only a minute ago. I miss my little boy, even after all these years. That will never change. Grief and love are different sides of the same coin. I’m grateful for all that ever was and even more grateful for all that remains. #mitchellsjourney

 This photo was taken June 25, 2008. My caption at the time read:

“Mitchell: Baseball. This may be his last year as his muscles are beginning to weaken considerably and his endurance is shrinking.”

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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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Evening was drawing near when Mitch asked if our family could go on a ride around the neighborhood. His muscles were getting weaker by the day, and walking distances of any length were more than he could bear. As the world was getting bigger for healthy kids, Mitchell’s world was getting smaller. His options, more limited. But Mitch smiled anyway and was glad to be alive.

Whenever possible, Mitch wanted to go outside to feel the wind on his face and experience any part of life. Sometimes I wonder if my grief is magnified because I know how much my son appreciated being alive – and my heart is pained that his life was taken away. But those are the thoughts of a mere mortal, and I know that there is more to life and death than we imagine. Even still, death hurts me so.

So, on this peaceful evening, Ethan took point on his bicycle, ensuring the path was clear for his brother while Mitch tugged his sister on skates. Mitch enjoyed giving others rides because it allowed him to do something nobody else could. What made him different also made him special.

Like Mitch, I loved the atmosphere of sunsets and always paused to appreciate the beauty of natural light. Just as I was admiring the sky, Mitch looked up at me and said, “Dad, isn’t it beautiful tonight?” I smiled and said, “Yes, Mitch, it is beautiful. Just like you.” I leaned down and kissed his head only to catch the faint scent of shampoo; a hint bedtime was near. I thought to myself, “How I love having children.”

When I think back on my most treasured memories as a father, they’re found in the most ordinary moments – those times and occasions that seem to hide in plain sight. They’re the things I am tempted to overlook and take for granted. I don’t know that I’ve ever confused shallow things for significance – but I have sometimes missed the simple things, not recognizing how significant they truly were.

I have written in the past that grief is my teacher – but what does that mean, exactly? One example, at least for me, is grief has taught me the very things I long to do with those who are gone are the things I should seek after with those who are now living.

I don’t grieve that I can’t take Mitch to Disneyland. I grieve that I can’t sit on the couch and read books to him. I don’t long to go on vacation with my son, I long to tuck him in and listen to him talk about his day and share his hopes and dreams. I don’t miss taking him to a fancy restaurant; I just want little Mitch to sit by me at the dinner table again and hold my hand like he used to. If it’s the ordinary stuff I long for, then it is the ordinary stuff I should seek after and cultivate.

Looking back, I can see how easily one can get swept up in grief and sorrow – so much so, it becomes a paralytic. Yet, my grief doesn’t paralyze me; it mobilizes me. You see, the irony of death is it has taught me how to live. My pain, for example, has led me to my life purpose. I don’t know that I would have found it otherwise. I suppose I can thank my Father for that. It seems to me that pain in life is inevitable, finding purpose is a choice.

If my son’s journey has taught me anything, it’s taught me slow down and find significance in simple things. And when I do that, gratitude and joy inevitably follow.

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REPOST from 2017

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When Mitch was a tiny boy he’d softly say in a childlike tone, “Dad, come wiff me, I show you sumping.”  With that, his chubby little hand would grab my fingers and gently tug me toward something he discovered.  He was never overbearing but with great love in his heart would gently lead me along.   Until his dying day, that softness never left my son – though he probably could have found any number of reasons to be angry with his lot in life.  He was kind and pure and overflowing with a faith I scarcely comprehend.  I think when my mortal eyes fall away and I see my son for who he truly is, I will see that he was my older brother and that he was here to teach me.

“I can almost hear his whisper now, ever so softly in my mind.  Only this time he see’s things that I cannot – for he has traveled down a path far from mortal view.  So, I must listen closely now … I must listen with my heart and mind; for gems of the soul are, on purpose, not easy to find. ”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

 I was always fascinated by the things he found interesting; the way an ice cube melted on the kitchen table, or how bees would land on a flower and not fall off the petal, or the sheer magnificence of a sunset that captured his heart.  Little Mitch was easily entreated and marveled at the little things in life.  To Mitch his cup was always overflowing and he stopped at nothing to drink it all in.

 On this spring day, while taking a walk as a family, my sweet little boy offered that familiar invitation “Dad, come wiff me, I show you sumping.”  With a little tuft of grass in his hand he led me to a corner behind a tall tree and said in his tiny voice, struggling to pronounce the letter “L”, “Dad, wets make a fort.”  I don’t remember the other things he said … I only remember getting choked up by his tenderness.   I wrote in my journal that night, “How great are these little ones.  Indeed, of such is the kingdom of heaven.”             

When I look at this tender photo of my son I am reminded it isn't what we do together as families that matters as much as how we do it.  My most treasured memories with my family aren't the big trips to Disneyland or other attractions, which things were always significant financial investments.   Instead, the memories I treasure the most were the emotional investments in my children … it was the tiny adventures just down the street from where we lived; it was the cuddles on the couch, the heart-felt talks about whatever was on their mind, or the wandering conversations on the grass.  Those memories are where my heart yearns to go – for they were woven with love.  I would rather have one loving conversation with my children than a thousand trips to all the wonders of the world.  In every way that matters, our children are the world’s greatest wonders. 

Even in his later years, before he passed away, Mitch would often come to me and just as tenderly say, “Dad, come with me, I want to show you something.”  I was always anxious to see the world through his eyes.

I can almost hear his whisper now, ever so softly in my mind.  Only this time he see’s things that I cannot – for he has traveled down a path far from mortal view.  So, I must listen closely now … I must listen with my heart and mind; for gems of the soul are, on purpose, not easy to find. 

Sometimes, when I’m listening, I think Mitch still beckons me to see the things my mortal eyes are blind to, yet my spirit seeks eagerly.  

 I am so thankful for my little son who taught me one the most important lessons on earth and heaven above: whatever you do, do it with love.