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I remember this moment so vividly; the cold December air on my neck, the subtle clatter of teeth shivering in the wintry wind, and the smell of burning wood from fireplaces nearby. The smell of chimney smoke seemed to beckon us back to grandmas with the promise of a glowing hearth and delicious hot chocolate to warm us on the inside and out.

It hadn’t snowed yet, but you could feel winter was near.

Mitch, ever anxious to drink life in by the gallon, asked if we could drive ATV’s around the woods. At one point, Mitch wanted to stop and see his Grandma’s garden that had long gone to sleep for the winter.

Mitch said softly, “Dad, will you take a photo of Effie and me?”

“I’d love to!” I said with a smile.

I remember chuckling at Ethan, who didn’t get the memo; it was actually cold outside. I mean really cold. For the most part, he didn’t mind; and though he was under-dressed, he seemed to have my Canadian tolerance for cold air. He welcomed wintery weather in summery clothes. Mitch always thought his brother was a touch weird - which is why he loved him so. I was enjoying this time with my oldest boys but couldn’t wait to snuggle by the fire and drink hot chocolate.

It’s a curious thing how a single moment can be two things at once. In this case, it was a beautiful tragedy. On one side, I was glad to be with my children; on the other side, my soul was heavy. Mitchell’s face seemed pale as the November sky and his eyes seemed to whisper to me he knew his time was short. I was weighed down by a vague and pressing feeling time was slipping through my fingers at a rate I couldn’t fully appreciate. At one point on this trip, I had a distinct impression this would be Mitchell’s last time at Grandmas. From the time this photo was taken, Mitch had a little more than three months to live.

The more I step back and examine Mitchell’s life, the more I believe he was inspired. You see, he acted on feelings he had, and those tiny impressions-turned-actions would eventually become breadcrumbs of love for the ones he left behind. This photo is one of those breadcrumbs, a gift to his brother, and a gift to me. His silent acts of service remind me to slow down, listen, and give more of my actual myself.

When my boys sat to have their photo taken, the ancient Apocryphal words came to mind, “A faithful friend is a strong defense: and he that hath found one … hath found a treasure.” Captured in this image was not only two brothers, but two friends. I was grateful Mitch had a faithful friend in his brother, and Ethan had a faithful friend in Mitch.

Young Mitchell’s life was made rich by faithful friends. He had a few of them he especially loved – Luke, Derek, and David were his closest – but he had many others he also adored.

In my short 46 years, I’ve discovered casual friends are plentiful, but a truly faithful friend is as rare as it is special.

When I think about the kind of friends Mitch had and the friend he tried to be to them, I want to work harder and be a better friend to the people I love. I have my family who I love so very much – they’re not just family, they’re my friends. Add to that, a growing list of people near and far, whose friendship I treasure.

This image haunts and inspires me. It reminds me to slow down because time moves so fast. Mitch is looking at me in this photo, and I can almost hear him saying, “Dad, there isn’t much time. Let’s make the most of it.”

This Thanksgiving, I’m going to express my gratitude to my family and friends by slowing down and being more deeply in the moment. What better way to express my love and gratitude for my family and friends than by giving them all of me? I can think of none.

Tonight, I tried to watch this video without crying.  I failed.  I’ve tried to watch this a thousand times while keeping my composure, but I fail every time.  The video is entitled, “The Last Goodbye.”

When Mitch was home on hospice, his elementary school rallied together and made him a get-well DVD.  Contained in this video were messages from friends, students, and faculty who wanted Mitch to know he was missed and above all, loved.  The final commentary (as seen in this screen grab) was from the former principal, Mrs. Shelly Davis, who had recently transferred to a different school across the valley. The loving souls who made this video went out of their way to include her, and her loving comments made a deep impact on Mitch.  There is something quite special about this Principal.  She leads with love and authenticity and exemplifies the principle of servant leadership.  In every way, she was a tender mercy to Mitch, and I thank heaven she was part of his journey and made a difficult path a little less bumpy.

When we showed this video to Mitch for the first time, I turned my camera toward my son so that I could capture his reaction to the video.  It starts out sweet but gets progressively more tender. 

Toward the end, you’ll witness a sacred conversation between my son and me.  Every time he looked in my direction, he noticed my eyes pooling with tears, especially when Mrs. Davis came entered the frame.  There was a point near the end this video Mitch looked at me with an expression as if to say, “I’m not going to make it back to school, am I, Dad?”  When he gave me that look, the floodgates opened, and tears began streaming down my neck.  Thus, began the delicate conversations and the careful unraveling of Mitchell’s fate.

This video is as close to a conversation with Mitch that I’ll ever have in mortality.  The way he looks at me melts my heart, yet breaks it at the same time.  I loved this little boy so much, and it broke me to see him slipping through my fingers like a baby made of sand.

I remember kneeling before my Father that night, pleading for my son to be delivered from death; but if not, that we would have the strength to carry such a burden.  I wet my pillow with tears that night like I did the night before, and the night before that, even to infinity.

The next morning, I saw my little boy smiling, and my heart was made glad.  I had a distinct impression from my Father that my son would not survive, but that our backs would be made stronger … somehow, some way.  In that moment of joy, seeing my son smile, I sensed death drawing near.  I wrote in my journal later that morning, “Death is coming for my son. I can feel it in the marrow of my soul, but for now, I’ll treasure each moment I’m blessed to have him.”  

Over the next few weeks, I learned to acknowledge my son’s inevitable fate while learning to say, “But for now …”  Most painfully, I became a student of hardship and sorrow, learning to let go of tomorrow and live in the moment.  I’m not the first to write about such things, and I certainly won’t be the last.  In many ways, learning to live in the moment is a personal journey, and the lessons therein are layered.  Most often, we learn this lesson over a lifetime.  Perhaps what is why grandparents, rich with experience, savor their grandchildren so.                                                

Learning to live in the moment was something I had to practice, even in grief.  After Mitch passed, I found myself sinking deeper and deeper in grief and began to acknowledge, “I’m in so much pain.  I don’t know when this will end – or if it will ever end.  But for now, I’ll take things a step at a time.”                                                            

Thankfully, I’ve discovered, there is an end.  It isn’t because grief goes away (it doesn’t), but our backs will get stronger and, with heaven’s help, our burdens will seem light.  Today, I experience more peace than pain, but as sure as the sun will rise and set each day, so will the cycles of grief return with its associated darkness and sorrow. But for now, I’ll enjoy the peace heaven has afforded me; and when darkness returns, as it surely will, I’ll look heavenward and count our tender mercies, like stars in the heavens.  However dark the path may seem, there is always evidence of heaven’s hand, once before unseen.

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These five people and our furry friend mean so much to me. I’m the lucky one. Happy Thanksgiving to the Mitchell's Journey family. We are so grateful for you.

It was a cold November night when we arrived at grandma’s house.  Eager to stretch their legs from a 4-hour drive, our kids sprang from the car and ran to the front door only to be received with warm hugs and kisses from loving grandparents.  It was an especially tender time as our petition for a heart transplant was denied.  We were on borrowed time. 

In the marrow of my soul, I knew time was short, and that frightened me.  A few weeks before this photo, I sent a message to family letting them know Mitch was in trouble. 

In part of that letter, I wrote:

“Today Natalie and I sit with Mitch on the edge of an invisible cliff.  He can't see it, but my wife and I can - and the mouth of the abyss is yawned and inching to devour our son.  Yet, Mitchell looks out into the vast horizon unaware and envisions a long, bright future ahead of him.  In his little mind, he is already making big plans.  He wants to build a home next to ours with a tunnel connecting our basements, so he and his dad can watch movies and make popcorn.  He wants to work for his dad when he's older.  He talks about his own kids one day and how he’ll raise them as we raised him.  As he points to his vision of the future with youthful enthusiasm and a zest for life, he doesn't realize that he sits on the outermost edge and the ground from under him has crumbled away into the darkness – and his little body is hanging on by a pebble.  What Mitchell doesn't understand is the beautiful horizon he sees is only a mirage, and in reality, the sun is setting on his own life.

 Mitchell is too young to know what’s happening.  If he knew how close he is to completing this mortal journey, he would be terrified.  And we can’t bring ourselves to let him know the mortal danger he faces.  And we won’t.

 I write you today not to seek pity or sadness – but to alert you to his situation and invite you when you see him next, to give him a little more attention and love than usual.  We don’t know how much time we have with him, but the hour is late and midnight uncertain, so we want him to feel loved and appreciated during whatever time he has left.”

 I was very emotional at the time.  The simplest trigger would send tears streaming down my face.  A pothole while driving, a ray of light, or a fleeting memory that crossed my mind – everything was a trigger.  Though my heart was fragile, I tried to hide my sorrow from my son.  I didn’t want him to be afraid of something he had no control.  Suddenly, I understood like never before, how much a parent wants for their child’s happiness; and to see our children suffer is an agony for which there is no equal.

“Suddenly, I understood like never before, how much a parent wants for their child’s happiness; and to see our children suffer is an agony for which there is no equal.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

So, when my mother said, “Mitch, I have a surprise for you,” and my little boy smiled, my heart was awash with gratitude.  My mother knew Mitchells’ favorite dessert was chocolate cake from Costco – and Mitch knew it, too.  As our kids gathered in the kitchen and Grandma began to slice into that chocolaty goodness, Mitch had a smile that made my heart sing.  It was a simple thing to remember Mitch and treat him with something he loved – but I’ve learned that the small and simple things are really big things.

As I tucked Mitch in that night, he said in a soft tone, “Dad, Grandma is so nice to remember I like chocolate cake from Costco.”  I paused a moment, and Mitch then asked, “Are you crying?”  I whispered, “Son, sometimes moms and dads cry when special things happen to their kids.  Our hearts explode, and it squirts out of our eyes.”  Mitch giggled a little and snuggled into a deep pillow, ready to visit a place of dreams.

Mitch knew there were sweeter things in life than chocolate cake – and as much as he loved that treat, he loved the sweeter things of life even more.  The loving kindness of a grandparent, a simple act of service, or a friendly hello meant more to Mitch than all the candy on earth.

As I reflect on my son’s journey, though it broke my heart, I am so grateful for my mother and the sweeter things of life.  For when all seemed dark, it was these little moments that broke through the shadows and shed a little light.  I will thank my Father when I kneel before Him tonight.