I sometimes wonder why we wait until it’s too late. We send flowers at funerals when those flowers might have lifted a heavy heart when that loved one was living. We honor our family and friends with eulogies after they pass – when our gratitude and love may have healed a weary, forgotten soul. I know it’s not practical to write eulogies for the living or send bouquets of flowers every day – but we can send a text or give someone a call when they come to mind. That counts, too. I’ve discovered the little things are always bigger than we imagine.

Today Mitch would have turned 19. He passed away a few months before his 11th birthday—a tender age, to be sure. As a little boy, he loved his Mom with all his heart. He still believed in Santa and loved building Legos. Although he was very much a young boy, he also looked forward to becoming a husband and father when he grew up.

Grief hurts even after 8 years. But I’ve also discovered grief refines us – if we do the work to transform our pain from our tormentor into our teacher. It isn’t easy. Grief is clumsy work, really … especially in the beginning. I remember the days I would shut my door at the office and weep. For the first few years, every minute was a waking nightmare. I sometimes prayed for my own death to escape the pain.

Yet, despite all the pain Mitchell’s death has caused me, he has brought me even more in love, joy, and meaning. Little Mitch was then and remains today, one of my most sacred teachers. He didn’t mean to be my teacher – he was just a little kid. Mitch was innocent and the embodiment of goodness.

As my teacher, Mitch gave me two gifts embedded in 2 profound lessons. I am so very far from perfect, but try to emulate these every day:

ONE: SEE WITH YOUR HEART

“When you see with your heart, you see everything that matters.” ~ Mitchell Dee Jones

Mitch taught me to look beyond someone’s jagged edges and see their heart. Even in the midst of being treated poorly by some adults, my little boy taught me to look for their pain. He understood that hurt people hurt people – and though we should not tolerate abuse and unkindness, we can practice the healer’s art by seeing the person behind the pain. Mitch taught me everyone is worthy and deserving of love.

TWO: BE KIND AND GRATEFUL

“Be nice to each other and be glad you’re alive. Nothing else matters.” ~ Mitchell Dee Jones

Little Mitch taught me the formula for a joyful life is found in gratitude and kindness. He showed me that kindness is contagious, and life is limited. So, I’ve learned how to spread one and treasure the other. We’re only on this earth for a few minutes – why not shine while we’re here?

Today, as my little family celebrates Mitchell’s birthday, I will double my efforts to see beyond – to see with my heart. I’ll share love and kindness to everyone I meet … and I’ll treasure what precious seconds remain in my own short life.

I don’t know what happens in that place beyond the hills. But I dream of seeing my 10-year-old son on some path’s horizon, a great way off. And when I see him, I will run at reckless speed to embrace him. My love for Mitch has only grown since I last saw him. I will thank him for being my son, my teacher, and my friend. While I walk my own path between now and then, I’ll do my best to stop and help the weary travelers I encounter and serve them in word and deed. For unqualified love is the greatest gift indeed.

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Toward the end, I couldn’t kiss my boy enough. And when Mitch started to sleep a lot, I cuddled with him so he would never wake and be scared he was alone. There were times I wept so hard I shook the bed and woke him a little. I didn’t want to scare him – but in the quiet of my heart, I was terrified to lose him.

By this time, Mitch knew he was dying. At one point, he said, “I don’t think I can survive.” Those are some heavy words for a little boy to carry. When Mitch said that, I quietly turned my head as tears streamed down my face like Niagara Falls. I pleaded with God that I could take it all away – that I could die so my son could live. To my sorrow, life was not so kind.

I’ve spent the last several years examining grief. To this day, I still can’t conjure the words to describe the permanent trauma of watching your child slip through your fingers like a baby made of sand. I’ve tried to describe it in the past, but words are inadequate, much like trying to describe color to someone blind since birth.

I’ve discovered that grief is amorphous – and there are many faces of grief. Each face is my teacher. Here are five among many:

GRIEF THE DRUNKARD

Sometimes grief comes barging in the home of your heart, drunk and belligerent—an uninvited houseguest who always has keys to the back door. However much you try to change the lock, grief knows the locksmith. This kind of grief is difficult to manage because you can’t make sense of or negotiate with it. Instead, you learn to sit with it, help it calm down, and let its slurry sorrow burn off. The sooner you listen to what it has to say; the sooner sorrow turns sober.

GRIEF THE SERGEANT

Other times, grief is a demanding drill sergeant – bent on working your already weary heart to the ground. Sometimes the sergeant bursts onto the stage of your mind and heart while you’re in a meeting – it doesn’t care who you are or what you’re doing … it only demands your attention. Quietly, you lift grief through an emotional obstacle course as your knees and heart buckle. I’ve learned to listen to the sergeant and “do the work” – though painful; it always makes me stronger.

GRIEF THE GHOST OF REGRET

Regret is inevitable – and being human, we all carry regret. That thing we didn’t say but wish we did, the opportunity to spend time but didn’t, and a-million-and-one dumb decisions that lead to some form of regret. This face of grief isn’t just haunting; it’s horrifying—all those missed opportunities are gone forever. However, I’ve learned to sit with this ghost and find ways to turn regret into resolve. Resolve to do better and to be better. Then, that ghost fades away – and I’m all the better because of it, for I’ve learned to live a better way.

GRIEF THE PRETENDER

Sometimes grief acts like a pretender. I’ve seen others hide behind the veneer of their faith – as if being sad is a sin or a betrayal of sacred beliefs. They flex their muscles and try to seem strong, even super-human. “It’s been a month, and it’s time to move on. I must show everyone that I’m righteous and strong.” That only teaches ourselves and others to hide under a thin sheet of inauthenticity. Grief, the Pretender, is an imposter, a shadow pretending to be light. Sorrow is not only human but also our birthright. I would sooner trust a broken soul than a perfect one – for one is true, and the other is not. Losing someone we love hurts, and it hurts a lot.

GRIEF THE DIVINE TEACHER

Of the many faces of grief, this one is my tender teacher – for it has the power to turn vinegar into water – but it is the most solemn work of all. It asks deeper, more searching questions. This face of grief isn’t at all interested in “why me” or “why Mitch?” but instead turns the mirror inward. It asks the hard questions like, “Why not?” or “What makes you an exception to human suffering?”

I then bow my head in reverence of everyone who suffers. In this reflection, I have learned to look at my own soul and ask, “Yes, it hurts, but what am I to learn from this?”

Grief is a magic mirror, really, and though it appears to wear different masks – each of them are part of a greater whole. And if I’m listening, this divine face of grief shapes my heart and contours my soul.

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Tiny Mitch reached up to grab a door handle that stood just above his head. He had an almost tangible curiosity about him this day – so much so, he would have seemed mischievous if he wasn’t so innocent. With a soft tug, his chubby hand and tiny little fingers began to pull downward. If you were listening carefully, you could hear the old springs in the handle ping and pong as rusty mechanics started to move.

To an adult, this was just an ordinary doorknob. To this little boy, that golden handle was a gateway to endless curiosities just beyond the finger-smudged glass.

Tiny Mitch didn’t realize I was following him, so I kept my distance and zoomed in with my lens. By this time in his life, he was so used to the sounds of my camera, he had no idea I was shadowing him. I followed him because I wanted to keep my tiny boy safe from harm … but I was also curious to get a glimpse into his little mind and heart. “I wonder what he does when no one is looking …”, I thought to myself.

As the door opened, Mitch walked outside … and, like a good little boy, he closed the door behind him to keep the cold Wyoming wind from stealing away the warmth of the cabin. Then Mitch crawled backward from the edge of the old wood patio, down a few stairs, and began to tromp on grass browned by an early winter’s chill. I waited patiently until his back turned, then I opened the door quietly and stepped outside. A kitty approached him, and Mitch began to talk to it in ways only a 2-year-old can know. Softly he hugged his furry friend and kissed its head. I smiled at Mitchie’s goodness and wanted some of that to rub off on me. After a few minutes of furry love, Mitch began to walk toward a bush that was home to a little bird’s nest, or so it seemed. He got on his tippy toes as he pulled a branch down only to see an abandoned nest. Mitch smiled softly, then turned to explore a pile of wood. He talked to himself and hummed nursery songs. At this moment, my heart broke open and poured out more love than it could possibly hold. I never knew how much love a heart could hold until that moment.

What I learned about little Mitch that day was how much he loved to be alive, even as a toddler. I also discovered anew how much little things matter. He found joy in the smallest of things. There wasn’t a flower he walked by that he didn’t lean in to smell softly. Not a furry pet he didn’t want to love, or a sunset admire. Mitch not only taught me how to love him, but how to love everything and everyone.

Later that night, I knelt in a prayer of gratitude for the gift of little ones. I thought I had known love before I had a child. But, I soon discovered a love so deep that it changed me from the inside out. Completely. Even still, when I think I’ve reached the furthest depths of love for my children, I find that it continues to deepen with each passing day. How deep that love will go, I cannot say. I only know my love is deeper than it was yesterday.

If ever I am discouraged about a personal failure or disappointment, this image gives me hope. It reminds me that, in the grand scheme of things, we’re all toddlers reaching to open doors and make new discoveries. And though we may be imperfect, our Father sees us reach and try, and we are loved. That is no small thing.

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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.