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When Mitch was a young boy he thought the little forest in our back yard was a gateway to something magical. It is a small, unremarkable place, but if you take your imagination with you, it’s as big as you want it to be and more amazing than any place on earth. 

Just yesterday I took my older kids up to the woods and together we toiled to build a small pond along the trail. I included them in the design and creation of it because I wanted them to have a sense of ownership and accomplishment. My heart smiled seeing Ethan & Laura-Ashley work together as a team to do something they've always wanted to do and to do it in the memory of their little brother. I have discovered the process of grief is aided greatly by doing something constructive. While Mitch may have left us, his dream for this little forest remains. It has rallied the hearts and minds of my children and become a type of therapy for us all. We still have many plans for this place and we will work on it every weekend as a family.

My daughter purchased some floating lily pads that glow green, purple and blue at night, which makes the secret forest even more magical when the sun hides its face behind the hills. The forest, now home to some artificial fireflies, make for an even more magical experience. The trail, softly lit by glowing mason jars, gives just enough light to see the path before you and not get lost in the mysterious woods. 

So, last night, after having installed our pond, Wyatt set a glowing turtle next to the water to keep watch. I loved the look of wonder on his face. He later asked me, “Dad, can we go up there every night?” I told him, “You bet, son. You bet.” 

Each night this tiny forest gets a little more magical. Each of my children have their fingerprint on this forest – and that makes my heart smile. This little wooded forest has become a place to remember the past and enjoy the magic of now. This night my heart is filled with gratitude and peace. 

Here is a short post on Instagram that matches the magical mood of last night: http://tinyurl.com/qjlk2vj

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This is the view from the top of our property and just outside the secret forest. Mitch loved this place. We placed a bench here years ago and Mitch and I would eat Popsicles and talk about life, friends and video games while we watched our part of the world turn away from the sun. 

 

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In a manner of speaking, this place has become hallowed ground to me; both because of the memories it keeps and also because it reminds me to try and see above all that would obstruct my view of life. I hope to always see the forest through the trees … and the world for what it is and what it isn't. I hope to always have perspective.

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It was only a few years ago we were in Wyoming to spend time with family. My father-in-law was born in Wyoming but lived much of his life in Utah. As his retirement neared he decided to purchase a small cabin deep in the vaguely flat fields of Wyoming. At first I thought it a strange move and often wondered why he purchased a place out there. Then it occurred to me how, at some point in our lives, most everybody yearns to go home. Suddenly I understood.

So on this mid-Saturday morning, sitting in this small cabin filled with all manner of children, grandchildren and in-laws I saw something that swept my heart to the heavens and back. I had just sat on the couch for a bit to write in my journal when I noticed through the chaos of people and things a tender conversation between Mitch and his grandfather. This was the same grandfather who, just a few years later, would give Mitch a puppy to call his own, just weeks before he died. You can watch that sweet exchange here: vimeo.com/58228257

Mitch had just painted a hat and was showing his loving grandfather what he had worked so hard to do. I could tell by the tender look on Mitchell’s face he appreciated how much grandpa cared. Though I was surrounded by the noise of 15 people scuttling about the activities of the day, time slowed down for me and I watched this quiet exchange with tears in my eyes. I hid my face behind my camera, so as not to be noticed or draw attention. I was so grateful for the love and quiet attention my son received – for this moment, among many others, shaped him. 

My father-in-law has no idea this picture exists and I am quite certain he doesn't remember this ordinary, but beautiful exchange. But I remember this and many more like them – and I have photos of them, too. These moments remembered are like bandages that bind up my broken heart. They remind me that my son had a good life and that he was surrounded by people who loved him – and Mitch felt it. These happy moments give my heart, stricken with grief, a moment of peace and sweet release.

As I look upon this nearly invisible exchange, a conversation that lasted no more than 2 minutes, I am reminded why we are here in the first place. I can’t help but wonder if the Father of our souls lovingly looks at our own messy efforts, despite how critical we might be of ourselves, and is pleased to see we did the best we knew how. Mitch did the best he knew how, and it was perfect. Nothing more could have been asked of him – I was so proud of Mitch.

The older I get the less I fixate on perfection and the more I am satisfied with growth – however fast or slow. I know many perfectionists whose greatest weakness is perfectionism. They are tyrannized by order, symmetry, and technical flawlessness – so much so, their appetite for perfection bleeds into their human exchanges and they often miss the point of things and damage relationships. Oh there’s a time and a place for perfection; I expect a bridge, or a building, or an aircraft be engineered perfectly. But in matters of the soul, we tend to build and rebuild ourselves with materials we cannot see – which makes the struggle of human growth woven with great difficulty.

At least for me, life is an exercise of trial and error, failures and triumphs, stumbling down and getting back on our feet again. In the end, I believe we’ll all come to know the purpose of life is to gain experience and grow. One day, in that place beyond the hills, I believe we will look back on our own struggles and see how, because of them, we were made stronger, more compassionate and more like our Father.

I’ll never forget Mitchell’s messy hat, colored with chaotic splotches from his young, inexperienced hand. It was perfect. Nor will I ever forget this seasoned grandfather, a man who quietly longed to be home, who offered love and attention to my son. Though, mortal and imperfect, in that moment he was perfect.

I hope, at the end of my days, my Father will see far past my weaknesses, which are many, and look upon my heart; for there is love in there, it has been that way from the very start. 

I am grateful for this sweet exchange, and many like them, that remind me to look for perfect moments, not perfect people. Perfection, at least in matters of the soul, has more to do with effort than exactness – the invisible things we do, over time, that shape our heart, minds and souls.

 

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It had been two days since Mitchell passed away and I walked into my son’s room with a quiet hope in my heart everything was just a nightmare. Instead, I found my wife in quiet agony. There she lay on his bed holding his small teddy bear, which still bore the scent of our son.

Our home was suddenly barren, our hearts desolate.
Just a few days prior our home was filled with family to support us while our son was dying, each believing they were helping us in our hour of greatest need. What they didn't realize, what none of us realized, was that was the easy part, by comparison. Hell, with all its thunder and fury, happens in the aftermath … long after everyone leaves and you are left to navigate the bewildering wilderness of grief and desolation. It seems that everyone has it all backward - but that is a conversation for another day.

Contrary to what many think, holidays aren't as difficult as one might imagine. Oh, they’re plenty hard, but because you know it’s coming and you’re expecting it to be hard, you brace for impact and it somehow doesn't knock you off your feet. At least most of the time.

While holidays are difficult, there are harder things still. It’s the ordinary Saturday mornings when we work as a family to clean the house. I look to the windows my son used to faithfully wash, or the floor he would carefully mop … and he is not there, nor anywhere. It’s the absence of ordinary things that take your breath away and bring you to your knees. It’s the empty bed, the vacant chair at the dinner table, the unfinished Lego projects, or spiral notebook with handwritten stories Mitch wrote; it’s the saved games in The Sims or Minecraft that show a world Mitch worked hard to build … forever frozen in time. It’s the ordinary stuff we miss, the very stuff we take for granted. Among its many layers, grief is a deep longing for the ordinary.

“Although in the shadow of the moon, or the quiet of my closet, or deep in my wilderness I weep for my fallen son, I can still feel the light of the noon day sun and happiness returns as I recount my many blessings – each of them, one by one. Indeed, all I really have is what I’ve done.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

So, as I entered Mitchell’s room and saw my dear wife in pain, my heart sank to the floor. I missed my son with all of my soul – and though my heart wished otherwise, I realized my greatest nightmare was my reality. I fell to my knees and wept ... longing for the ordinary. I hurt for my tender wife and family. I hurt for my son. I later wrote in my journal, while pondering this moment of grief, “At the end of the day all we have is what we've done.” That saying came to my mind with great force and conviction. All the things we work so hard to gather unto ourselves, the riches of earth and the praises of man can all be taken in an instant. I began to think about the memories we made and the things we did as a family and the love we shared. Though death can take away my son, it cannot take away the things we've done. Though death and absence can hurt our hearts and wrench our souls, it cannot take away the love we shared or memories we hold; for love and memories cannot be bought nor can they be sold.

At the end of the day, indeed, all we really have is what we've done.

It has almost been a year and a half since I lost my little boy … my little soul mate. Though the weight of grief isn't as constant as it was last year, it is as heavy and visceral as it’s ever been.
There is a Jewish Proverb that says, “Don’t pray for lighter burdens, pray for a stronger back.” It is to that end I pray; that my back will be made strong so that I might carry the inescapable burden of grief with a glad heart and cheerful countenance. Although in the shadow of the moon, or the quiet of my closet, or deep in my wilderness I weep for my fallen son, I can still feel the light of the noon day sun and happiness returns as I recount my many blessings – each of them, one by one. Indeed, all I really have is what I've done.

I have three other wonderful children who I am also losing. Though I am not losing them to death, I am losing them to time. Before I know it, they will graduate from high school, go to college, find their own purpose in life and start families of their own. Everything I have today, everything I’m tempted to take for granted, will soon no longer be. One day, in the not-too-distant future, I will long to have my little ones back with me.

I choose this day to make my moments matter, from here to evermore. I have come to understand with greater depth, because of my fallen son, all we really have is what we've done.

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We just returned from a weekend trip to Bear Lake – a place we've frequented over the years as a family. This was the first time we went there without Mitch.

The lake, nestled deep in the mountains, was as beautiful and serene as I remembered it to be. Because I tend to be deeply sentimental I attach vivid memories to places, things and moods. It is both a blessing and a burden. Almost everything reminds me of something. Bear Lake was no exception and reminded me of little Mitch because he had some great times there. So, as we reached the mountain summit and saw the lake for the first time since Mitchell’s passing I had to swallow my tears – for I knew my son loved to be there and he wasn't … not the way we wanted him with us. 

As we approached the lake I made a conscious decision to turn my attention to my wife and kids because they were all I had left – and though I thought about Mitch often, I gave my family all that I knew to give. I wasn't perfect, but I gave it my best. I hope they felt it.

One of the difficulties of grief is learning how to move forward while part of your heart is forever frozen in time – ever longing for the one you lost. To say this process is difficult is an understatement.

On Saturday we rented a boat to water ski. Wyatt, my youngest son, was terrified when we left the harbor; this was the first time he saw me operate a boat and he was convinced I was going to crash. He cried and wanted to go back to shore. Before long he settled down and I let him steer the boat for a while. Once he understood how relatively easy it was to operate a boat, he relaxed. Wyatt no longer thought I was going to crash. It was neat to see Wyatt’s transformation from fear to confidence. Like many things in life, he needed to experience it to truly understand it. So it is with the purpose of life, too. We can talk about the virtues of faith at great length; we can write books and examine faith as an academic exercise; we can stand at pulpits and discuss the idea of faith – but it is only when the lights go out and we must take those terrifying steps in the darkness that we begin to truly understand faith. Until the trial of our own faith, it is merely wordplay and postulates. 

I took this photo of Mitch a few years ago while at Bear Lake. Because Mitchell’s legs were weak from DMD, his aunt Miriam pushed him so he could get more speed. Mitch smiled and laughed and it seemed as if he felt like a ‘regular kid’ for a moment. I will forever look back at moments like these and feel gratitude in my heart. Though my son was oppressed by a debilitating disease, with the help of others he felt a rush of freedom. 

This image hangs in my garage next to the 5 shovels that were used to bury my son. While those shovels are poignant symbols of love and loss, reminding me each day to be sober and sane, this image is also a symbol to me … a reminder to appreciate the power of now – for I will never have now again.

I often think back at the time I took this photo of Mitch– there was a lot going on in my professional life. It seemed as though the weight of the world was on my shoulders and I could have had a million excuses to postpone this trip a year or to stay home and work. Had I confused my values and priorities, had I decided work was more important than family, this moment, and a million like them, would have never happened. Regret is merely disappointment over the misuse of moments. I vow to never live a life of regret.

This image reminds me to never trade that which is good for that which is greater. I know when I die I won't look back and wish I spent more hours at the office. My most treasured memories won't be at a computer or in a conference room – they will be with the ones I love. And that will be my gift to them – the gift of time and attention … the gift of experience and memories. Though work is vital and important I know where it fits with my life priorities and I will never confuse them. My little son has taught me there is nothing more powerful than now. For now is when memories are made … not tomorrow, not some day in the future. Now.