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Tiny Marlie stood bravely before Dragon, a much larger puppy. In Marlie’s mind, she was just as strong as her furry friend and always held her ground with a flurry of high-pitched barks and excited prancing. With one soft nudge of Dragon’s nose, tiny Marlie would topple over and roll into summersaults. Physically, she was no match. The moment she tumbled, she would jump to her feet and begin to bark as though nothing ever happened. In fact, she would bark like she was winning. Mitch smiled and giggled as he watched these two puppies play.

As I took this photo, the words crossed my mind, “Goliath and the little giant.” I couldn’t help but notice tiny Marlie as she stood bravely before her much larger friend, playful and strong. Marlie was a little giant – undaunted by what stood before her. In this same moment, I saw Mitch much like his puppy: a little giant of a different sort … a kind of giant you don’t see with your eyes, but sense with your soul. My mind then shifted to the ancient account of David and Goliath and what it meant to take fresh courage in the face of implacable odds.

I often wonder what crossed David’s mind as he stood in the long shadow of Goliath. I’ve heard so many variations of this quote that I don’t know who to attribute, but it has been said that courage is not the absence of fear, but the decision to act in spite of it. Did David’s soul shiver just a little bit at the sight of Goliath? Perhaps. Though small in stature as compared to his 9-foot opponent, David clearly possessed an inner strength and courage that cannot be forged by human hands or feigned by mortal hearts.

I did my best to teach Mitch that he was the son of a King and that he could call on Him for courage when the shadows of doubt grew especially dark or when his Goliaths seemed especially frightening. Mitch battled many Goliaths in his short life: he overcame fear, self-doubt, and a multitude of big and small battles – some so small they might seem insignificant to the casual observer, but to him, they were towering and he faced them bravely.

I sometimes wonder if mortals have life a little backward. We seem to measure so much by the accomplishment of big, visible things … the job promotion, the new car, or any number of accolades. Surely the big battles matter, but I’m persuaded that the little battles matter even more. Sometimes the big battles we face come because we ignored the little battles along the way. In like manner, victory is almost never achieved overnight but instead by little victories won over many days and nights. None of this is new thinking, and it has been said a million times by a million people. But we are human, and we are prone to forget. Perhaps, when we finally see with heaven’s eyes, we will discover to our great surprise that the little battles were really the big battles.

When confronted by his personal Goliaths, Mitch eventually won every battle with dignity and grace. Notice, I used the word "eventually". He didn’t always win at first, but he kept trying until he ultimately won. The one battle, however, he couldn’t win was that with death. As Mitchell’s final Goliath towered over him and stretched its long shadow, a shadow black as a moonless midnight, I admit I trembled with fear and anguish for my son. I cried out to the heavens, “Take me! Take me!” as though I could distract the Goliath of death and persuade it to come for me instead.

Like David, Mitch faced his ultimate Goliath with a kind of courage that cannot be forged by human hands or conjured up by mortal minds. Instead, he was strengthened by his knowledge of who he was and to whom he really belonged. Though Goliath was huge, David was filled with faith and a certain knowledge … which made him even huger. Mitch, too, was a little giant.

As I examine the past to learn and focus on my present to do, I have discovered one thing, maybe two. If Mitch could stand before his Goliaths, victorious, I know that I can, too. From the Goliath of grief to the quest for peace, I know this one thing is true: the little battles matter both for me and for you.

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I married this good woman almost 19 years ago - in fact, we celebrate our anniversary next month. We've had good times and bad times, even horrifically sad times .... but looking back, they have been the greatest times of my life. She brought me Laura-Ashley, Ethan, Mitch and Wyatt - the 4 most profound blessings in my life.

I took this photo of Natalie on a lunch date this afternoon. She wears a little pendant with Mitchie's face around her neck every single day and it warms my heart. 

When I am with her, I can't help but count my blessings ... and when I do, I find my arms are overflowing and my knees buckling - so great are the blessings. 

I thank my Father for being kind to me and helping me when I least deserve it, so that I might learn and grow. Most of all, for sending me this angel-made-mortal; a gift so grand, only heaven truly knows.

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Natalie helped tiny Mitch waddle to the edge of a puddle that hugged a gravel road. Mitch, like all young children, was entranced by water and wanted to splash in it, maybe throw a pebble or two and watch the ripples dance across the surface. Though he looked healthy, his legs and body were already weakened by the relentless muscle wasting of DMD and this sweet boy needed his mommy to keep him from falling over. With a tender love and patience, only a mother can know, Natalie held his tiny hand as he reached down to feel the cold water on his fingertips.

As I watched my sweet wife and tiny son, I remembered something Euripides once observed, “Oh, what a power is motherhood, possessing a potent spell. All women alike fight fiercely for a child.” Oh, how my dear wife fought fiercely for our child. She rose like a lion with wings of fire, her eyes broken, yet determined. So many times I felt dwarfed by two giants: Mitch and Natalie. I still stand deep in their shadow and will honor them all the days of my life.

It is something of a terrible irony that the very things we are tempted to dismiss in ordinary life and take for granted are the very things we are desperate to hold on to once our loved ones are gone. 

I don’t speak only of the stark contrast between life and death; I speak of life and the passage of time. For, I have been startled how the phases of life can slip through our fingers unaware. I think back when Wyatt was a very young boy and how sophisticated he was in word and thought. I recorded a few of our late night conversations, which are priceless and comical – but I wish I would have recorded more. At the time, his cute voice and tender thoughts were familiar to me, even ordinary. It is so easy to think things will always be the way they are, but everything changes. Everything. Even now, my dear daughter, Laura-Ashley is going to graduate from high school a year early and go to college later this fall. It seems like yesterday she was my little girl with a plastic clip in her hair and a sippy cup under her arm, who wove fantastical stories with me in the vast expanse of our imagination. It feels like just yesterday. Time waits for no one.

So when I think back on this cool summer afternoon in the heart of Wyoming, my heart swells with gratitude because tiny Mitch was blessed with a mother who knew the value of a moment and never let a chance to experience life slip by. Natalie taught me to cling to moments, not digital distractions or things, so I look back on my life my heart will always sing. 

I recognize that much of this blog is focused on Mitch and my reflections on life because him. I think clinging to memories is what so many on the other side of grief don’t understand; some wonder why we want to talk about our lost ones, not realizing what we had is all we have left. We don’t get to make new memories … all we have is what we’ve done. Sometimes we talk because we’re afraid of forgetting. Other times we just need to cry. Still, other times we’re trying to make sense of a nightmare known only to those who walk in such darkness. We cling to our memories, both good and bad, because in the end, that’s all we have. 

When I cling to this gentle memory of Natalie and my tiny son, it reminds me to put my phone down and splash while I can – because everything changes. Everything goes away, eventually.

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It was a hot summer afternoon at grandma’s house when Mitch reached into his backpack with a subtle, almost mischievous smile, then retrieved my swimsuit. He knew I always forgot to bring my trunks so he went into my bedroom and packed them for me. “Dad, here’s your swimsuit.” Then, with a soft voice, he said, “Will you swim with me?” I chuckled briefly and then, quite unexpectedly, my heart melted as I saw my son’s tender face that seemed to say, “Dad, I don’t have much time.” Then, a lump filled my throat as I thought of the many times he wanted to swim with me and I came unprepared. In the most tender, almost apologetic tone I said, “Mitch, I would love to swim with you.”

We spent the better half of the afternoon playing “Super Shark” and a handful of other games we made up over the years. It was a tender time and a memory I hold dear to my broken heart. 

I didn’t know how to be a dad – and I always felt like I was making things up and stumbling more than making good strides. My youth was complicated and I never had a day-to-day role model to emulate – so I didn’t really know what real fatherhood looked like. My biological father was a good, loving man but I only saw him for a month during the summer. The man I grew up with was angry at the world and especially angry with me, for some reason. My dad taught me how to love, but my drunken step-father (at the time), taught me how it felt to be isolated and despised. I learned to flinch, not flex and grow in confidence.

Because I felt the deep pain of rejection as a child, I never wanted my children to feel any part of what I experienced, so I did my best to give them what I wished I had. Sometimes I wonder if little Mitch wanted to swim with me because he knew I would scoop him up in my arms and hug and kiss him, all the time. 

So there I was splashing around in the pool with my son. By this time, I knew Mitchell’s heart was failing him and it had only been a few months since we learned his heart function was on a steep and unexpected decline. Not a day passed that I didn’t wonder and worry if we were doing enough. We consulted with his doctors and tried medicines that were thought to stabilize his rapid heart decline. Everything failed. We did all that we knew to do and yet we couldn’t save him. When I look back on that labyrinth of decisions with unknowable outcomes, I am tempted to feel regret. 

A few weeks ago, Natalie and I were asked to share some of our thoughts to a group of parents who have children with the same disease Mitch had: Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy. One of the panel questions was about making decisions and how to keep from looking back and wondering if they should have done something different. I appreciated that question because I understood it on a very personal level. 

“No matter what you do in life, you’re going to make mistakes and regret is inevitable. That is part of being human.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

My response was “No matter what you do in life, you’re going to make mistakes and regret is inevitable. That is part of being human.” I suggested, “Perhaps we’re better served if we worry less about life’s inevitable regrets and spend our energy doing things that will limit the depth and severity of regret.” I believe if we spend time and energy focusing on the things we truly value, we will stumble, but we won’t stumble far. Our regrets are more likely to feel like bruises, rather than broken legs.

I mentioned in an earlier post that my son’s journey has taught me to turn regret into resolve. I discovered that regret is inevitable, but resolve is a choice. 

Do I have regrets? I have a million of them. But, I have a million more resolves.

As long as I am human I will experience regret; the best way to live with them, as far as I can tell, is to know what I value and always do my best. That is how I've learned to live with inevitable regrets.