Last night I went on a date with my sweet wife. As we were driving we saw a beautiful sunset and pulled over so we could enjoy the canvas of light that was disappearing before our eyes. Mitch was a fan of sunsets, too, and we couldn't help but think of our little boy and how he would have enjoyed seeing what we saw.
To our left was a most beautiful array of warm colors as the sun was slowly descending; to our right were storm clouds (not seen in this image) that had all manner of deep blues – the contrast was stunning. As my wife walked down a dirt road to take in the sky I couldn't help but think of our journey to find a new normal. Though I didn't see Jupiter with my eyes, I could feel its tug nearby.
Later that evening I posted this photo I took with my phone to Instagram with the caption, “In Search of Home” making a veiled reference to a recent post about our journey from Jupiter, “Should I live out my days marooned in some place between the punishing gravity of grief and the near weightlessness I knew before, I will count myself blessed.”
This image isn't meant to be sad, nor is it a cry for help; rather, it is a symbol of progress, our journey with grief and our search for a new home. It shows we no longer live on Jupiter with its thin air and crushing gravity, though it is close by and the pains of loss shuttle us there often. The point of this image is we don’t live there anymore yet we search for a new home in an unfamiliar place.
For us the world remains unfamiliar on so many levels. The most mundane things remind me the world we once knew is no longer. When we go out to eat or see a movie as a family and we’re asked how many to our party, I often say “six” then quickly correct myself … “Oh, I mean five.” I never knew a simple number could hurt so much. And then there are those who naively say, “It’s been a year, it’s time to move on” … yet they know nothing of such a loss. They remind me that even the people in my life, however well intentioned, live in some other place much different than my own.
What I've come to understand is the journey of grief is as unique as the individual bearing it. I have known death; I have lost a parent, family and best friends, but nothing has acquainted me with deep grief like the death of my child. That is an altogether different, catastrophic sorrow – there is simply no comparison. Yet, I think I have discovered something about grief: we don’t make a journey through grief … instead we make our journey with grief. Once we appreciate the force of that distinction we realize we never get over the death of a child we just learn to carry it differently.
I have witnessed how having a child changes one’s life forever. In life there is simply no equal to the experience of having children. As I've noted earlier, 12 years ago Mitch didn't exist and I was quite content without him … but now that I've had him I find myself struggling to find a way to live without him. Because of Mitch, and my other children, my world has forever changed.
In the grand scheme of things, it seems humanity needs our children as much as they need us – for we are both teachers and students to each other. My children have taught me patience, sacrifice and the deepest meaning of love. Had I forgone the opportunity to have children I would have missed out on the greatest miracle in all the universe.
I have so many new stories to tell about Mitch and his journey. I don’t tell these stories to wallow in sorrow and I don’t tell them for fear my son will be forgotten – I tell them because they are what’s in my heart at the time … and if someone else can find their way through their own struggles, it is well with me.
Though I may speak of grief [often through my grief] know that I do not live in a constant state of sorrow. Let this image become a symbol, not of sadness but of progress … that the journey continues as we search for a new home and a new normal.
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http://instagram.com/christophjones
We had just gone to the mountains to take some family photos. This was the day we took our last family portrait, save the one taken by a dear follower 2 days before Mitch passed away. That was a family portrait of a different caliber – one that we reverence.
I generally avoid posed photos because I much prefer raw captures of life unrehearsed. Besides, nothing is more fatiguing to others than to have someone say “Okay, everyone stop what you’re doing and look at me so I can take a semi-candid photo of you smiling.” I would rather photograph someone laughing at the dinner table, food-in-mouth, than take a staged photo where hair and makeup are perfect but illusory. Over the years I have captured tears and triumphs, sadness and glee … moments that are difficult to look at and send me to my knees. But these images are my life, they are what I see – and I will always take them unapologetically.
So, on this day, for some reason we felt it important to take some family photos and I am glad we did. What you see here is a photo of me taking my daughter’s portrait on the left, and the exact photo I took on the right. I was unaware Mitch had another camera trained on me and he took this photo of me taking a photo. Mitch had seen previous images I had taken in Nicaragua where one of my colleagues took a photo of me taking a photo and I had done something similar to what you see here. I remember pointing to that Nicaragua photo set and saying, “Mitch, can you see what a difference perspective can make?” I continued to tell my son that so often with life it isn’t what you see, it’s how you see it. Mitch, having seen what I had earlier done tried to recreate that same juxtaposition. Well done, son. I miss you.
I have always wanted my children to learn how to see with their true eyes; to understand a fundamental truth … that so often it isn't what we see that matters, but how we see it. So much of what plagues humanity, it seems, is seeing things from a single, myopic perspective. There is a saying that goes, “Those that hurt others, hurt.” Perhaps the solution to those who compulsively gossip, who say and do harmful things isn't to retaliate in-kind, but to recognize they are hurting, too, and seek to discover the sliver in their soul that is causing them pain. And if we’re listening, if we stop looking only at what we see on the surface and change how we see, perhaps we can truly help others. I have discovered the best way to disarm someone is to love them.
It’s not what you see, it’s how you see it. In the case of these images, neither are wrong, they just tell a different story. And although this photo is not of my son, one of these photos was taken by him and tells a story about my boy – what he chose to see. So, this image serves as a reminder to mind my perspective, always.
I can chose to look up on the death of my innocent son as a horror story and raise my fist toward God. That act of defiance will not change a thing, nor will it change Him; instead turning my back toward my Father would change me … even poison me. I know that there is a greater plan at work, so I will endure whatever lessons patiently. I just wish it didn't hurt so much. Yet, I sense there will come a day that I will yet see my sorrows differently. They will no longer be the source of my heartache, but the contrast needed to truly appreciate that sacred reunion with my son; for I cannot know great happiness without knowing great sorrow.
As I travel through my wilderness of grief, I will always look to the heavens to find my way. I will search for, count and chart our tender mercies as an evidence of God’s love – despite what we are asked to suffer. And though I am certain to see more sorrow in the years ahead, I will remember that it isn't what I see that matters, but how I see it.
Thank you Mitch, for taking this photo and reminding me so poignantly.
Last year an anonymous follower arranged to have a bracelet made that bore my son’s handwriting of the last thing he ever wrote me. When I opened the package and saw it for the first time, I wept. I had posted a photo of Mitchell’s handwritten note when he was home on hospice many months prior and this kind person used that photo as the source for the bracelets inscription. I was profoundly touched by this gift. Whoever you are, thank you. I wish I knew who you are so I could thank you personally.
The woman/artisan who was hired to make this bracelet was the same woman who sent my wife a gift just after Mitch passed, again with his handwriting that read “I Love My Mom.” I will write of that sweet story soon.
I have treasured this bracelet greatly. Although I have many weaknesses, this memorial around my wrist serves as a reminder to always do my best. While in Mitchell’s eyes I was the best, I knew I fell short in so many ways – but I always tried my best. Like the saying, “fall down seven times, stand up eight”, that is what I will do until my dying day.
As I approach Memorial Day I have a certain heaviness in my heart. I am grateful for the men and women who sacrificed their lives for peace and freedom –and I will always reverence them. At least for me, Memorial Day also represents another layer of fallen ones … the ones who fought a different kind of war and died while fighting to live. My son is one of them; along with so many other children who fought a battle with DMD and lost. In fact, that is a battle no one survives. Not one.
So this weekend I have a reverent heart for those who fought violent battles behind enemy lines - and also for my son and many others who fought an invisible biological enemy and died.
I have long lamented the tradition of honoring someone after they've died when they could have used the boost while they were living. I never go a day and not tell the people around me how great I think they are - for they may be fighting an invisible battle of the soul and dying a little inside each day. Everyone is fighting a battle of some kind ... so why wait to compliment, honor and build up the ones we love until they are gone?
What's more, we write funeral talks, paint masterpieces, sculpt statues and build all manner of memorials in honor of the fallen. And while those are good and worthy endeavors, I would rather become a living memorial than build one. I would rather take the lessons learned at so high a price and become what I learned rather than point to a statue of an ideal. This day, and every day here after, I will try to sculpt my life in such a way that I bring honor to my son – a much worthier soul than my own.
As I make my journey to that place beyond the hills, I know I will fall down seven million times … but I will stand up seven million and one – because my little boy believed in me and saw something I didn't.
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Bracelet created by: www.facebook.com/SugarplumsJewelry
A few years ago we took our kids to the park on a sunny autumn afternoon. The heat of summer was behind us, the days were getting colder and we could feel the hint of winter’s breath on our faces.
At the time Mitchell had strength to walk short distances and his valiant mother made every opportunity for him to enjoy his childhood with what strength he had. On this day, however, Mitchell’s appetite for adventure got the best of him when, in a moment of quiet panic, he realized he walked so far that he couldn't possibly make it back.
Not fully aware the trouble Mitch found himself in, we saw in the distance two familiar forms run to him with eager arms and legs; two children racing to rescue their little brother and bring him home. To the naked eye this scene was too far away to see or appreciate, but through my 400mm lens this is what I saw. It didn't take long for my viewfinder to fill with tears as I witnessed unraveling before me the most beautiful, unrehearsed portrait of love.
Here were 3 little giants finding a way to make the best of their situation: a broken boy who found himself in trouble because his zest for life was greater than his body would allow; and two siblings who abandoned their own youthful adventures to serve their little brother with tender care.
In this moment I realized with clarity love is more than an emotional state: love is a verb.
I have always appreciated the saying “It’s not the load that breaks you; it’s the way you carry it.” Since I have lost my son this photo has taken on a new layer of meaning and I can’t help but think about how I carry my own burdens. The weight of grief is so great at times I find myself stumbling over pebbles, worried I might break. But then I look at this photo, this accidental sermon of sacrifice and love, I am determined to follow my children’s example – to carry whatever loads are heaped upon me with love in my heart and a smile in my countenance.
Carry on and carry others … that is how we keep from breaking.
I have since printed and framed this photo with the saying: “Love is a verb. Get busy.” These are words to remember. Words to live by.