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“Though my heart, at times, feels heavier than all the planets combined, I am so grateful to have raised this little boy … that I can call him mine. Though I thought I was to teach my son the things of life and love and heaven above, I now see things differently. I was mistaken, you see: I was never meant to teach my son, for he was teaching me.”

Every so often people come into our lives and shape us a little. Then, less often, there are those who change everything. Little Mitch changed my everything.

I cannot look at this photo and not be overcome by the tenderest of feelings for my son. In less than a second I go from a grown man to a fumbling boy tripping over my little heart. Immediately I feel weak at the knees and my heart swells, then it breaks and strangely heals – all in the same moment of reflection. My tears, too, are of a strange variety: at once they're tears of sorrow and gratitude, of longing and belonging, tears of love and hope. 

I remember this day with little Mitch so well; and, as time passes, I am finding that my memories are both a blessing and a burden. My memories are so clear but they sometimes come at a cost. 

Never a day passed that Mitch wasn't showered with loves and kisses by Natalie and me; and never a day passed he didn't want to do the same to us, in kind. I loved how affectionate he was. I never imagined a love so deep.

I think I'm finally beginning to understand the words of Washington Irving who said, “There is a sacredness in tears....They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition and of unspeakable love.” 

I realize I can't run from grief, but I can run with it. However heavy, grief is my constant companion, a weight equal to my love and I will carry it until the day I die. If I carry it well, I know I will get stronger and it may feel less heavy. But it will still be grief, and there will still be the deepest of sorrow. I'm reminded of the saying, “It never gets easier, you just get stronger.” So it is with grief, I believe.

Grief is a curious thing. I find myself with prolonged moments of robustness and clarity of mind; my heart steady and calm. On balance I'm high-functioning throughout the day. Then in an instant, without warning or permission, a memory flashes through my mind, the color of light, a smell, a faint thought … a quiet whisper to the mind … or a little hand-written note from my son slips from a drawer to the floor … and everything falls apart.

Though my heart, at times, feels heavier than all the planets combined, I am so grateful to have raised this little boy … that I can call him mine. Though I thought I was to teach my son the things of life and love and heaven above, I now see things differently. I was mistaken, you see: I was never meant to teach my son, for he was teaching me.

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Just a few days before my son went into end-stage heart failure I sat on the edge of his bed and talked about what he wanted to do for the summer. It was the end of January and the winter air chilled us to the bone, so we stayed inside and took a little comfort dreaming of warmer days ahead. At the time of this photo, he was hanging by a thread and a pebble … hours away from tumbling into the abyss. I knew my son was in trouble but I didn't know he would die in a few short weeks. I thought we had more time; but then again, everyone does.

Mitch lifted his faithful puppy into his arms then told me he wanted to work for his grandmother at the ranch. Although he was still too young to work there he was anxious to take on more responsibility and earn some money. At 10 years old, Mitch was already saving up for a home and wanted to be sure he could take care of his future wife and family. I was surprised how often this young boy talked of being a husband and dad one day. Mitch had big plans for the future and was already taking strides to get there. Yet, even under the best of circumstances Mitch wouldn't have seen such days and I was pained to carry that secret in my heart. Death was coming for my son, no matter what.

I knew in my mind by the time Mitch would have been old enough to work at the ranch (about the age of 12-13, or two years from the time of this photo) his muscle wasting would have already reached a point he wouldn't be able to use his arms, let alone walk. From there, it would only be a matter of time before he could no longer breathe on his own. Such is the uncompromising burden of Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy. It is brutal and spares no one.

So, as I sat on the edge of my son’s bed listening to the desires of his heart, my soul ached for him. As his father, I wanted only for his happiness and wellbeing. Though I knew I couldn't save him from DMD, I knew that I could love and care for him as long as I had him. 

Mitch often spoke to me through his eyes and he did just that on this occasion. I remember being taken aback because his eyes spoke deeply to me this day … it was almost as if he knew the end was near and he wanted me to know that he sensed it. 

Though we had great oral conversations, Mitch spoke to me in ways that transcended the spoken word. I have many, many photos where Mitch isn't just looking at me, he is speaking to me. What’s more, I found I could be across the room and see a look in his eyes and intuitively know just what he needed or was thinking. The same was true of him toward me. I always considered it a tender mercy to talk to my son that way.

I once heard a saying that changed the way I thought about communication. It reads, “Among the more meaningful and honest aspects of communication is hearing what is not said aloud.” I believe there is great truth to this. Perhaps it’s when we’re not listening to the conversation within the conversation, when we ignore breadcrumbs or don’t read between the lines … it is then that we get ourselves in trouble; in relationships, in business and in life. 

Mitch trained me how to hear what is not said aloud; that hearing the inaudible is not only the language of relationships but also the soul.

I hope and pray that I will have ears to hear … everything.

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A few weeks ago we received a package in the mail from a Mitchell’s Journey follower who, over the months, has also become a friend of our family. Because Father’s Day was around the corner my wife wanted to wait and open it on that day in honor of our little boy. I am glad we did.

“Sometimes in our sorrows the child in our heart cries out, “Oh Dad, why did you break me?” Then a loving whisper, if we listen, “I’m not breaking you dear child, I’m shaping you.””

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

As we opened the package we discovered a beautiful stained glass ball about the size of a basketball. Carefully placed in the same shipping box were other small tokens of love from their family to my wife and kids. Little pieces of crumpled purple packing paper, like decorations, were scattered about as if to say they cared enough to remember one of our son’s favorite colors. Everything about their gift was a symbol of love. We were deeply touched.

That evening I asked Natalie to help me take a photo of the gift with the sun setting in the backdrop. I was so drawn to the stained glass ball. It was beautiful and reminded me of something Elisabeth Kubler-Ross wrote, “People are like stained-glass windows. They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in, their true beauty is revealed only if there is a light from within.” 

I hope to always have a light from within – to never let discouragement and pain darken my heart and dampen the light of faith. For true faith is a candle in the darkness and illuminates sights unseen. 

Maybe she was on to something … perhaps our lives aren’t all that different from that of stained glass. Being mortal, we are fragile and break; only, we don’t always get to decide how and where we break. Sometimes that is the craft of the Master Artisan. We can, however, have a hand in how we put ourselves back together again. 

Though I would rather be unbroken, with my son still in my arms, I can’t help but sense what is coming together after all my brokenness may be better off than the person I was once becoming. Each day I slowly, carefully, and sometimes painfully put the pieces of my heart back together the best I know how. Though pained and broken, wanting badly for my son, I can see the hand of God and sense the shape of things to come. 

Don’t get me wrong; the death of my son has broken my soul. My heart is tender and bleeds … it isn't the same as it once was and I’m not sure it will ever be. What I thought a medley of shattered glass and broken dreams is in reality altogether different than what I think I see. Each piece, though agonizingly broken is colored by the deepest hues of love. A beautiful mosaic forged of pain … a heavenly arrangement from my Father above.

Sometimes in our sorrows the child in our heart cries out, “Oh Dad, why did you break me?” Then a loving whisper, if we listen, “I’m not breaking you dear child, I’m shaping you.”

It’s been said the only bad photo is the one you didn't take. Although this image is out of focus and not properly exposed, I am glad I took it. To me this is a beautiful moment in time I will never get back and I would rather have a blurry image than no image. 

It was May 2003 and baby Mitch was a chubby little toddler. Our kids were so young back then; it feels like yesterday, but a lifetime away. I knew something was wrong with my little boy but I couldn't put my finger on it, I just sensed he would have a short life. But I didn't live my life in fear of the future, I lived each moment the best I knew how. I wasn't always good at it, but I always tried. 

Natalie wanted to take our kids on a walk to a pond near our old home in Draper, Utah. We fed ducks, chased squirrels and enjoyed the spring air. As we began to walk home I remember getting ahead of Natalie with my oldest son, Ethan. He and I were talking about frogs and snakes and the circle of life. Ethan was a funny little squirt and always had a pocket full of conversation. I can still hear his little voice in my mind. I have so many wonderful memories of Ethan, and all my children. My cup runneth over. 

At some point I turned my head to see my sweet wife who held our baby in her arms. Laura-Ashley had a serious look on her face and was clearly talking about something important. Wee Mitch was turning his body away from his mom because he wanted to get down and grab wood chips on the trail. I'm pretty sure baby Mitch thought they were little unwrapped candy bars. While Mitch tried to break free, Natalie lovingly held our baby while she gave our daughter her undivided attention. 

I think mothers are awesome. How easy it would have been to say, “It’s been a long day. I stayed up late the night before rocking baby in my arms. I woke up early, changed a pile of diapers throughout the day, fed you, washed and folded your clothes, cleaned the house and fed you again … I’m tired. Go watch TV.” Although my sweet wife could have said all that and so much more, she didn't. Once again she traded inconvenience for love and I honor her for that. I have so much to learn from my wife.

Having children is a heavenly paradox of sorts. It seems the only mortal relationship where we give endlessly to these little people who have no practical means to repay us, at least in the conventional sense … yet we get so much more in return. They consume our time, money, and patience. They make nights short and days long. They break things and leave messes. Not unlike what you might read on a warning label to a new drug, the potential side effects might seem overwhelming and give us pause. Despite everything these little ones take, and the emotional toll they exact, they give back more than we have the capacity to imagine. Ask any parent how much they love their child and they might stumble to find words. Even if they find words, they are woefully inadequate. Were you to ask me how I feel about my children my eyes will simply fill with tears. There are simply no words to describe the love we feel for our children. Therein lies is the heavenly paradox; we love whom we serve. Service is the great multiplier of love. 

I hope when the time comes and I am laid to rest that my shoes are found worn out, hanging by threads, and my hands are weathered and calloused from service to my family and fellow man. I hope my knees are found worn and bruised from talking to my own Father and praying for guidance. And, with any luck, a broken heart that is swollen and overflowing with love. 

My son’s journey through life and death has changed the trajectory of mine. Though broken and deeply flawed, I am changed. I am on a different path now and as I journey to that place beyond the hills I know there is work to do, service to perform and people to love. Should I ever find myself lacking in love, I will know I’m not serving enough and will double my efforts. For love is the language of heaven, and I want more of that.