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A few years ago an employee of mine was getting married, and many of the people with whom we worked came to his wedding reception. Bruce Newbold, a dear friend, and colleague of many years came to the celebration. He no longer worked with our team but because we were all friends, he came not out of social obligation but of love and friendship.

“Heaven’s hand, although invisible at the time, was deep in the tapestry of our lives.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

The summer sun was about to set, and the wedding reception was nestled in a beautiful garden, deep in the shadow of a tree-covered hill. The air was comfortably warm, and it was another one of those perfect summer evenings you wish you could bottle up and save. I took a deep breath and drank in the moment, grateful for all that was – seen and unseen.

As friends and family of the newly wedded couple arrived, I began to see some of our colleagues and friends arrive, too. When Bruce and his lovely wife showed up, he was quick to say hello and offer his love to our family. Bruce had a tender place in his heart for Mitch, and I remember being so moved when I saw my friend give Mitch a loving hug. I could tell by the look on my son’s face that he felt special. Immediately I fought back the tears because my heart was filled with gratitude. I think everybody deserves to feel important and valued – and on this day Mitch felt all of that and so much more.

Bruce has a special gift of making people feel valued – but more importantly, he causes them to feel they are enough, just the way they are. Mitch sometimes wondered if he was enough … after all, he couldn't run and jump like other boys. In his little mind and heart, he sometimes wondered if he was worth less than others who could do things he couldn't. Mitch yearned to be like “regular kids.” On those occasions, I remember telling my son, with tears in my eyes, that I loved him no matter what. I reminded him that we are all mortal and flawed … and though imperfect I loved him perfectly. I didn't use the words, “you are enough” because I didn't know them at the time – but he knew my meaning, and it was the same.

I wonder how often people live out their lives wondering if they are enough … whether they measure up to some arbitrary or unreasonable set of ever-changing standards. Sometimes it helps to be reminded we are so much more than our mortal bodies and that we are just visitors in this place.

Without uttering a sound, Bruce speaks in ways more powerful than words … saying again and again, “You are enough.” Bruce has the gift of lift- and that’s just what he did for little Mitch on this day and many days before and after.

At the moment of this photo, my son’s fatal diagnosis was far from my mind. Mitch was healthy and seemed to be doing better than anyone expected. It was always the quiet prayer of my heart that somehow, some way, he would be spared. To my great sorrow and without mercy, Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy stripped my son of strength and eventually life.

I cannot look at this image and not sense a strong impression that there was so much more happening than I realized. Heaven’s hand, although invisible at the time, was deep in the tapestry of our lives. You see, this man was more than a friend to our family, he also played an important role in Mitchell’s Journey and became an instrument of God in ways I may never share publicly – for some things are too sacred to share. It will suffice to say, this good man and this little broken boy … my little boy … have some heavenly ties that both break my heart and sew it back together again.

I am grateful for those who, like Bruce, have the gift of lift. For they lend a helping hand to heavy hearts and souls that are lonely or sick. And on dark days when I'm discouraged and want to give up, when I struggle and wonder if I measure up, I think of my son, and then my Father and I hear a heavenly whisper, “You are enough.”

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With Halloween around the corner, I can’t help but think of Mitchell’s last. 

Trick-or-Treating was always difficult for him. Because his muscles were wasting away he couldn't go very far … each year his Halloween adventures became shorter and shorter. Even though he had a motorized scooter, getting up and down, climbing a stair or two to reach a neighborhood door was exhausting for him. He usually couldn’t visit more than 6-7 homes before he could hardly walk and wanted to go home. 

In order to help him, Mitchell’s brothers or sister would often take his trick-or-treat bag to the door while Mitch sat in his scooter on the sidewalk. Generous neighbors would lovingly place candy in his bag as little Mitch smiled in the darkness. He was always grateful.

There was another aspect to Halloween Mitch loved even more than treasuring candy unto himself. Mitch loved giving candy away at the door. To some of his closest friends who approached the door, Mitch would give them his favorite candy from his own bag. 

I took this photo of Mitch on his last Halloween. He wanted to stay home and give out candy instead of trick-or-treating himself. Each time the door would shut he would turn around only to have a big smile on his face. 

Mitch learned early in his life that in giving he received so much more than those who got; a life lesson he never forgot.

Later that winter my mother came to visit for a few days. We were cuddled in the basement watching a movie when Mitch struggled to get up from the couch and waddled in his funny way over to his grandmother and offered her some of his favorite cheese popcorn (from Popcornopolis). I don’t think my mother realized at the time (or even to this day) the physical struggle he went through to simply get up and share what he loved. I remember that moment so vividly. It wasn't the popcorn that really mattered to Mitch, it was the giving … and it was his struggle to give that made it all the more precious. To Mitch giving was getting. 

Tomorrow will be a tender evening for me – for I will remember my little boy who loved to give more than get. I will miss seeing that big smile on his little face and most especially his warm embrace.

Not a day passes I don't think of my son’s quiet example: he gave freely when he had so little to give, and now that is how I want to live. I often marvel and wonder, “How could it be? A little boy, mortally broken, who taught me how to see ...” One day, with a weary and broken heart, I will fall to my knees and thank my Father for sending me Mitchie.

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Last night I found Natalie helping Wyatt practice the piano. He was learning to play a simple song. Natalie, unaware, was performing a masterpiece.

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On Mitchell’s last trip to work with me a colleague went out of his way to talk to Mitch and make him feel important. When I think back on this moment my heart is filled with gratitude because there were probably a million-and-one reasons he could have ignored Mitch and focused only on the tasks that weighted heavy on his shoulders. I suppose, if he were like many people today swept up in the rush and flurry of things, he might have felt bothered, slowed down or flustered because there was a kid in the office. That was not how Corey treated my son, for he chose the better way. This moment reminded me of something William Phelps said, “The first test of a gentleman: his respect for those who can be of no possible value to him.” I have always loved that observation and I saw it in action that day. 

Corey, understanding the true value of a soul, knew there was more to life than work and took time to love my son. If Mitch had lived a full life, I am sure he would have remembered that exchange with Corey as one of those building moments … those rare exchanges when you’re young that make you feel special and important and change you a little on the inside. 

When we left work Mitch said in his quiet voice, “Dad, that man was really nice to me. Is everyone you work with that nice?” Immediately I felt a lump in my throat because I knew how much little Mitch valued kindness … and he was given the gift of kindness by Corey. I told him, “I think so, Mitchie. I surely hope so.” Mitch gave me a hand hug as we navigated rush-hour traffic on our slow journey home. At some point along the way Mitch closed his eyes, leaned his head against my arm and went to sleep. I cried a little that moment because I didn't know how much time I had with him – and what time I had was more precious to me than all the riches of earth. What I had in that moment with Mitch cannot be bought with money, but it does come at a price; the price of time, love and attention. 

Fast forward a few months and I found myself at my little boy’s funeral, devastated and bewildered with grief. We had just said our final goodbyes and closed the casket and began the impossible walk down the hall to the chapel. My knees almost gave out a couple of times because my body just wanted to fall to the ground and weep.

As we began to turn the corner I saw Corey walking into the building to offer his love and support. He lived so far away from us and probably had a million-and-one reasons to not go, but he made it a point to offer love and kindness to our family. I quickly broke formation and gave him a hug just before we entered the chapel. Suddenly, in my mind, I heard Mitchell’s voice, almost like a whisper, “Dad, that man was really nice to me.” In my heart I said to my son, “Mitch, you were right, that man IS really nice … and nothing else matters.” He doesn't know this, but Corey’s gift of kindness to Mitch was also a gift to me because he gave my boy the gift of time and attention and made him happy. 

I am grateful for people like Corey … who make a choice each day to love and lift others – even when they don’t need to. I cannot help but be brought to tears when I look at this image; for I see two sons of a loving Father who wants only for us to be nice and help each other along the way … because that’s all that matters at the end of the day. Kindness is always the better way.