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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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Summer, at least in my part of the world, is coming to an end. I can feel the whisper of winter on the back of my neck and the sweet smell of fall is almost in the air. While I sit on the verge of a change in seasons, I can’t help but remember a warmer time - a time before hell – when I had my son with me and we went on an adventure. 

We set camp in the west desert, far enough from city lights that you could see deep into the starry night. The heavens were almost close enough to touch. I remember talking to Mitch after we were tucked in for the night and looking through the net of the tent into the heavens, I asked, “Mitch, don’t you wish we could scoop up those beautiful stars and put them in our pockets like little glowing rocks?” Mitch smiled and said, “That way, when it is dark we could always see.” Mitch then burrowed into me and closed his eyes. He was the best at cuddling. I miss that.

Mitchell’s love of atmosphere and moods was one of the reasons he loved sunsets so much. On this evening the atmosphere was particularly beautiful because of some deep contrasts in color and light because of a passing storm. In every direction, save where the sun was setting, we found ourselves surrounded by towering clouds that stood like floating giants. They cast deep shadows beneath them and the contrast of light and color was thrilling to see. Each tower was also flashing with sheet lightening. In almost every direction these beautiful clouds stretched far into the horizon.

I remember wanting to take photos of the amazing sky and thought to myself, “I’ll take photos of the storm in a few minutes.” Before I knew it, it was dark and the beautiful sky that entranced us was forever gone. I regretted not taking that photo in the moment. Lesson learned.

With Mitch and my other sons cuddled next to me, we drifted to sleep. The next morning I awoke in tremendous pain - it felt like an elephant had stepped on my chest and broke my ribs. I had difficulty breathing and wondered if I had been stung by a scorpion (we caught one later that morning) or something else. As we broke our tent down I discovered I was sleeping on a jagged rock – which explained my sore ribs. I realized at that moment I should pay closer attention to where I set our tent. Another lesson learned.

After we arrived home, covered in desert dust and dry skin, I remember finding a pocket full of rocks in Mitchell’s pants. He had quietly collected little stones form the desert as souvenirs. I still have those little rocks in a special place. When I look at them I can’t help but wonder what he saw in each of them. I will forever wonder.

When I think back on moments like these, camping with my kids, I have the fondest of memories. Not all of them were wrapped in majestic sunsets and perfect moments cushioned in comfort. In fact, many of our camping trips were rather hard. We have camped in the bitter cold, high in the winter mountains; we've weathered torrential rainstorms, worried we would be swept away by a river of rain; and we have awoken to inches of new snow and many other surprises. Each was an adventure punctuated by difficulty and discomfort … yet is each a memory I am so grateful to have. 

I have noticed something interesting with Mitch and my other children. Often they would draw pictures of memories they had; and with their little hands they would sketch out our campsites and recreate the most difficult moments while camping … moments that were less fun while in the moment. 

I wondered why they would sketch the struggle and I asked them to tell me about their drawings. Each would say in their own way, “This was my favorite campout.” They would then explain what they loved about it. I was always surprised. These little kids with a pocket full of rocks appreciated the experience, however difficult, more than I gave them credit. I couldn't help but wonder if they were teaching me something important – that in the struggle is also the beauty.

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I remember watching my sweet wife’s expression when she first laid eyes on Mitch in the delivery room. She immediately wept tears of joy and was overcome with a love that transcends words – a love only a mother can know. I cried watching her love him – I was so happy. Soon I got to hold our little baby for the first time; he was so tiny and I marveled at the miracle of life. I loved him the moment I laid eyes on him – for he was my son.

It is so hard to say goodbye after 10 years of life and love. I wish I had the power to heal him. I wish I could have traded places with my son. 

I will never forget a tender conversation I had with Mitch just after he returned home from the hospital to die. I was tucking him in and he wanted me to cuddle with him for a while. As I lay by my broken son, we gazed into each other’s eyes and had the most soulful exchange I have ever experienced. I told Mitch that while I had been scrambling to find a way to save him, it was he who was saving me. With tears in my eyes, I thanked my little boy for being such a good example to our family and for inspiring me to be a better daddy, husband and person. Mitch cried and told me how happy he was and that he felt loved. With a kiss to his forehead my little boy continued to cry happy tears and tenderly burrowed his frail body into mine and drifted off to sleep. I wept a strange potpourri of tears that night – and many nights thereafter. Little Mitch was then, and remains today, the most profound and painful gift of my life. And though I journey through the wilderness of grief, I’m on my way, but I’m not there yet.

There is nothing linear about grief. I have often heard “time heals all” as though that glib phrase should give peace of mind or assuage a grieving heart. At least for me, that phrase has little to no meaning – and in some cases it does more harm than good. I would be quite content to never hear that phrase again. Time alone is no healing agent; that is a loosely written fiction. I believe healing has less to do with the passage of time but rather, like all things in life, it’s what we do with our time that matters. Surely time is necessary, but it is a minor ingredient. If I spend my time finding ways to bind my wounds and dress them with healing things – I am more likely to accelerate my path to recovery. On the other hand, if I mask my pain or agitate tender wounds, they may never close or heal. Time is a neutral thing – it’s what I do with it that matters.

I am on my way to healing, but I’m not there yet. I don’t know that I’ll ever fully recover from the loss of my son. What I can say is today is better than yesterday; not because time has simply passed but because I am allowing myself to do what I must – to accept my sorrows, and to not run from them but rather let pain take its course. I am learning to grieve in my own way, to hurt as long as I need to, to cry often (and I cry often), to write and remember everything that comes to mind. And, of course, I pray. I pray for peace and understanding. I pray also that my son knows how much I love and miss him. What I wouldn't do to hold him for 5 minutes. 

I recently read a saying, “Those who mistake success for significance, will lead a deeply unfulfilled existence.” I pray I will never confuse the two. I would sooner give someone a boost, a smile or a loving hand than fill my wallet with that which does not satisfy. After all, you can’t fill an empty soul with empty things. 

Little Mitch, my broken son, has taught me how to truly live ... to think less on the things I get and more on what I give. For my little boy had nothing to his name, save some little toys and modest clothes, his material things were plain. If he had nothing but gave so much, I have much to learn from him. For he lived a quiet life of significance and my heart he did truly win.

I’m on my path to healing, the end I cannot see, for the wilderness of grief seems to stretch out to forever, even to infinity. Please be patient with me my son … for I am broken, too, just in different ways than you. I’m on my way, but I’m not there yet.

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We knew the time was soon coming Mitch would lose his ability to do … everything. Although we were in the early stage of DMD, Natalie and I felt it best to sell our home and find a place that would eventually accommodate his physical needs and give us time to grow roots in a community before the storm came. Mitch was such a young boy and didn't have any idea we sold our home and built a new one just because of him – neither did he have any idea the violent storm that was headed his way and would soon rip his life from him. That storm we were told would surely come, came much faster than any of us imagined.

In this photo we were sitting with our kids in the master bedroom; the carpet had just been installed and our home felt like a huge cardboard fort that we were going to start living in. The kids were so excited ... and the little kid in me was, too. At one point Mitch leaned forward and kissed Wyatt’s forehead. Wyatt, being a tiny little baby, toy still in mouth, tried to love his brother in-kind and give him a sloppy kiss as only teething babies know to do. I marvel how children instinctively know love … and I marvel equally how grownups and nations, who, through time and experience ought to know better, tend to forget how to love and be kind.

Wyatt was a tiny baby, just approaching his first birthday. Mitch loved being a big brother and was glad to no longer be the baby of the family. Mitch, having a younger sibling, was beginning to learn a new dimension of love. It is one thing to love and be loved by a parent or an older sibling, but to reach down and care for a little one … that is a different kind of service, a different kind of love. Mitch was learning to love anew. As his father, watching Mitch love his little brother, I was learning to love anew, too.

Because of the way I photo-journal, I often encounter moments unprepared – but I shoot anyway. I have come to appreciate the true beauty of any photo has less to do with light and composition (though helpful), but rather their true beauty is found in the stories they tell. I would rather have a million blurry photos of love and life than any number of staged moments shrink-wrapped technical perfection. Photojournalism, to me, has become something of a metaphor and symbol of how I try to live my life. If I hold out for the perfect moment, if I artificially construct something that isn't real, I will miss out on a million magic moments. 

This simple, flawed and dimly lit photo captures my heart because the subjects herein are my heart – and this moment of unrehearsed love between siblings sweeps my heart to a peaceful place and it lingers there a while. I am thankful for those peaceful moments. As much as I try to be in the moment, there is a part of me that wishes to go back in time and re-live these magic moments – to drink it in more slowly and to savor every part of it. Though life can hand out great difficulties and bring me to my knees, there is beauty in the details of the moment – more than I had eyes to see. 

To me, it is ironic that when I was young and growing I wanted to race to tomorrow and chase the promise and secrets it kept. Time, like a giant, invisible key was slowly unlocking me from the tyranny of parents enforcing curfews, bedtimes, chores and homework – tomorrow couldn't come fast enough. The minutes felt like hours and months miniature years. Time was an uncompromising tether keeping me from the freedom of the future. But tomorrow has come and gone … over 14,000 of them, in fact. Suddenly I have found my years add up and I no longer want for tomorrow or the quick passage of time, except to see my little son again. The older I get the faster time feels and I wish it to slow down like it seemed when I was young – because today I appreciate the value of magic moments in ways I didn't back then. 

Tomorrow can keep its secrets, every last one … for there is magic in the moment and I will seek after them until my time is done.