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Just a few days ago I received a message from an active military officer who said he and some colleagues would be running in honor of Mitch while deployed in Iraq. He offered his well wishes, prayers and love from "the dustiest place on earth."

He then concluded his letter with the following salutation:

CW3 Officer Leach
US ARMY
Blackhawk pilot

I was so moved that someone occupied with other matters would take time out of his life to remember little Mitch and support our desire to help and encourage others. I then responded to his message with the following:

[Officer Leach,]

Holy cow. That would have blown Mitchell's mind. He always admired military officers and their sacrifices to keep him safe. When he was home on hospice, he cried tears of gratitude when he received messages and photos from every branch of the military. Your doing this will be especially amazing for our family.

Thank you, good sir. On so many levels, thank you.

UT, Chris Jones
Ordinary Dad
Grateful Human

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… and that was my letter to him. I had no credentials to point to, no rank or military file. The only title I held was that of ordinary dad and grateful human. I just wanted him to know how much I appreciated his gesture. In so many ways, it felt as if he was saying, “I've got your back.” Although he was way over there, on the other side of the earth, he seemed to care about what was going on over here.

Then, as promised, this good officer (and father himself) sent me some photos of little Mitch with him and in the window of his Blackhawk and indicated they'd be flying Mitch with them that day.

To think that a stranger could be so kind and thoughtful to do something like that in honor of a little boy who died, and a father who misses him deeply, humbles me. 

When I thanked him for sharing these photos and honoring my dear son he replied, "Mitchell, though not physically with us, is still having profound impact on all who heard about his journey. Having kids will definitely soften a man up but make us stronger at the same time."

This good man has it right. Having children does soften our hearts yet teaches us to be strong in ways that really matter. I can't help but think our Father knows that better than anyone. He sees so much more than we see: that hardships make us wise, heavy things make us stronger, service makes a heart compassionate, and death teaches us to appreciate life.

Although I enter the battlefield of grief each day: wounded, weary and heavy with sorrow, I stumble into noble souls like this and I take fresh courage. I am reminded why we are allowed to suffer (so that we might learn and grow) and that when we serve each other with love and kindness, when we have each other’s backs, we are serving our Father. 

Thank you, my new friend, for reminding me to have another's back is the only way to be.

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It is nearly impossible to find the right photo that adequately captures what happened today in our small town in Utah and all around the world. Because of each of you, this run was a success. We will share more details in the coming days: how much we raised, the families we're going to be able to help, and some remarkable stories of hope, courage and love. Because this has been a global event, we still have people running all over the planet ... which is really neat to think about. If only Mitchie could have seen this. And though, perhaps in some way, he can see this from a different view point ... I wish he could have seen your love through the eyes of the little boy he once was.

We met some remarkable young boys today with DMD ... and families that are equally amazing. There is so much love in the world. So much hope. So much goodness.

As the dust begins to settle, I just wanted to thank all of you who have participated, donated and run wherever you are. I wanted to thank the amazing volunteers who have made significant sacrifices in time and their own money to help make this run a success. 100% of the proceeds will be going directly to our goals found on Miles for Mitchell: MDA Summer Camp activities, PPMD Scholarships, Ramps, Assist Devices and other forms of help for families in need.

Nothing quite helps a broken heart as to set sorrow aside and serve and love another. At least that's what I've discovered. And though I still carry the weight of grief, when I reach out to love and lift another ... somehow the world feels a little less heavy.

I'll share more about the run in the coming days. We were blessed to have some amazing volunteer photographers help capture the event: thank you Lindasy Ross, Jake Garn and Jace LeRoy for helping to capture the spirit of this event. As I get those photos, I'll be sure to share them with all of you.

Today, the world moved an inch closer to heaven. Thank you!

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I remember taking this photo of Mitch on the diving board as he bravely released his iron-clad grip of the hand rail and edged toward the deep end. He was just barely diagnosed with DMD and I was still dizzy with grief over what was to come. I loved my little son with all of my heart ... and, as his father, I was pained that he was in peril and I could not stop the inevitable. I have wept enough tears over my son to fill the oceans to overflowing.

Although Mitch was already weakened by muscle wasting - he never let his limitations stop him from trying something new. I admired that about my little boy and decided to follow his example.

This same photo hangs in my office at work and home and serves as a reminder to take chances. That little boy on the diving board, who mustered the courage to step outside his comfort zone had no idea the impact he had on me from that day, to this day.

So tonight, almost on the eve of our 3rd annual run, I am taking a chance. In so many ways, I feel like I'm that little boy on the edge of the diving board ... my heart is pounding and I'm afraid of the deep. 

The deep end for me was not knowing if people would get behind us to try to help others. Like Mitch, I have held my breath and inched toward the water's edge. 

With the help of some of the most amazing donors, volunteers, and many of you ... this virtual/global run seems to be on the right track. I've jumped off the diving board, like little Mitch, anxious to experience life. What is life? To me, life (a life worth living) is found in loving and serving others. That is what this page is all about. Love. Love for my son. Love for all of you. 

As the sun was about to set this evening, I drove to the cemetery to visit my son. I knew he wasn't there ... but my heart was there. My heart will always be there. I took some photos of one of the run medals that just arrived today - I didn't think they would come in time and was planning on having them for next year's run. That same image of Mitch on the diving board wrapped in gold is a symbol within a symbol. Though Mitch was never one to vie for attention, he would have thought this medal pretty neat.

I am grateful to all of you who have taken a chance on Mitchell's Journey and supported us. I promise to pay your goodness forward. I promise to try and help others who hurt; to be a candle in the wilderness of grief ... for I know those dark and terrible woods. I promise to help other boys who suffer with DMD. 

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IF YOU ARE IN UTAH, COME JOIN US IN PERSON
Saturday, April 25, 2015 @ 9:00AM
Herriman Main Street Park - 13000 South 5900 West, Herriman, Utah

IF YOU WANT TO RUN VIRTUALLY
www.raceentry.com/race-reviews/miles-for-mitchell
(Please note that these run medals are reserved for registrants. Yet, if you cannot run or walk, you can still register. You can go to the edge of your diving board ... to your deep end and take a chance doing something that stretches you.)

If you have already registered and received your packets, we will reach out to you about your medals.

IF YOU JUST WANT A SHIRT OR TO DONATE
www.raceentry.com/races/miles-for-mitchell/2015/shopping

OUR GOALS CAN BE FOUND HERE:
http://tinyurl.com/mtj84pb

Other ways to follow:
Follow the run on Instagram: instagram.com/milesformitchell 
Mitchell's Journey on Instagram: instagram.com/mitchells_journey
Twitter: twitter.com/MitchelsJourney

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As a young boy I used to get lost in the back woods of Edina, Minnesota. The wilderness was thick with all manner of vegetation, rocks and hills – and because of the very nature of nature you couldn't see very far. And when fog settled, you could see almost nothing. 

Being lost as a young child reminds me of the landscapes of my life. Sometimes I sit upon a vista with clear skies and can see far into the horizon. Other times I am scaling my Everest – afraid I might fall. Still, other times I am traveling through a wilderness of hardship where the fog of the unknown makes seeing what’s ahead almost impossible. 

Regardless of the landscape upon which I journey, I have learned to travel by faith. That doesn't mean to travel blind or dumb, but to learn to see with my other eyes and hear with my other ears. There is a difference, and it is significant.

As Mitch started to slip away, I found myself descending into a dark wilderness wherein I could see very little. The further we traveled into this wilderness of grief and sorrow the more difficult the terrain and the thicker the fog. I would hold my son’s face and tell him how much he meant to me. I would kiss and hug him and try to assure him – but inside I was terrified of losing him. I love him so very much. With each minute, each day, the wilderness became ever dark and perplexing. I have never known a wilderness such as this.

My wife came into my office today with tears in her eyes and said, “I know it’s officially tomorrow night (the morning of March 2nd) that Mitch passed away, but the day was on a Friday last year. Today is Friday.” Tears filled my eyes, too. I realized then I am still navigating the wilderness of grief. And what a wilderness it is… 

The other day I stumbled upon a journal entry I wrote when I was 19 years old. I had all but forgotten about the dream – but somehow I had the presence of mind to write it down over 20 years ago. In my dream I was travelling in a forest heading to some place important, but I couldn't put my finger on where. I also had a wife and children but I couldn't see their faces and I didn't know their numbers, yet I knew they belonged to me and me them. Each of them was carrying picture frames. As we made our journey through the thick forest, at some point I realized someone was missing and I began to desperately search for my child. I was in a panic, and then my dream ended.

As I read my journal entry I lost my breath. I am now beginning to understand the meaning of that dream so many years later - and I can’t help but contemplate what God was trying to tell me about my future. He spoke to me, and I listened … and I wrote it down… but I didn't understand it. If there is one thing I've learned in my own journey; it is one thing to receive a personal revelation (or answer, or warning) but quite another to understand it. 

I have discovered that while navigating my wilderness I must learn to rely on my spiritual hearing, not just spiritual sight. And learning to hear is a delicate and personal thing – borne of personal acquaintance. 

Suppose I told you outside there were 2,000 mothers – one of which was mine. And say I blindfold you and told you to find her. I could describe her to you; I might say she’s 5.5, blonde short hair, a beautiful smile and kind voice. If I sent you out there to find her ---- you couldn't do it. Yet if you were to blindfold me I could find her in minutes. Why? Because I know her voice. So it is with God. 

I am still navigating the wilderness of grief - almost as if blindfolded. But I have ears to hear. And while I may stumble and fall to my bruised knees in sorrow, I will get up and follow that voice that whispers ever so gently. A voice that is so quiet that if I’m preoccupied, I may not hear it at all. 

One day, at the end of my wilderness, when I have learned what I must, I know I will see my son again. Only this time I will hold Mitchell’s face not in sorrow but in deep relief … for I will have closed the loop on that dream I had so many years ago; I will have found my son who was lost from my sight. And I will thank my wilderness for teaching me to hear my Father’s voice … a voice that is leading me home. I hear Him.