A PHOTO, A BREADCRUMB

We just found a digital camera that was abandoned a few weeks before the holocaust with Mitch. On that camera were a precious few photos that were taken just before he went into heart failure. This is one of those photos. I love this boy. So very much. I'm so grateful to have found this tender breadcrumb of my fallen son.

I'll post some of the other photos on Instagram
instagram.com/mitchells_journey/

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WHY ORDINARY PHOTOS MATTER MOST

Tiny Mitch had tripped a few days prior and his little bruised eye was on the mend. You can bet he received a lot of extra kisses and cuddles. We were at his grandfather’s ranch in Wyoming spending time with family. Though Mitch was weak and unable to walk long distances, that didn’t stop his appetite for exploration and adventure. And sometimes his desire to be like the other, stronger kids, got the best of him and he would fall and hurt himself.

Mitch was busy following a kitty that he loved to pet. Grandpa was helping Ethan over a fence so he could explore and Natalie stood in the background drinking in the moment as grateful mother and chief protector. I love her. Then this photo happened: a perfect moment if there ever was one. We weren’t doing anything extraordinary or unique. In fact, it was the most common of days and we were doing the most ordinary things. What made it perfect was spending time with family. I took this photo and a thousand other photos this day … captures of ordinary moments unrehearsed. 

The older I get, the more I believe it’s the ordinary photos that matter most. Ordinary captures of ordinary moments … those are the images I long to see. Recollections of love and life and the way things used to be. This image is one such photo.

A few months ago a follower-turned-friend asked if I would participate in a photography series she was working on for her blog. I plucked a series of ordinary photos and wrote a little about each image. She also asked some reflective questions; here are my responses to two of them:

QUESTION: What type of photos do you wish you had more of from your childhood?
ANSWER: Personally, I would trade every single family photo taken in a studio, with hair perfectly primped, necks wrapped in turtlenecks and ugly sweaters and those awful corduroys my mom used to make me wear …. I would trade all of that (every single one) for just one photo of my life as it actually was. 

That great American tradition of family portraits is in many ways our greatest American tragedy. We trade the illusion of moments for real moments. We stand in front of canopies, under a tree, or in a field next to a vintage chair … color coordinated and dressed in our Sunday best. Sometimes we mix it up and wear casual clothes – as though we accidentally wore the same matching white t-shirts and jeans. Those portraits become the storefront of family tradition and about as meaningful as a thinly veiled advertisement.

However, the real canopy of life is never staged in a field or in a studio. They are camouflaged by the ordinary and mundane moments we so often overlook. 

When we reminisce on our lives, we don’t say to ourselves or others, “Hey, remember when we stood in that studio or under that tree and took those family photos?” We don’t say, “Remember that time mom told us to stop and smile in front of the camera?” We don’t seek those photos out because they are not real and in no way represent our actual lives as we lived them.

I wish I had more photos of me playing in the sand or in mud puddles. I don’t want to see photos of me smiling into the lens … but rather the look on my face concentrating on the thing I was doing. I wish I had photos of my mom holding me as a toddler by the window on a warm summer afternoon … wiping away my tears after scraping my knee. I wish I had photos of my dad in the garage tinkering with tools or just sitting on the porch reading a magazine. I wish I had photos of the blanket forts I used to make. Not just the outside … but the stuff we did inside. I wish I had photos of the Star Wars bases I made out of shoe boxes and tape. I wish I had photos of making dinner as a family and those nights we ate scones and had syrup all over our faces. I wish I had photos of my empty bedroom with toys on the floor and homework on the bed. 

I wish I had more photos of my life, unrehearsed. Ironically, the photos that were taken in the 70’s and 80’s that may have seemed like accidents back then are more treasured to me than all of the “hey smile for the camera” shots combined. 

I want dirt and tears. Cuddles and cries. I want to see the life I lived through my childhood eyes.

QUESTION: What is one tip or piece of advice you would give to help people take "better" every day photos?
ANSWER: It is precisely the moments you don’t think about capturing that are the most valuable. If ever you’re tempted to not take a photo because the moment seems ordinary or routine … capture it!

Don’t ask people to stop what they’re doing and smile for your photos. Take photos like a paparazzi. And when you’ve taken 100 photos, take 200 more. Let your knees and stomach be your friend. Get on the floor and take photos from the angle your children see things. 

Whatever you do, don’t capture photos. Capture moments. Moments unrehearsed.

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Here is a link to the entire blog interview: http://lindsayrossblog.com/2015/03/every-day-photos-interview-chris-jones/

Ordinary photos of our ordinary life:
instagram.com/mitchells_journey
instagram.com/christophjones/

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THAT REUNION CAN WAIT

A few weeks ago we had our annual Cousins Camp; a family reunion-style gathering dedicated to the cousins in the family. The evening of the camp, just before the opening ceremony, I was asked to take some photos of the group and individual families. I remember taking this photo of my wife and kids with a quiet lump in my throat. The lump was part love and part longing. I adore my family, my tribe, but I also wanted my little boy to be in this photo, too. 

I shared this photo with my wife (and another photo with me in it) and she said, “I love these … but they feel incomplete. Our family photos will always feel incomplete.” I knew exactly what my dear wife was saying. Together, our hearts sank a little on the outside, and a lot on the inside. 

This grief journey has been most surprising. I was recently in a room where a man described how he used to teach others how to deal with hard things. He was a motivational speaker who had read a great many books on life and how to master it. He had all the right soundbites arranged in the perfect order – like chairs to a royal wedding. By all accounts, he had mastered the craft of publically motivating others through toils of life. For everything he seemed to have a bold answer. Yet, there he sat, sobbing and trembling over a personal catastrophe – which hardship was significant. My heart went out to him and I prayed in my heart that his back would be made strong so that he might carry his burdens with ease. I cared about his sorrows and felt great empathy for him.

This wasn’t the first time I have heard an expert lament that to talk about a thing and experience it are two entirely different things. It occurred to me that evening, with great clarity, that all of the soundbites, books, motivational talks, and seminars will never teach us what experience teaches us. I’m grateful, however much it pains me at times, that our Father knows this and allows us to grow by experience. 

There are other aspects of my grief journey that have surprised me. For example, I never imagined there would come a day I wouldn’t weep. For a little over two years I wept every single day. Every single one. For two years it felt like an elephant was standing on my chest and breathing was difficult. To my surprise, at least for now, I feel like my grief has evolved. I weep – but not every day. I still think about little Mitch – a thousand and one times a day. But I don’t always weep. Maybe this is just a phase and the hard stuff will return – but I don’t think so. What was once painful agony has turned into deep longing – there is still a measure of agony … but it isn’t what it used to be. I miss little Mitch in ways that are difficult to describe. I miss his humor, sweetness and love. I yearn for his company in a most curious way – and I hope to describe it one day.

Other surprises along this grief journey have been to see how some people can be so callused and uncaring, while others are vile and seem to foam at the mouth as they share their own hate toward me and my family. They seem to go out of their way to try and hurt us; but we ignore them – for with each effort they grow ever smaller and weaker. 

So this year’s Cousin’s Camp theme “Have Courage & Be Kind” seems especially fitting. I will not shrink by the smallness of others. I’ll keep writing of my little boy because I love him and miss him deeply. I’ll try to help others become aware of DMD and its fatal outcomes. I’ll always look heavenward. I may stumble from time-to-time, I will always look up. And though I am human … riddled with weakness and prone to mistakes … I love my Father and all of his children try to see everyone as He sees them. 

Most of all, I love these 4 people and 1 little boy … a little boy who is waiting somewhere in that place beyond the hills. I yearn to be there with him – but it is my duty as husband and father to help my family get there. When my son first died, part of me wanted to die; to escape a suffering I never imagined would be so dark and deep. Nothing was so alluring as those dark woods and that eternal sleep.

But death and reunion can wait – for there is a work to do before I die, when the hour will draw too late. And when that time comes I hope to see my Brother and my Son. I will fall to my knees, eyes bathed in tears, and hope my work was done.

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THE GABRIEL AWARD

A few months ago (the day before Mitchell’s birthday, in fact) I was informed that KSL, our local NBC news affiliate, was given the Gabriel Award for their short documentary on Mitchell’s Journey. According to the organization, "The single most important criterion of a Gabriel winning film or program is its ability to uplift and nourish the human spirit." 

When Candice Madsen, a producer-turned-friend, told me about the honor they received for their work (her work) on Mitchell’s Journey, I wept. I wept deeply for my son and wished there was some other way. At the same time my heart was breaking, I was awash with a feeling of peace – for I knew the work of the soul was far more important than that of our mortal bodies. Still, I missed my little boy and fell to my knees in a most curious blend of grief and gratitude. Grief that I lost him, gratitude that I had him.

I do not seek attention or recognition. As I’ve said before, I wished only to live out my life in the quite of our backyard and comfort of our living room … invisible to the world. This page … it was only meant to be a quiet place to update friends and family. And though it has grown a little since then, I hope it remains a quiet place of reflection on life & love, souls and suffering and our Father’s tender mercies. 

 

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