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/
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/
Of all the things I loved about parenthood, one of the things I loved most was to watch my young children sleep. I remember vividly this hot August night as little Mitch dozed off. My heart melted as I saw him with his ice-cold sippy cup, Spiderman Jammies and his two favorite blankets. Softly he slept after getting a bundle of hugs and kisses from his mom and dad. He knew he was loved.
Though we were exhausted at the end of the day, parenthood never felt so rewarding. And though we were poor as church mice, life never seemed so abundant. A testament that people, not things, bring us some of life's greatest joys.
As I stared at my son, the humanist in me would marvel and say, “Wow, I helped make that little person.” The young parent in me said, “I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m afraid.” Yet the deepest part of me said, “I have never known a love such as this.”
Though my pockets were empty, my cup was overflowing.
Without realizing it, my sweet wife often put her hand on Mitchell’s chest as if to somehow read, like fingers tumbling over braille, the fatal secrets his body held. We were waiting to learn the news about Mitchell’s heart and expecting to hear all was well and that the therapies put in place earlier that spring were working.
A few minutes after this photo Mitchell’s mild-mannered cardiologist entered the examination room and invited our daughter to take Mitch on a stroll down the hall so we could have a conversation. He would then tell us he was gravely concerned Mitch was at risk of sudden death because his heart function was dangerously low. We immediately petitioned the medical board for Mitch to qualify for a heart transplant. A few weeks later he would be denied because it was thought his diagnosis of DMD was a contraindication to transplant.
It was Halloween that night and Mitch was excited to trick-or-treat. He would only visit a few close neighbors before he became too weary to carry on. Mitch was always careful to ration his candy and never ate it in excess. In my estimation, restraint is a hallmark of maturity – and Mitch had a great deal of restraint and self-discipline. In truth, Mitch was most excited to go home and give candy to kids who came to our door – for he much preferred giving than receiving. To me, that was a beautifully quite measure of this young boy’s heart – for he would rather give than receive.
When I think of my dear wife and son, both with broken hearts – I change a little on the inside. I care less about things of the world and outward appearances and I ponder deeply on matters of the heart. For matters of the heart are also matters of the soul. In the end, those are the only things that matter.
A few months later, as Mitch began to slip into the abyss while at the hospital, then home on hospice; Tyson Breckenridge an old High School friend, collaborated with another old friend, Tyler Streeter, who has become a talented artist. Together they selected a photograph of my son and Tyler began the labor of love by paining my son’s likeness. Our family was so wrapped up in the calamity of our son’s failing heart and then his death we didn't know they were performing such a kind gesture of love and service. Then, one day, a not long after my son had passed I received a package in the mail with a handwritten letter. Tyler wrote, “It is so ironic to me that a young boy with a malfunctioning heart could fill so many other hearts with so much love.” He continued to describe how painting my son was an emotional experience for him and that he cried many times while painting my boy.
I wept when I read his letter. I even wept today when I read his words again. This gift from these two great men was more than an original painting … it was a gift from the heart and soul. I will forever be indebted to them for their kindness. The original paining, so artfully crafted by Tyler and lovingly orchestrated by Tyson, now hangs in our home on a very special wall, in a very special room. Tyler entitled the painting, “The Gift.” You can see a beautiful time-lapse video of the painting here: www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nxsptlwyk8E
A title aptly given … for if none else, Mitchell was at least a gift to me. As a young child I never considered that a gift might hurt. It never entered my mind that a hardship as heavy as losing my son might break me in places I didn't know existed, yet still be a gift. Who would have thought such strange things? Indeed, heavens ways are not our ways … and as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are God’s ways higher than our ways … His thoughts, than our thoughts.
Heaven’s gifts aren't always easy to see; they hide in plain sight or obscured by our vanity. What’s more, our Father’s gifts aren't always comfortable or easy – sometimes they hurt or bring us to our knees. That’s the gift! That’s what I've learned, you see: sometimes heaven is only as far away as our knees. A gift my son and broken heart would painfully teach me.
