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“I miss everything in between. I miss everything that was ever routine.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

I have a habit of taking photos of everything – the big things, the little things, and everything in between. When I look at my photos I enjoy seeing the big events, but I love the captures of little things, the moments in between, even more. I love to capture raw moments. At least to me, they become windows into my past, and they serve to remind me, in vivid detail, of life as it actually happened. There is no posturing, no pretending, just life unrehearsed. 

On this occasion, we were driving to St. George (Southern Utah) when I grabbed my camera and pointed it toward the back and started snapping. I didn’t know what I was shooting and it didn’t matter. I just wanted to capture whatever it was my kids were doing. Later that night, when I saw this photo series for the first time, I was so delighted to see smiles on their face. Ordinarily, my family is so accustomed to my shooting photos; they don’t even look up because they know I’ll stop shooting when they do. For they know I don’t like posed photos. For some reason, they looked up this time and smiled – and I’m grateful.

I love the moments in between. When I think of major events in life: those vacations we saved up for, that night at a musical or play, the family drives through some undiscovered country … it was seldom the sweeping vistas, the beautiful music or the rollercoaster rides I love the most. I find my richest memories are the ones where we were not doing anything big at all. It was those ordinary weekdays at home with the family. It was bath time and bedtime … those times we were exhausted after a long day. It was popsicles on the porch, dinner tables and dancing in the kitchen, pulling weeds and pulling pranks. I miss everything in between. I miss everything that was ever routine.

If grief has taught me anything, it has shown me how to savor life. 

For the things that grieve me are the things that mattered most to me – and because of my pain, I want to do more of what matters with those who remain. Grief has become a catalyst to try harder and do better than I have in the past. To live more fully in the moment … to love with everything I have, and to exercise greater faith. 

At the end of my days, my family won’t care about vacations, cars or play things - they’ll care about the moments in between. The ordinary. The often unseen. 

That’s the stuff life is made of. That’s the stuff that really matters. 

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“Then one day when you least expect it ... somehow, some way, you begin discover beauty in the rubble and that flowers still bloom in the rain. A miracle is born and you begin to make sense of pain.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

Natalie always does such a sweet and beautiful job with Mitchell's flower arrangements. That is one of her grief rituals and I reverence it.

It is difficult to describe the trauma one feels when they lose a child. Three years have passed and I'm just beginning to get my head around the fact I cannot get my head around it. In every way that matters, life after the death of a child is a waking nightmare. 

Eventually, after years of tears you just learn to live in that nightmare. 

Then one day when you least expect it ... somehow, some way, you begin discover beauty in the rubble and that flowers still bloom in the rain. A miracle is born and you begin to make sense of pain.

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For those on Instagram, I'm going to start posting unique micro stories of Mitch as well as snapshots of today; things Mitch would have loved and how we're carrying on after his loss. instagram.com/mitchells_journey

Little Mitch had an Instagram account as well and I'll soon share some of his unique captures that serve as windows to his little heart and soul. 

Stay tuned, here and there, and I'll share more of that little boy whose broken heart broke my heart... and somehow put it back together again.

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“The paradox of pain is that it can push us forward, if we’ll allow it.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

A few years ago, I was on a business trip travelling throughout Asia Pacific. As business trips go, it was my favorite of all time. I loved spending time in China and found its people to be incredibly kind and sincere. I also spent quite a bit of time in Perth, Australia. I loved that country and its people, too. 

On my final leg of the trip, I was in Sydney for a few days before I embarked on the long journey home. By this time, I was tired and anxious to see my family. I knew Mitchell’s heart was in trouble, but I never thought I would lose him within 6 months. Time was precious and every moment, more precious still.
 

While in Sydney, Natalie and the kids each took turns to have a Skype conversation. I loved talking to each of them … I loved hearing their stories, seeing their faces and listening to the sound of their high-pitched voices. Though I was grateful to see their faces and hear their voices, I couldn’t wait to give each of them a big hug.

A few weeks before I left on my long trip, Mitch said, knowing a little about Asian art and culture, “Dad, will you find me a gold dragon?” Mitch loved gold, not because his heart was set on material things, but because he understood gold was a precious metal and that it was both rare and beautiful. Rare and beautiful, just like him, only he didn’t know that. 

I searched for a gold dragon but couldn’t find one I could afford – so I came home empty-handed. On my 30-hour journey home I worried about disappointing my tender son – and when I told Mitch I didn’t have one, he said softly, “It’s okay Dad, I’m just glad you’re home.” 

Later that night I thought about Mitchell’s words and I cried. Not because I was sad, but because I was overwhelmed with gratitude. “I’m just glad you’re home.” Those were my son’s words yet they were the words of my heart. I couldn’t wait to get home. Though I loved seeing the wonders of the world, none of them compared to the little souls that lived under my roof. Though I was grateful to see the world, my family was my world and everything else was a distraction.

Home. A beautiful word. Family, more beautiful, still. 

In many ways, grief is the longing for home. At least to me, home isn’t so much a place, but a state of being. If my physical home were swallowed up by a fire or an earthquake, I’ll have only lost things, not my sense of home. Where I live is immaterial, because home, as that old adage says, is where the heart is.

So, when we lose a loved one, the home in our heart changes forever. I can replace a couch or a television, but I cannot replace Mitch. Even with billions of people on the earth at this moment, there is none like Mitch, nor will there ever be again. My heart … my home … was my wife and 4 children. Now, one of them is gone and my heart and soul searches for him. That invisible sense of home we built by service and sacrifice … that place in the heart we lived in, was forever changed. My kitchen table will always feel profoundly empty. Family photos, missing a sweet smile I yearn to see. My heart will always have an empty space that Mitch once occupied. Thus, I will always be longing for home … the home I once knew. The home I so deeply loved.

Though painful, I am learning to channel my longing for home into making my new home better. There will always be a sacred, empty room in my heart – but the rest of it will be filled with more love and more moments that matter than ever before. The paradox of pain is that it can push us forward, if we’ll allow it.

I miss my old home. I miss little Mitch. But I know he is in that place beyond the hills and one day I will go there, too. I hope to hear him say, “Hi Dad, I’m glad you’re home.”