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“Death is no small thing. It is the biggest thing. We spend our lives avoiding it; we invest in medicine to stop it, and we make laws to preserve it. Death, it is the loss of everything. Grief, the terrible sting over the very thing our hearts most want to cling.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

I don’t have many photos of Mitch with me – which makes the precious few I have all the more special. Most of them aren’t in focus – but I don’t care. I’ll take anything I can get. 

Whenever he was close to me, Mitch would lean his head into my arm, shoulder or chest as if to cuddle any way he could. I know he felt comfort around me – but I don’t think my son had any idea the comfort I found in him. I still long for that comfort.

By the time this photo was taken, we were informed Mitch had days to live. I was so sad about losing my son that I cried everywhere but in front of him. My eyes always seemed to sting, as if I were swimming in chlorine. Every waking moment, my chest felt like it was covered in a lead blanket, my lungs felt shallow and breathing seemed vaguely sharp and painful – for the hours-upon-hours of weeping took its toll on my weary body. Sleeping was impossible. And when I finally found sleep, I wasn't sleeping; I was just passing out. 

I remember teaching little Mitch how to walk as a toddler. It was hard for him because his legs were already weak – but he would hold my fingers with his baby hands and he gave it all he had. I remember listening to his tender voice as he read children’s books to his sweet mother. He tried so hard to be a good student. With vivid detail, I remember watching his chubby little hands grip crayons and work so carefully to color within the lines. As he grew a little older, we tried to teach him that one’s beliefs don’t make them a good person, but their behavior does. Mitch embraced that philosophy. Before he died, we asked him what advice he would give the world. He said this exact phrase, “Be nice to each other and be glad you’re alive. Nothing else matters.” In a tender moment, this small child became a giant; the student became the teacher. I will spend the rest of my life trying to live up to those tender words from a little boy who did just that.

We spent almost 11 years trying to teach our son how to live. Suddenly, we had to teach our son how to die. Nobody ever taught us how to do that and we were terrified beyond measure. As this little boy came to know his fate, the real giant emerged. Though small in stature, he was towering in spirit. 

I have seen a lot of material over the last few years about grief, death, and healing. Some say death is nothing at all – as if to suggest we needn’t trouble ourselves with sorrow over the death of a loved one. Others say our child is just around the corner, as though we might suddenly find peace in such a notion. 

The loss of a child isn’t nothing. To the contrary, it is everything. What’s more, around what corner can I walk? What room can I enter to see my child and hold his hand once more? There is no such room, no such visiting hours. Though I have had spiritual experiences that show me my son still lives and that there is life after life, I still miss my son. I miss the way I used to have him. I miss his voice and his tender ways. I miss the ordinary days. 

Though I understand what those writers were trying to say, I believe some of that prose can cause the sufferer, especially those new to grief and even those who have suffered long with grief, to wonder if something is wrong with them; that because they still hurt, perhaps they’re not grieving right. 

Death is no small thing. It is the biggest thing. We spend our lives avoiding it; we invest in medicine to stop it, and we make laws to preserve it. Death, it is the loss of everything. Grief, the terrible sting over the very thing our hearts most want to cling.

Grief is a long, long road. As far as I can tell, I will live with grief the remainder of my days. Through that sorrow, I am learning Heaven’s strange and mysterious ways. And with each tender lesson from my Father, I am beginning to make peace with my pain. I accept that somewhere deep inside me, there will always be a little rain. That is making peace with pain.

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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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“And in the pitch of night, as I looked heavenward I saw a heavenly sight … forever, it seemed, I could see tender mercy upon tender mercy. In that dim light, I learned to see far beyond the veil of mortality.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

It was a punishingly hot summer day. Evening was almost upon us when we stopped by our home which was under construction. We sold our previous home because it had too many stairs and we wanted to have something that would accommodate Mitchell’s growing physical needs.

When we arrived, our kids bounced out of our van and ran around the home to see what had changed. They were freshly bathed and smelled vaguely of soap and shampoo and were dressed in their jammies in preparation for a den party back at our apartment. Mitch and Ethan ran into what would soon be their room. Like little children do, they began making plans about where their beds would go, the forts they would make and where they would store their favorite toys. The little boy in me wanted to join them in their youthful adventures – but this was their time, and I loved watching a little of me in them.

Mitch, wearing his cute yellow t-shirt, ran to the corner of their room and said, “Effie, this is where we’ll sleep!” Ethan smiled, “Sweet, dude” and began to share his excitement about their brotherly plans.

It never occurred to me the hell I would experience in this very corner just a few years later. This spot where you see Mitch standing is exactly where he would die.

This was the same place I fell to my knees a thousand times and pleaded heavenward for my son’s deliverance from death. This is where I bartered with my Father and asked that He might take my life instead. The same place my wife bowed her head, broken and defeated in grief when Mitch would awaken long enough to tell his mom he would be okay. This is the exact same place, to the very inch, she would sense his soul linger after he passed away … where she heard a whisper to her soul, “It’s okay, Mommy.”

In this unremarkable corner of suburban America, this infinitely tiny speck the universe is hallowed ground. This is where I peered into the abyss, which is death, and found myself gasping for air as I was swallowed up in the darkness of grief. Yet, as my spiritual eyes began to adjust … as my soul began to search heavenward, I started to discern the many tender mercies heaven put in our path so we might bear our burdens more easily. The recognition of these invisible blessings were like little flecks of light – and the accumulation of these blessings presented themselves like a heavenly constellation so I could find my way in the pitch of night. Oh, what night grief can be. So dark … so heavy, one cannot see or scarcely breathe.

Yet, there, in this corner where I wished to die so that I might escape the grief of losing my child, I was given eyes to see Heaven’s tender hand and many loving mercies. Even still, I was required to walk the dark path of grief and was greatly pained therewith; for I wanted my son to be with me. 

This insignificant space, this speck in the universe … this is where I knelt with bruised knees: a plain, ordinary, and flawed man, begging for relief. And in the pitch of night, as I looked heavenward I saw a heavenly sight … forever, it seemed, I could see tender mercy upon tender mercy. In that dim light, I learned to see far beyond the veil of mortality.