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“Mitch never saw his glass half empty, nor did he see it half full. He was just grateful there was something in it. ”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

It was a hot, muggy and vaguely miserable summer-like afternoon. We were at a family reunion/vacation far from home. The days were long, and there was a lot of travelling and waiting in the heat. Even the shade of trees didn’t offer much comfort from the suffocating humidity. It was easy to feel miserable.

Mitch could tell Ethan was getting worn out by the heat, so he called out to his older brother, “Effie, come over here. I’ll give you a ride.” Ethan smiled with relief and ran to his little brother who wanted only to serve him. With a childlike thump, Ethan plopped his bum on the seat, and Mitch powered up his scooter. Just then, mischievous Mitch turned to his brother and began to blow on his face. “There, are you cool now?” Ethan grimaced, and they both began to laugh and laugh. Mitch never missed an opportunity to laugh or make any heavy situation seem light.

There is a layer to little Mitch I don’t often write about, and that is his sense of humor. As Mitchell’s body grew from toddler to young boy, his mind and soul began to grow in unexpected ways. On more than a thousand-and-one occasions, I was startled by his intelligence, deep insight or brilliant humor. I admired him and often said to myself, “Who are you, really?” I sensed a greatness in him that was just beneath the surface of that otherwise quiet little boy … I sensed an old soul slowly awakening and that he had a very special purpose on this earth. 

As I look at this photo, and many like them, I remember how often Mitch taught me the importance of laughing whenever you can. To this day, some of the funny things he did years ago still make me giggle – and my soul smiles. How I love that little boy. How I miss him.

At the time of this photo, Mitch was becoming noticeably weaker as compared to the rest of his friends. While they ran at top speed, he stumbled and could hardly walk the distance of a basketball court without his legs almost giving out beneath him. While they jumped, he fell to the ground. The world was closing in on little Mitch, and there was no escape from the muscle wasting that was slowly taking his life away from him. 

Life for Mitch was a lot like this hot summer day; it would have been easy to feel miserable. 

What I love about this ordinary image is how it captured his resolve for joy. Mitch never saw his glass half empty, nor did he see it half full. He was just grateful there was something in it. 

Oh, what a difference it makes to treasure what we have instead of measure what we don’t. 

Mitch taught me that when I find gratitude in what I have, joy follows. And where there is joy, there is laughter.

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We're imperfect and we struggle, but we have each other and that's enough ... and more.  Missing little Mitch, though.

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“Selective neglect caused me to be deliberate in saying yes to the most important thing and “no” or “not now” to other things.”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

The summer before Mitch passed away, Natalie and I took our kids on an adventure in southern California. Mitch, tired of using his motorized scooter, wanted to stand and go down the escalator by himself. For a moment, he wanted to feel normal again. 

Before he stepped onto the escalator, Mitch said, “Dad, will you go with me?” I smiled and said, “I would love to.” Mitch went first and I immediately followed. A few seconds later, he turned his head to make sure I was with him.

Mitch often made glances as if to say, “Are you there?” Though he was brave, he didn’t want to be alone. No child does. So, I always tried to be there for Mitch and my other kids. I was, and continue to be, less-than-perfect. In fact, I wish I could do a lot of moments over. But I tried, and I keep trying. 

As a father, I knew it wasn’t practical to be everywhere, all the time, with my kids. I had to learn to do what my brother-in-law taught me years ago … embrace a philosophy of selective neglect. That is to say, when work requires, I have to neglect other aspects of my life so that I can support my family. And when my family needs me, I will set aside work so that I might be there for my wife and kids. It empowered me to say “No” … or “I can’t” … or “I won’t.” It also taught me to say, “I will,” “I can” and “Yes.” Selective neglect caused me to be deliberate in saying yes to the most important thing and “no” or “not now” to other things. If I were forced with an ultimatum to choose between work and family, work would lose every time. Fortunately, life isn’t that dramatic and most of us can find a healthy balance that works for our own family dynamic. 

For every photo I have of Mitch, I have just as many of my other kids – each with a story of love and faith of its own. As I look through those photos, I can see each of my children doing this same thing as Mitch did in this image … possessing a quiet look as if to say, “Are you there?” From school programs to athletic competitions, my kids have always looked into the vast audience of onlookers to see a glimpse of mom and dad and to make sure they weren’t alone. To make sure we were there, supporting them. Loving them, not just in theory, but in practice.

Time and attention, service and sacrifice; these are the ingredients for love. These ingredients come from focus and effort.

For me, being there isn’t just about being physically present … it’s about being emotionally and spiritually present with my loved ones, too. Being present isn’t always easy for me; I worry about payrolls, client deadlines, employees, projects, investors and a mountain of other things. At any given moment, I’m managing five catastrophes, 40 brush fires, and 1,000 mosquito bites. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. For me, being present takes work. If I’m not careful, I can come home from work, yet never really arrive. Being present requires me to prioritize and remember that some things matter more than others.

So, on this sunny afternoon, I practiced selective neglect; I set aside work things and lesser things so I could give Mitch and my family all of me. They are my everything, and I can’t think of a time in my life I regretted living that core value.

As Mitch turned his head and glanced at me from the corner of his eye, he wanted to know his father was with him … that he wasn’t alone. I knew Mitch was in trouble. I also knew time was short – but how short, I knew not. I only knew I had that moment, so I gave him all of me.

I am guilty of many imperfections, and I wish I were a better human than I am. And while I try to sort out my own personal growth, I will always try to be there for my family, however imperfectly. When my kids turn their head, I want them to see a familiar face smiling back at them, loving them and cheering them on. 

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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.