Posts tagged Fatherhood
INEVITABLE REGRETS

It was a hot summer afternoon at grandma’s house when Mitch reached into his backpack with a subtle, almost mischievous smile, then retrieved my swimsuit. He knew I always forgot to bring my trunks so he went into my bedroom and packed them for me. “Dad, here’s your swimsuit.” Then, with a soft voice, he said, “Will you swim with me?” I chuckled briefly and then, quite unexpectedly, my heart melted as I saw my son’s tender face that seemed to say, “Dad, I don’t have much time.” Then, a lump filled my throat as I thought of the many times he wanted to swim with me and I came unprepared. In the most tender, almost apologetic tone I said, “Mitch, I would love to swim with you.”

We spent the better half of the afternoon playing “Super Shark” and a handful of other games we made up over the years. It was a tender time and a memory I hold dear to my broken heart. 

I didn’t know how to be a dad – and I always felt like I was making things up and stumbling more than making good strides. My youth was complicated and I never had a day-to-day role model to emulate – so I didn’t really know what real fatherhood looked like. My biological father was a good, loving man but I only saw him for a month during the summer. The man I grew up with was angry at the world and especially angry with me, for some reason. My dad taught me how to love, but my drunken step-father (at the time), taught me how it felt to be isolated and despised. I learned to flinch, not flex and grow in confidence.

Because I felt the deep pain of rejection as a child, I never wanted my children to feel any part of what I experienced, so I did my best to give them what I wished I had. Sometimes I wonder if little Mitch wanted to swim with me because he knew I would scoop him up in my arms and hug and kiss him, all the time. 

So there I was splashing around in the pool with my son. By this time, I knew Mitchell’s heart was failing him and it had only been a few months since we learned his heart function was on a steep and unexpected decline. Not a day passed that I didn’t wonder and worry if we were doing enough. We consulted with his doctors and tried medicines that were thought to stabilize his rapid heart decline. Everything failed. We did all that we knew to do and yet we couldn’t save him. When I look back on that labyrinth of decisions with unknowable outcomes, I am tempted to feel regret. 

A few weeks ago, Natalie and I were asked to share some of our thoughts to a group of parents who have children with the same disease Mitch had: Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy. One of the panel questions was about making decisions and how to keep from looking back and wondering if they should have done something different. I appreciated that question because I understood it on a very personal level. 

No matter what you do in life, you’re going to make mistakes and regret is inevitable. That is part of being human.
— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey


My response was “No matter what you do in life, you’re going to make mistakes and regret is inevitable. That is part of being human.” I suggested, “Perhaps we’re better served if we worry less about life’s inevitable regrets and spend our energy doing things that will limit the depth and severity of regret.” I believe if we spend time and energy focusing on the things we truly value, we will stumble, but we won’t stumble far. Our regrets are more likely to feel like bruises, rather than broken legs.

I mentioned in an earlier post that my son’s journey has taught me to turn regret into resolve. I discovered that regret is inevitable, but resolve is a choice. 

Do I have regrets? I have a million of them. But, I have a million more resolves.

As long as I am human I will experience regret; the best way to live with them, as far as I can tell, is to know what I value and always do my best. That is how I've learned to live with inevitable regrets.

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ARTICLE ON MITCHELL'S JOURNEY

As Father's Day approaches, I can't help but thank my Father in Heaven for sending me Mitch. It is through that journey of love and pain that I have come to appreciate family and what it means to be a father and a son. 

Until my dying day, I promise to be nice to others and be glad I'm alive; because as Mitch taught me, nothing else matters.

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ARE YOU THERE?
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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MOMENTS IN BETWEEN
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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