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“This photo not only holds a tender story of a time long gone, but a metaphor for today. I find myself where Wyatt once stood in this photo. Next to me, on the edge of the unknown, Mitch, my son and brother, points into the dark water at things I cannot yet see … and he whispers to my soul words meant just for me. ”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

I can still hear the evening crickets on this nearly magical summer eve. Like a sunburn, I can feel the warmth of summer on my skin. Mitch pointed into the dark water as Wyatt listened intently. “See, those fish? They are a family.” Wyatt replied, “Do they like gummy worms?” Mitch furrowed his brow a moment and thought … then said, “Probably. But I think they like Doritos best.”

I chuckled at my little boys. I wanted to hug them that instant but refrained because this was their moment. My heart was overflowing with a kind of fatherly gratitude I had never experienced until that moment. I dreamt of becoming a father, but I never imagined a love so deep. Part of me wanted to freeze this moment in time and live in it forever; but I knew tomorrow would bring new blessings – so I welcomed the passage of time as both a blessing and opportunity for new discoveries. 

When Mitch first learned he was going to be a big brother, he was so excited. He wanted to usher his wee brother into a big world filled with wonder. With a heart filled with love, I often found Mitch kissing baby Wyatt’s hand while he slept. In time, not many years later, I would find Wyatt kissing Mitchell’s hand as he slept, barely breathing and slipping away. A brutal irony that pains me and heals me at the same time.

Just before Mitch was admitted to the hospital, I called my neighbor who was also my Bishop at the time (a religious leader in my church). I could hardly talk through my tears and broken voice as I said, “Will you please give my son a blessing?” Within minutes this inspired, selfless man came rushing over. As we lay our hands on my son’s head, tears streamed down my face. I quietly gasped for air (a few times it was audible) and fought to keep my composure as I heard this good man share words of comfort, blessing and heavenly insight. He fought back tears, too, as he shared inspired words our Father wanted Mitch to know. A few minutes after the blessing, Mitch said in a whisper to his brother Ethan (observing our tears), “It felt like it was raining.” Such were our tears.

There were many times while Mitch was home on hospice, as he slept, that I wet his hands and neck with my tears. I prayed mightily to my Father for a way out – I begged that He would take me instead. But a way out would not come and soon I would lose my little son. In time, I would find myself in a hell I was afraid to imagine. Yet there I was, in the darkness and heavy in sorrow. I wrote of grief, “There are days … sometimes agonizing moments … the gravity of grief is so great it feels like I’m walking on Jupiter. It’s a place where your chest feels so heavy even breathing is difficult. I have come to learn that once you lose a child you leave earth’s gravity forever. You may visit earth from time-to-time, but Jupiter is where your heart is. And from what I can tell, we will live the remainder of our lives in the gravity well of grief.” (see essay, Walking on Jupiter, June 3, 2013) 

In time, after much weeping and soul-searching, I would find myself leaving the Jupiter of which I spoke. The gravity of grief no longer had the power to take my breath or steal my joy – at least not all the time. This journey from Jupiter was welcomed by my weary soul – for I wondered if the prison of such sorrow was a life sentence. Thankfully, it was not. I still cry for my boy. I wept while writing this very piece. But I feel more love, peace and gratitude now than I have ever felt sorrow – and that’s a lot. 

This photo not only holds a tender story of a time long gone, but a metaphor for today. I find myself where Wyatt once stood in this photo. Next to me, on the edge of the unknown, Mitch, my son and brother, points into the dark water at things I cannot yet see … and he whispers to my soul words meant just for me. 

In time, I will see.

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Never had the closing of a door been so terrifying. The funeral director reverently moved the flower arrangement so the casket could be sealed shut … sealed for as long as the earth would last. My hands began to shake, and my knees trembled as I stood agonizing over the finality of it all. My little son, who loved life and thought I could save him from harm, was gone.

This moment that you see here was one of the hardest moments of my life. I couldn’t bear to see my little boy’s likeness being swallowed up in the shadow of the casket door. I had to look away, for I could not bear the sight of it. I looked down and wondered if I could ever gather up the broken pieces of my heart … for there were more than any mortal could count.

“If life matters, so does death … and every moment in between. ”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

Desperate for comfort, little Wyatt leaned his tear-drenched face into me and wept. And my sweet, tender wife felt a grief so deep, death would have been a sweet release.

Everyone in my little family was broken, and I couldn’t fix it.

C.S. Lewis, an author I have long admired, said this: “It is hard to have patience with people who say ‘There is no death’, or ‘Death doesn't matter.’ There is death. And whatever is matters. And whatever happens has consequences, and it and they are irrevocable and irreversible. You might as well say that birth doesn't matter.”

If life matters, so does death … and every moment in between. Those who walk in grief carry a heavy burden and pain that cannot be seen. Some are impatient or insensitive with those who grieve … others are simply mean. To them I say, it matters, the life and death of a human being.

It hurts because it matters.

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Summer was over and Mitch was about to start a new year at school. He was nervous for a lot of reasons: would he make new friends? What if he gets lost? Who would help him if he didn’t have the strength to walk anymore? Who would understand that while he looked normal, he had a muscle wasting disease and doesn’t have the strength of healthy children?

I remember being little and having big worries. I would think to myself at a department store, “What if my mom forgets me and never finds me again?” After all, the world was a very big place and I was just getting familiar with my neighborhood – and any place more than a few blocks away felt like a different country. Maybe even a different world. So, as a child, I was worried about being lost and never found. As a father, I see things differently today. Were my child to get lost, I wouldn’t stop searching until I found my precious child. I would sell the clothes on my back, and my very life if required, to save them. But I didn’t know that as a child. My understanding was limited to my life experience – which was crayons, backpacks, and lunchpails.

So when Mitch shared his worries this year, the child in my heart related. I remembered how I felt and I wanted Mitch to know that I cared. Knelt down so I was eye-level with him and said, “Sweet Mitchie, I will never let you get lost. I will always look out for you and never will you be so far that I couldn’t come racing to save you. Okay?” Mitch would nod softly with tears in his eyes. With that, I hugged him and whispered, “I love you, son.”

Little Mitch was still nervous, but he trusted me and he trusted his mother – who is an infinitely better parent than I could ever hope to be. She sets a standard I strive to emulate, however imperfectly. 

Mitch and a handful of other children his age waited patiently for the doors to open. When the bell rang, the kids were summoned to the door only to be greeted by Shelly Davis, the school’s principal at the time. When I think of the tender mercies in my son’s life, I have no doubt Shelly is one of them.

She took little Mitch under her wing, along with other children with special needs, and helped them feel loved and important. Under her kind care, Mitchell grew strong in confidence and self-assurance. Though he was quiet and shy, he was growing a little more each day because of the way she treated him. Although she was the school’s administrator – she was its best teacher, too. She needed no chalkboard or textbooks, no podium or megaphone; she taught by example and helped these young children believe in themselves.

I watched this good woman from afar and each day I fell to my knees and thanked Heaven for placing her in my son’s path. She was exactly what Mitch needed at the time – and I’m sure she was exactly what many other children needed, too.

When I think back on my education, never once were the mean teachers, detached or ready-to-snap principals and overbearing school staff a positive influence. To the contrary, they got in the way of the very thing they were there to do. Instead, the ones who shaped me were the ones who saw me in the hall and said hello with a smile. They were the ones who got to know me and saw what little I had to offer the world, yet they recognized my potential and watered my tiny seeds of potential with encouragement. They were the ones that said, “I see you. You matter. You can do this.”

I love and appreciate good educators; the ones who not only teach concepts, they teach people. The ones who teach us how to be good people. Shelly did this for Mitch and countless other children. I know Mitch loved her because she first loved him, and that gave him permission to believe in himself. 

Though I am no formal educator, I believe the bedrock of education isn’t books, but belief in self. That will do more for the soul than all the books ever written, standing quietly on a shelf.

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As long as I can remember, I have loved fragrances. When I was little, my dad would hold my tiny face with his big hands; hands that always seemed to smell of Old Spice. To this day, 37 years later, that smell carries potent memories of my father ... memories of rainy days, ticks of toast, and those long drives to my dad's dental practice where I was so small, I couldn't see out the window. I just remember seeing telephone poles passing by, blurred by raindrops and thick fog.

Smells take me places far away and to memories long gone. Like invisible keys, they unlock something powerful inside my mind.

Fragrances also took Mitchell's worried mind to places that comforted him.

Tonight, Wyatt was looking through some of my long-lost cologne collection and was as curious about my memories behind them as he was the smells themselves. 

I still keep them, not to wear them, but because they are liquid time machines that only I can travel.

"This one I purchased on a hot summer day in Kentucky." I said. "I remember wearing it the next day as I was walking down a long dirt road in the middle of a prairie. The sun was setting, it was humid, and I couldn't see a building for miles. The sound of crickets were loud and beautiful. I don't remember being so hot and miserable in my life, but I loved the smell of that cologne and turned a hard experience into a good memory." 

Wyatt then handed me another bottle. "Oh, this one brings back strong memories of a dark winter far north in Canada. I was going to the University of Alberta. It was deep in the middle of a frozen winter, the air was 40 degrees below zero ... so cold, you lost your breath trying to take a breath. It was so cold, I wondered if summer would ever come again. This smell is forever attached to long, dark winters."

Wyatt was swept away with my stories and I could tell by the look in his eyes, he was assembling memories of his own and attaching smells to them. Pretty neat, these little liquid time machines.