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I took this photo nine years and a few hours ago, today.

It was the most tender of times. Little Mitch was denied a heart transplant, and just days earlier, his cardiac MRI revealed his heart was profoundly damaged. Hanging by a thread, really.

At the time of this photo, Mitch had come to my office. “Hey, Dad,” he said softly. “Can I just sit by you?”  I smiled and said, “Of course, Mitch. I love it when you’re near me.”  With that, I pulled a chair close to me, chair arms touching, and Mitch watched as I tried to wind down the day. Occasionally he’d put his hand on my arm and squeeze it as if to hug me. I would do anything to hear his voice and to feel his hand again. Not long after he sat down, Natalie came into the room to tell us dinner was ready. With her came a delicious-smelling waft of dinner waiting upstairs. Mitch looked at me and smiled, then stood and started talking to Natalie in front of my window. She did what she does so naturally: love. She grabbed his face, looked Mitch in the eyes, and told him just how much she loved him. I wanted to freeze time – and I suppose with this photo, I did.

You know the saying, “It’s later than you think”? It was late. Very late. In just a few weeks, we’d go to the hospital and learn death was not only coming, it was gashing at our door. The summer of our lives was ending, and we would soon feel grief like a winter wind to our souls.

When this photo came up in my memories today, I began to think of the paradoxes of light and darkness and what I can learn from them. For years I used to think of grief as only darkness. Lately, I’m beginning to think of suffering and grief as a different kind of light. It’s not that grief and sorrow aren’t dark and awful. They are. But I’ve discovered when I close my eyes and quiet my soul, a different set of eyes begin to open. Kind of like the saying, “It’s not what you look at; it’s what you see.”  So, when I stepped into the darkness and allowed my spiritual eyes to adjust, it was as though a door opened from within the prison of grief, and I walked into vast corridors of learning and deep meaning – hidden only by the shadows of sorrow.

My deepest learning, I’ve discovered, happens in the paradox. 

A few years ago, I wrote an essay examining the duality of grief entitled, “I’m okay, but I’m not okay, and that’s okay.”  It was a tender reflection on a conversation I had with my oldest son, who barged into my office while I was in a moment of deep grief over losing Mitch. I quickly wiped my tears and tried to seem normal – but, as with most things, humans aren’t very good at hiding. Ethan said, “Dad, are you okay?”  I did what most men do: I blamed the tears on a rock in my eye – as though it happened while eating boulders, dirt, and tree logs for breakfast.   I rolled up my proverbial lumberjack shirt, thumped my chest, and pretended to be strong and okay. That’s what men do, right? Well, that wasn’t exactly me – but it was kind of me. My impulse as a grieving father was to shield him from my truth. I wanted to let my son know he could come to me with his troubles – and I was worried if I was an emotional wreck, he may be afraid to talk to me.

But then I thought to myself, “How is this teaching my son to live an authentic life?”  “How will he feel safe if I’m pretending to be something I’m not?”  On the heels of pretending to be strong, I told my son I was okay, but I wasn’t okay ... and that was okay. He nodded to me with a sigh of relief – because he knew I was being honest and in honesty there is safety.

That essay “I’m Okay, But I’m Not Okay, And That’s Okay” has been read by millions. Why do those stats matter? They do, and they don’t. They don’t matter concerning me; they only matter because of what it signals. It signals that people want to make sense of the paradox of life. How can someone be okay and not okay at the same time? And is that okay? People were drawn to that story because they realized they weren’t wrong, broken, or abnormal to be two (or more) things at once.

You see, we’re never just one thing. We’re many things at once. We are both harmony and contradiction, love and anger, faith and doubt, grief and joy, fear and courage … the list of dualities is infinite. If you are one thing, you also possess its shadow. 

The trouble is because we’re human; we seek symmetry and safety. Oppositely, paradox feels a lot like brokenness and danger. As far as I can tell, it seems that running from unavoidable pain and discomfort is where we miss out on life’s deepest discoveries. 

Learning to sit in the paradox is where we discover profound truths about ourselves and others.

At the surface of things, learnings from the paradox look a lot like this:

• The more we learn, the more we realize we know nothing.

• If you want to learn deep patience, spend time with someone that deeply annoys you.

• If you want to understand forgiveness, look to the person who most hurt you.

• Empathy and suffering are symbiotic soulmates.

• You cannot have courage without fear.

• Healing hurts.

So, when I look at this tender photo of my wife and son, I’m awash in a curious potpourri of grief and gratitude. As Rumi wisely wrote, “What hurts you, blesses you.”  And in that paradox, I sit. I pray. I listen. I learn.

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Motionless, Natalie stared through our front window for the last time. To say our home was filled with memories would be a gross understatement. This was the same window Mitch would peer through to see Trick-or-Treaters before he opened the door and smiled as he handed other children treats; the same window Mitch would yell out, "Hey Mom, look at the storm coming!" This was the same window Mitch would see his best friends, Luke, Derek, and David, who'd come over to see if he could play. Perhaps most poignantly, this was the same window we saw Mitchell's body being rolled away by the funeral home.

 I didn't know how to comfort my wife – or if she even wanted it. I could tell she stepped into a deep place, so I honored her space and allowed silence to become my teacher.

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 Earlier this spring, we sold our home of 15 years; it was time. We only had one child at home, and we felt the gentle tug, an almost spiritual invitation that it was time for a change.

 When I took this photo of my wife, our family was on the edge of a significant change. This was the home we built specifically to help Mitch cope with his muscle wasting disease. We poured concrete wheelchair ramps, customized a bathroom with room enough for a wheelchair, built a caretaker's apartment, installed a wheelchair ramp to our deck, and so much more. In many ways, our home was a symbol of love; we built it not only to raise our family, but so we could catch Mitch when his body fell.

 There was no way of knowing all our efforts would be in vain. We couldn't see into the future and know our little boy would die long before he required any of the preemptive things we did to help him. Yet, I'm not sure those "wasted efforts" matter. I've learned that what we get for our efforts is far less important than what we become because of our efforts. (Henry David Thoreau) At the end of the day, everything we did to help our son was a symbol of love and devotion – and we were changed because of it. Nothing else mattered. Looking back, I do it again. A million times, even to infinity, I would do it again – if not for anything but to know my son.

 So, we sold our home and almost all our furniture. We purged. We simplified. Then, we packed what remained, and we took a big step into the unknown. The days and months that followed were especially difficult for my wife – but we grieved over the change. To us, our home was more than a place to sleep and break bread, it was a living journal, and every corner of that place was filled with richly layered memories.

 We rented a small Townhome in a neighboring city and began looking for our next home. We wanted to move back home (to Herriman) to be close to Mitch and the people & community we've grown to love. Thankfully, we found a place we love. It's different in almost every way. Very different. But we're almost empty-nesters – and soon, perhaps even this place will be too big. Change is good – if not for anything but to remind us that everything is temporary. Everything ends.

 Yet, the longer I live and the further I step back, I can't tell the difference between a beginning and an end. Anymore, they've become one-in-the-same.

 For those who have read Mitchell's Journey over the years, you'll recognize you had a front-row seat to my personal therapy. I was both the patient and the therapist at once, working through my pain one sentence at a time. Writing was, and ever will be, my way of processing. Writing is my therapy.

In the next few weeks and months, I want to share some of the things our family did to process our grief and make meaning of suffering. In addition, I have at least 150 (actual) stories I'm writing about Mitch and the things I learned from him. Also, there are many other things and awakenings that have happened in the past 8 years; I want to write about that, too. I'll still write of grief. But I have so much more to say about hope, healing, and living an examined life.

 Sitting on the edge of change can be bewildering on a lot of levels. What's more, Mitchell's Journey has taught me healing our wounds requires a unique blend of hanging on and letting go. That blend is as individual as our personalities. It's not my place to tell someone what to cling to and what to let go of – that balance is the deeply personal work of the soul. But perhaps, if we can talk about it openly, we can each find our own broken pieces and learn to create a new mosaic of ourselves. Something more beautiful and dynamic than we now imagine.

I sometimes wonder why we wait until it’s too late. We send flowers at funerals when those flowers might have lifted a heavy heart when that loved one was living. We honor our family and friends with eulogies after they pass – when our gratitude and love may have healed a weary, forgotten soul. I know it’s not practical to write eulogies for the living or send bouquets of flowers every day – but we can send a text or give someone a call when they come to mind. That counts, too. I’ve discovered the little things are always bigger than we imagine.

Today Mitch would have turned 19. He passed away a few months before his 11th birthday—a tender age, to be sure. As a little boy, he loved his Mom with all his heart. He still believed in Santa and loved building Legos. Although he was very much a young boy, he also looked forward to becoming a husband and father when he grew up.

Grief hurts even after 8 years. But I’ve also discovered grief refines us – if we do the work to transform our pain from our tormentor into our teacher. It isn’t easy. Grief is clumsy work, really … especially in the beginning. I remember the days I would shut my door at the office and weep. For the first few years, every minute was a waking nightmare. I sometimes prayed for my own death to escape the pain.

Yet, despite all the pain Mitchell’s death has caused me, he has brought me even more in love, joy, and meaning. Little Mitch was then and remains today, one of my most sacred teachers. He didn’t mean to be my teacher – he was just a little kid. Mitch was innocent and the embodiment of goodness.

As my teacher, Mitch gave me two gifts embedded in 2 profound lessons. I am so very far from perfect, but try to emulate these every day:

ONE: SEE WITH YOUR HEART

“When you see with your heart, you see everything that matters.” ~ Mitchell Dee Jones

Mitch taught me to look beyond someone’s jagged edges and see their heart. Even in the midst of being treated poorly by some adults, my little boy taught me to look for their pain. He understood that hurt people hurt people – and though we should not tolerate abuse and unkindness, we can practice the healer’s art by seeing the person behind the pain. Mitch taught me everyone is worthy and deserving of love.

TWO: BE KIND AND GRATEFUL

“Be nice to each other and be glad you’re alive. Nothing else matters.” ~ Mitchell Dee Jones

Little Mitch taught me the formula for a joyful life is found in gratitude and kindness. He showed me that kindness is contagious, and life is limited. So, I’ve learned how to spread one and treasure the other. We’re only on this earth for a few minutes – why not shine while we’re here?

Today, as my little family celebrates Mitchell’s birthday, I will double my efforts to see beyond – to see with my heart. I’ll share love and kindness to everyone I meet … and I’ll treasure what precious seconds remain in my own short life.

I don’t know what happens in that place beyond the hills. But I dream of seeing my 10-year-old son on some path’s horizon, a great way off. And when I see him, I will run at reckless speed to embrace him. My love for Mitch has only grown since I last saw him. I will thank him for being my son, my teacher, and my friend. While I walk my own path between now and then, I’ll do my best to stop and help the weary travelers I encounter and serve them in word and deed. For unqualified love is the greatest gift indeed.

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One of my favorite memories with our young kids was sitting on the porch on a hot summer evening eating popsicles and enjoying the approaching sound of crickets. I can still smell their freshly shampooed hair and feel the softness of their pajamas – just out of the dryer. When I look at this photo, I’m reminded of Gretchen Rubin’s observation of raising a family, “The days are long, but the years are short.” Oh, how the years slip by.

One hot summer evening, Mitch tapped my shoulder and said, “Dad, get some Windex and come check this out. Something weird is happening.” Mitch held my hand as he led me toward a light along the edge of our driveway.

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When we were about 10 feet from the light, Mitch whispered, “Shhh, Dad, … listen.” We could hear a faint buzzing noise, and the closer we got to the light, the louder the sound became.

Mitch pointed to the silhouette of a hornet busy building a home in the warm embrace of the light. “I think he’s building a house in there, Dad,” Mitch said with the tone of a detective. Mitch also knew that a generous spray of Windex on a bee sting helps take the pain away. Always prepared, he was a good little Scout.

“Should we dig it out?” I asked. Mitch furrowed his brow as if to weigh the options. “Let’s investigate.” He said. Mitch put his hands on his knees as he bent over as he looked more closely. “I don’t want to hurt them, but I’m afraid they’ll sting me.” Mitch was right – hornets can’t be domesticated, and all the benevolence in the world won’t change that. So, we carefully placed a net around the light and gently removed the growing nest. “Dad, will you put the nest in the secret forest? That way, they can make a home up there.”

With that, I ran to the top of our yard and gently placed the hornets’ nest at the foot of two large boulders – far from where the kids would ever play. The next morning Mitch asked if I’d check on the nest; all the hornets were gone. “Oh well, at least I’m safe now.”

At an early age, Mitch gained a healthy respect for the things that would hurt him. Because his muscles were weak, he was always prone to trip and fall; he lacked the coordination and strength to break his fall – so pain was often his companion. I was ever moved by Mitchell’s compassion toward insects and every living thing. He knew their nature – and while he didn’t want to hurt them, but he was wise enough to keep his distance.

Since losing Mitch, I’ve tried to emulate his kind-hearted way of being. Yet, we’ve encountered some hornets on our grief journey. Though difficult at times, I had to remind myself that “hurt people, hurt people.” Remembering that truth doesn’t make their sting hurt less – it only reminds me that sometimes the healthiest thing we can do for our mental health is to remove the hornets from our lives. Like Mitch, I didn’t want to hurt them – but I had to create safe distance so we could do the work of healing. Thankfully, there haven’t been many of them.

Even though we removed the aggressive hornets, we’ve experienced the sting of indifference from people close to us: the impatience that we haven’t ‘moved on’ (as though we could magically stop loving our child), the Monday-morning quarterbacks, the pious pontiffs, and the well-meaning but misinformed. As if grief isn’t tricky enough.

What Mitchell’s life has taught me is that strength comes through struggle – and we’re often better because of it. Perspective has become my Windex – and when I feel a sting from someone fumbling or someone mean, I apply it generously. At least for me, that’s the only way to be.