Not to be confused with the amazing 1980 hit “Joy and Pain” by Maze featuring Frankie Beverly. You young ones, look it up. You’re welcome.
The song compares joy and pain to sunshine and rain and reminds us that sorrow and endurance are part of life: “where there’s a flower there’s the sun and the rain.” I’ve always loved it. This week, the title felt especially personal.
Monday morning, I woke up to a few texts from Matthew’s circle. They all carried the same message: remembering him two months after his passing.
Sunday, October 25, had marked exactly two months.
And I had missed the date.
Sunday had been a pretty normal day. Honey-dos around the house, then pickleball that evening with the Men’s Fellowship Sunday Pickleball Group.
I know what some of you are asking. “Kevin, what about church?”
Yes, we went Saturday night to our normal service at The Bridge at White’s Chapel. And while I have your attention, I’m serving as head usher, and we need more volunteers. If you attend, consider this your invitation to help.
Okay, back to my point.
By Monday morning, I felt horrible. I had also gotten the day wrong for Macie and Hayden’s anniversary. I thought it was Saturday. It was Sunday, too.
Somehow, missing those dates turned into something much bigger in my head. It felt like I had forgotten Matthew and disappointed Macie all at the same time.
Even writing that now, I know there is a difference. There isn’t a day I don’t think about my son. But guilt doesn’t always stop to check the facts.
The night before, I had gone to bed at 8 p.m., which is unusual for me. Jennifer even asked, “You know it’s only eight, right?” That doesn’t mean I slept through the night. I didn’t. Looking back, I wonder whether the weight of that day was on my heart before I had put a date to it.
I texted Macie early Monday morning. She reminded me that Matthew wouldn’t want me to be upset with myself or feel that way.
She was right. I could practically hear him agreeing with her.
Still, knowing that and shaking the feeling were two different things.
At lunch, while doing a little doomscrolling and still in a funk, I came across a Facebook group called “Missing My Son in Heaven.” I thought, “Well, what will it hurt to join?”
So I did.
The administrators suggested making an introductory post. I usually skip that sort of thing, but something led me to write one.
Hi all! I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m Kevin Mitchell. My wife, Jennifer, and I lost our son, Matthew, on August 25, 2026, at just 22 years old after an 18-month battle with brain cancer. We are still learning how to navigate life without him, one day at a time. My faith helps carry me, but the grief is heavy. I’m grateful to find a group of people who understand the heartbreak of losing a child.
The photo is of a happy day when his cancer was in remission and he was celebrating graduating with his master’s degree from Texas Tech. He battled cancer and finished his undergraduate degree, then finished his master’s 12 months later, all while undergoing treatment. ❤️🖤
Monday afternoon, Jennifer told me she had found a Facebook group called “Missing My Son in Heaven.”
“I know,” I told her. “I found it, too. I even made a post.”
So had she.
Neither of us knew the other had joined.
I expected a few welcomes, some likes, a comment or two, maybe some praying-hands emojis. By the end of the day, our posts had received more than 5,000 reactions and over 1,000 comments combined. UPDATE – over 10,000 and rising !!!
Those numbers tell you how many people responded. What stayed with us was what they said.
Again and again, people commented on the joy in Matthew’s face. His happiness. His smile.
People who had never met our son could see something Jennifer and I had known all his life.
Matthew had joy.
One comment put into words something that really struck me. Looking at Matthew’s graduation picture, she said, “Outsiders would never know that he is fighting cancer in that picture.” She recognized how hard he had fought to graduate and how much that happy occasion meant.
That stopped me for a moment. People who never knew Matthew look at that picture and see his smile, his accomplishment, and his joy. They don’t see the treatments, the fear, the exhaustion, or the pain he was carrying to get there.
Jennifer and I knew what was happening behind that smile. We saw the pain, uncertainty and fear. But what a gift that, even in the middle of all of it, Matthew’s joy was what others could see. That is joy and pain, existing together in one photograph.
Jose shared another comment that stayed with me: “Kevin, you and your wife can be proud of what Matthew accomplished while going through cancer treatment. He didn’t give up on life but proved to himself and to everyone around him that he was living with cancer and not dying from cancer. There is a difference.”
That is where you all helped take this week’s writing. I had been struggling to find the words, and then your comments gave me something to sit with.
The Bible describes a joy that goes deeper than a good day or an easy life.
Psalm 16:11 says, “In your presence there is fullness of joy.”
When I think about Matthew, especially as he grew older and faced his hardest battles, that verse means a great deal to me. I believe his faith helped sustain the joy we could still see in him.
He was going through things no 22-year-old should have to face. We knew the fear and pain were real. And there he was in those photographs, smiling in a way that reached people who had never even heard his name.
A gentle reminder to all of us: what we see on the outside is only a small part of someone’s story. We see a moment, an expression, or hear a tone of voice—but we don’t always see the heartache behind it.
We never truly know the battles someone is fighting or the pain they are carrying. Someone can smile while their heart is breaking. They can show up for work, run errands, or sit down for dinner while quietly wondering how they will make it through another day.
That person who seems rude at the store or short with you at a restaurant may have just received a cancer diagnosis. They may have lost someone they love. They may be caring for a sick family member, facing financial struggles, or carrying grief they cannot put into words.
Their pain may be something we know nothing about.
The Bible reminds us:
“A soft answer turneth away wrath: but grievous words stir up anger.” — Proverbs 15:1
When someone speaks harshly, our first reaction can be to respond with the same tone. But I encourage you—and remind myself—to pause. Take a breath. Give them a little room to be human. We don’t have to understand everything someone is going through to treat them with compassion.
“And be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ’s sake hath forgiven you.” — Ephesians 4:32
God has shown each of us grace in moments when we were hurting, overwhelmed, impatient, or falling short. We have an opportunity to extend that same grace to the people He places in our path.
Sometimes that looks like a gentle answer. Sometimes it means listening without judging. Sometimes it is simply choosing to say, “I hope your day gets better,” and meaning it.
“Bear ye one another’s burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ.” — Galatians 6:2
We cannot fix every burden, and we cannot take away every hurt. But we can help someone feel less alone. A small act of kindness may mean far more than we will ever realize.
Before we judge someone by one difficult moment, let’s remember that we are seeing only a moment—not their whole life. Let’s be patient with one another. Let’s pray for the people we struggle to understand. And let’s ask God to help us see them with compassion.
You may never know what your kindness meant to someone who was barely holding on.
I do know this: kindness always wins. Choose patience. Offer compassion. Show them the grace of God. ❤️
As we read the comments, we also read about other sons. Brain cancer. Motorcycle accidents. Car wrecks. Families whose lives had changed in a moment, and families who had spent months watching someone they loved fight to stay.
It was heartbreaking—and truly alarming—to read how many families shared stories of sons, from their teenage years into their mid-twenties, who had been diagnosed with brain cancer and ultimately lost their lives. Others shared stories of sons taken in car wrecks or motorcycle accidents.
Behind every comment was a son deeply loved. A family forever changed. A lifetime of hopes, plans, and everyday moments they thought they would still have together.
We found ourselves reading their words and recognizing the pain behind them. The circumstances were different, but the longing was familiar: to hear his voice, to hug him again, to have one more ordinary day together.
Reading those stories leaves me asking: WHY? Why are these young people facing such devastating diagnoses? What causes these tumors? Are there environmental exposures or other factors we still don’t understand?
I don’t have the answers. But families deserve answers grounded in careful research, and we need greater urgency in finding them.
According to the National Cancer Institute, brain and other central nervous system tumors are the second leading cause of cancer-related death among people ages 15–39. That is a devastating reality that deserves far more attention. Unfortunately, this is a growing statistic and will soon be the #1 , which is not a good thing for a terminal disease.
We need more research into causes, better treatments, and cures for the aggressive cancers that continue to take young lives. We need to support the researchers doing this work and the families living through it. I am proud that Matthew accepted the challenge and agreed to be one of only 20 in the world to try a drug, our prayer that his sacrifice will lead to a cure one day.
We must wake up to what these families are enduring. These are our sons and daughters, our brothers and sisters, our friends—and their futures matter.
For us, this will always be personal. We miss Matthew every day. And every family sharing their story is missing someone just as deeply loved. ❤️
Every story belonged to someone who was deeply missed. These parents understood the weight behind our introduction because they were carrying their own.
One dad shared how, a year after losing his son, he was beginning to see his life through the blessing of having had him: the joy he brought his parents, his brothers, and everyone who knew him. He also shared words his mother had used on the anniversary of his passing:
“I haven’t gone anywhere. I’ve gone everywhere.”
I’ve been thinking about those words. About the ways our sons’ lives keep reaching people through memories, stories, and the love we share when we speak their names.
A Little Joy in the Middle of the Pain
Just when you think the pain is going to win the day, God has a way of reminding you that joy is still out there.
Jennifer recently received a comment on Facebook from a woman we had never met. Her niece, Anna, had been friends with Matthew at Texas Tech. She shared that her 17-year-old son had been battling osteosarcoma, a form of bone cancer.
During his own battle with cancer, Matthew had taken the time to write this young man a letter. He shared his own journey and offered words of encouragement to someone fighting a similar battle.
We had absolutely no idea Matthew had done this.
Think about that for a minute.
Here was our son, fighting for his own life, dealing with more than any 22-year-old should ever have to endure, and he was taking the time to encourage another young man fighting cancer.
The mother described it as “the absolute kindest letter” and said her family would always be grateful for Matthew’s act of kindness.
And somehow, of all the people on Facebook, Jennifer’s post appeared in this woman’s feed.
When Jennifer shared the comment with me, I experienced something I am learning happens more often than I ever expected.
I smiled. I felt proud. I felt joy.
And then I cried…. Due to my “allergies”…
Not necessarily in that order, either.
Coincidence? Maybe. But I choose to believe God had a hand in that one. I know God urged this lady to share this story to remind Jennfier and I of the amazing son we raised. He made a difference every day. The “God Wink’s” as Jennifer calls them keep us moving forward each day.
That’s joy and pain. Right there in the same moment.
The pain of knowing Matthew isn’t here to tell us that story himself. The joy of discovering that his kindness continues to touch lives, including people we never knew existed.
As parents, we all hope we raised our children to be good people. To care about others. To make a difference.
And every once in a while, even after they’re gone, we get a little reminder that maybe we did something right.
Matthew, you continue to make us proud.
And to that sweet mother who took the time to share her story, thank you. You gave two grieving parents a moment of joy that you probably never imagined you could give.
And then there was another comment, this one from a young woman. She wasn’t even a member of the group, and she had never met Matthew. Somehow, the post had appeared in her Facebook feed, too.
She shared that she had heard Matthew’s story from several people in her church community. She described the way others spoke about his character, his strength, his courage, and his faithfulness through the unknown.
What really stopped me was something she wrote near the end: “You raised an incredible man, and I hope you know that his life continues to make a difference in ways you may never fully see.”
That is a lot for a dad to take in. Someone who never met our son was telling us that his life had reached her through the people who knew him. Once again, I felt the joy of being Matthew’s dad and the pain of missing him, all at the same time.
I keep thinking about both of these messages. One came from a family Matthew had personally encouraged while he was fighting cancer himself. The other came from someone who knew him only through the stories people shared. Two different connections, and both reminded Jennifer and me that the good Matthew put into this world is still moving through it.
Sometimes joy doesn’t take away the pain. Sometimes it simply reminds us that love is still bigger than the pain.
Another comment reminded me how encouragement can come full circle. We reach out, share a little of ourselves, and discover how much we needed the kindness someone offers in return. I believe God works through people that way.
The Bible makes room for our pain, too. Psalm 34:18 says, “The LORD is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.”
I’m grateful that verse doesn’t require me to have a good day first. I can bring God the guilt, the questions, the sleepless nights, and the tears.
There is no schedule I can follow that will make all of this easier. Some days I can play pickleball and enjoy the people around me. Other days, a date on the calendar can leave me struggling. Sometimes those days are right next to each other.
One person posted the following:
There is no timeline and no “right” way to grieve. Some days will feel heavy, and others will feel lighter. Some moments will bring unexpected waves of sadness, while others will bring gratitude for the love you were blessed to experience.
Honor your grief. It reflects the depth of your love. In time, healing may come as you learn to carry both love and loss together, with room for the memories, the tears, and moments of joy. [Attribution: Unknown]
I’m learning to give myself a little grace in that.
Missing the date did not mean I had forgotten Matthew. Enjoying Sunday did not mean I loved him any less.
And when I look at that graduation photo, I can feel the ache of missing him and the joy of being his dad at the same time.
This week, strangers helped me see that again. Thank you for looking at our son’s smile and telling us what you saw.
Joy and pain. I’m still learning how to carry both.
