A Conversation with J. Mitchell

 

Brittney Wright:

You often talk about faith, intuition, and creativity shaping your work. Was there ever a moment outside of filmmaking that really captured that for you?

 

J. Mitchell:

Honestly… yeah. It came in the form of a tiny white lion.

 

She was a puppy — but she was so much more than that.

 

I always wanted a baby white lion cub.

 

The only problem with that dream is that white lion cubs are illegal—and even if they weren’t, they grow up fast. One day you’ve got a cute little cub, and the next, you’re sharing a living room with the King of the Jungle. So when the ladies of my household asked for a puppy, I was completely against the idea of pets altogether. I didn’t want the responsibility. I didn’t want the cleanup. I didn’t want any of it.

 

They, on the other hand, were relentless.

 

They promised—confidently—that they were ready. That they’d handle everything. After months of resistance, I finally agreed to at least explore the possibility. We searched for a while before getting word about a small Maltese–poodle mix—exactly what they were looking for. A lap dog.

 

When we went to see them, I was caught off guard.

 

There were three of them, almost identical—tiny, fluffy, and white. They looked like miniature lion cubs. Suddenly, my childhood fantasy didn’t seem so far-fetched after all. The only problem now was choosing one.

 

I leaned into my intuition and silently asked God for wisdom. But before I could get clarity, my little one had already picked up a puppy and formed an instant bond. The decision was being made without me—and while I wasn’t fully settled, I accepted it because it was her choice.

 

We purchased the puppy, but something didn’t sit right with me.

 

I realized I hadn’t heard God’s voice in the decision. And almost immediately, the puppy began to whimper—like she was homesick, like she didn’t belong. A few blocks down the road, I asked my lady to pull over. I knew in my spirit: this isn’t our dog.

 

We called the breeder and turned around.

 

That’s when something unforgettable happened.

 

As we pulled back up, the breeder was already outside—holding up another puppy in the air, almost ceremoniously. It looked exactly like a white lion cub. It reminded me of that iconic moment in The Lion King when Simba is lifted to the sky.

 

I knew instantly.

 

That was our cub.

 

She didn’t whimper once. She carried a calm, natural sense of belonging. We took her home, and the next task was naming her. I already knew the name God had given me—but I wanted everyone involved. So I said, “Let’s take a week. Throw out all the names you can think of.”

 

They suggested names like Magic, Princess, Royalty—everything regal.

 

After a week, I finally said, “What about Jazmyn?”

 

She was white like a jasmine flower. The name carried elegance, softness, and strength. It fit every title they were reaching for—and more importantly, she responded to it immediately, like she had always known her name.

 

Years later, we lost Jazmyn on the Fourth of July.

 

The fireworks made her uneasy, and thinking I could help, I took her outside so she could see the colors—hoping it would calm her. Unfortunately, it was the grand finale. The loudest, brightest, most explosive moment of the night.

 

Jazmyn thought we were under attack.

 

She jumped off the porch and ran straight toward the chaos. All I saw was a flash of white lightning and smoke. For something so small, she had the heart of a lion. She vanished in seconds, chasing what she thought was a threat.

 

I searched everywhere. Everyone else was out of town, leaving me with the painful task of explaining that Jazmyn was gone. Months passed. We held onto a little faith, but hope was fading.

 

Then we got a message.

 

Someone thought they had found her at the pound. When I went down there, the story changed. Emotions ran high—I was hurt, angry, and protective. Once I saw the photo, I realized it wasn’t her. I apologized for my reaction and even paid for their lunch the next day—but the truth remained: Jazzy was still missing.

 

That’s when wisdom kicked in.

 

We put up flyers at vet clinics, and—prompted by faith—we added one small but crucial detail: She responds to the name Jazmyn or Jazzy.

 

That’s how we got her back.

 

By her name.

 

And today, Jazmyn isn’t just family — she’s one of the biggest little stars in The Ace of Fadez.

 

Her presence in the film isn’t just a cameo. It’s a reflection of the movie itself — gritty, soulful, unexpected, and guided by faith. Just like her story, The Ace of Fadez was built on intuition, trust, and the courage to follow what didn’t always make sense to others.

 

Some stories aren’t written.

They’re lived.

 

And sometimes, they come back to you — when you call them by name.