LIVING MEMORIALS

Tonight I took Ethan to his old elementary school. We wanted to see the tree planted in his brother's memory. There used to be a brick at the foot of the tree with an inscription in honor of Mitch. It's gone now, and the tree is more mature than the near sapling the school planted 7 years ago. It blends in among the others. Inconspicuous. Ordinary. It's purpose and meaning all but forgotten to a passerby.

That is to be expected, I suppose, for that is the way of things. We all live for a small moment, and then we die, and soon our story fades softly into the background of an ever noisy now.

I used to visit this little place, overwhelmed with emotion. Today my heart was as calm as a zen garden. I was grateful for this memorial while it lasted. It counted. It meant something to my family and me, and we are thankful to everyone who made this happen. Now it's purpose has been fulfilled and it can just be beautiful for the remainder of its days.

After we spent a moment at Mitchell's tree, I asked Ethan to take me around the school and share his memories as a young boy. He pointed to the jungle gyms he climbed and the classrooms he attended. He even looked to the ground at a hopscotch print on the asphalt and said, "those used to be much bigger." We both laughed.

As we walked around the corner of the school, near the cafeteria, I remembered Mitchell's school aide telling me Ethan would visit him every single day while he was having lunch and give him a hug. I know that meant a lot to Mitchell. Ethan was both loving and kind to his little brother.

As we made our way to the front of the school, our conversation had become a potpourri of memories and feelings. All of them beautiful and peaceful.

Our last stop was a small fenced-in area for preschoolers. That was where Ethan first attended that school. We stopped and talked about his memories, and my eyes welled with tears. There before me was my tiny boy-turned-man. I was so proud of the person he has become.

The longer I travel down my grief journey, I worry less about the physical monuments we create and more about the living memorials we become. After all, memorials almost never change lives. But the people around us do.

I do not care if people remember this tree and why it was planted. In many ways, I'm not so worried if people even remember my little boy's name in the years to come. But I hope the awakening, the deeper empathy, the habit of pausing to be in the moment, and the impulse to find gratitude echoes in the lives of people for generations.

What good are tears if they do not soften our hearts to love others more deeply? What good are heavy burdens if we do not allow them to make us stronger? Pain, though tender, is life's deepest teacher. These things can shape us into living memorials - so our lives become an echo of grace, gratitude, and goodness. To be an echo and a light, that is my hope for the remainder of my life.