Every time I saw Natalie comfort Mitch, I thought I witnessed the most beautiful scene in all the universe. It was the day before Halloween, and Mitch wanted to get on with life and not be stuck at the hospital. Mostly, he was excited to greet kids who knocked on the door and give them candy. Mitch was a tender giver.

So there we were. Mitch just received an echocardiogram. We were sitting with his cardiologist, who was trying to educate us on heart failure. With a light thump of a knuckle on the door, a technician slipped in to hand our cardiologist the results. He paused a moment to digest what was on the paper, then said, “May we speak privately?” Immediately, the already tender lump in my throat ballooned into a boulder. I could hardly swallow.

Laura-Ashley got up to take her brother on a gentle stroll in a wheelchair around the hospital. As the door shut, his already faint smile began to fade into a look of deep concern. “Things aren’t well,” he said with a pause. “A lot has changed since his echo in the spring.” As he began to describe how Mitchell’s heart function declined rapidly, he warned, “Your son is at risk of sudden death.”

Grief washed over me like a title wave. I stood still, doing my best to remain stoic and composed, but on the inside, I was thrashing about and gasping for breath. If I, being a simple father, felt that way – I imagined at that moment how much more my dear wife felt the title wave of grief. For she carried Mitch in the womb of her body and hearth of her heart; she had a connection to our child only mothers know. My heart went out to Mitch and my dear wife, for neither deserved what was before them. My soul yearned heavenward – bargaining to take their place.

About 20 minutes later, after talking about what to do, our daughter and son returned to the examination room – unaware of the new weight placed on our shoulders. My hands were shaking from fear and grief. We did our best to put on a brave face – but on the inside, my wife and I felt like children ourselves – very much in need of comfort. We were desperate to keep our broken boy’s body together while, at the same time, we were falling apart.

What I thought was breaking inside me that day didn’t compare to the shatter I experienced in the months and years that followed.

It’s been 8 years since losing our boy, and I have witnessed the breaking of myself, my wife, children, and others. Whether through death, disease, misfortune, or poor choices, not one of us is spared. Being mortal and flawed, we all break and then pay the price in one way or another.

Being broken can be so many things; it can be toxic, hateful, fearful, or humbling, tender, and beautiful. We all break, but what we do with our brokenness that matters. And it matters a lot. It seems there are two types of people in the world: those who are broken and those that admit it. I am eternally drawn to the people who admit it.

Niels Bohr (a fascinating philosopher and scientist) observed, “The opposite of one profound truth may very well be another profound truth.” On the deepest level, I agree. I often see that principle play out in the world of grief and brokenness. Yes, to break can be devastating, but it can also be beautiful. I can imagine how probably all of us have observed how some broken people tend to hurt other people, but we’ve probably also seen broken people become healers.

Mitch taught me what being broken and beautiful looks and feels like. When I grow up, I want to be just like him. As I continue to discover my own broken parts, which are many, Mitch taught me to focus more on purpose and less on the pain. And when I do that, love and empathy are what I gain.