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During Mitchell's last Christmas, he had two Secret Santa’s that did variations on the 12-days of Christmas. This quiet, daily act of love was performed by two caring neighborhood families, who to this day have remained anonymous.

I was humbled how they went out of their way to give Mitch a lift and offer a glimpse of hope and happiness to a little boy who was very sick and whose parents' hearts trembled with fear.

Each evening they placed a thoughtful package at our door addressed to our son with a thoughtful note and gift from the heart. I hesitate to show one photo (as seen here) because I don’t want either of these families to think their gifts were any less valued. The truth was, each night as Natalie and I went to bed we wept tears of gratitude for both anonymous families and we prayed that whoever was responsible for being so good to our son would be blessed 100-fold.

When I look back on my photos of Mitchell's last December & January I'm shocked sometimes to see how sick our son looked. Every day Mitch was getting sicker and weaker - but as I saw his reaction to these Secret Santa gifts he would bounce back a little and find new energy. Mitch loved the surprise but he loved the thoughtfulness even more so.

My sweet wife, ever the thoughtful giver, has also shown me over the years by her quiet example that gifts can be the instruments of our affection … a way of saying “I understand you” or “I care.” In the end, the gifts that last [the ones with the greatest impact] are never really about the objects we give each other but instead are found in the meaning behind them. A thoughtful gift is a gift twice.

I hope those who gave our son the gift of love and care know how much that meant to us – but even more, what it did for little Mitch. The photo on the right was Mitch on his last Christmas Eve. We were eating his favorite dinner but he wasn't feeling well. Looking back, knowing what we know now, he was experiencing end-stage heart failure.

I'll never forget how Mitch reached for my hand and asked in a quiet voice, “Dad, do you know who’s giving me those gifts?” I told him I didn't know but that I knew they loved him – otherwise they wouldn't have been so kind. He smiled softly and said, “I wish I could thank them.”

In honor of my son’s wishes to thank whoever gave those gifts, I want to thank you for him and hope you know that your gifts were a gift twice.

In fact, looking back, your gifts weren't just a gift twice, they were a gift thrice.

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A few years ago, I marveled at how gracefully my young daughter carried her younger brother on her back. The waves were too big for Mitchell’s weakened muscles, and earlier that day, Mitch privately confided to me, almost with a whisper, “Dad, I’m afraid of being swept into the sea.” Laura-Ashley, sensing Mitch wanted to play with her, offered to help him so he could experience the ocean in the safety of her arms. This image, this tiny moment in time, fills my eyes with tears of gratitude.

It feels like yesterday she was carrying Mitch on her back. Now, my sweet little girl carries a child of her own, and soon, Natalie and I will become grandparents. My heart is bursting with joy for my sweet daughter and her loving husband.

About 13 years ago, I started collecting children’s books for my future grandkids. I have since taken them out of storage and started practicing my dramatic readings and homemade sound effects. I can’t wait to read to them - and more than that, I can't wait to feel their little heartbeats as they fall asleep in my arms.

More recently, over the last few months, I’ve had a brooding impression that a grandchild might be near; so much so, I was pointing out little baby clothes to Natalie with a kind of dreamy anticipation of being a grandfather one day. It’s difficult to describe how excited I am to love and hold my future grandkids.

Laura-Ashley graduates from nursing school in April and is expecting in May. I’m proud of her on so many levels. She works in hospice, and I am humbled by how she serves her people: with dignity and respect, of course … but also with personality and authenticity. She has a unique relationship with each of them, and she becomes a bright part of their day. I remember what Mitchell’s hospice nurse meant to Natalie and me, and to see our daughter become that for others is humbling. There is so much to love about my not-so-little girl: I admire how Laura-Ashley makes friends everywhere she goes, I giggle over her unusual description of things, I cherish her adorable sense of humor, and I love her tender heart.

Nobody ever told me how being a dad would feel, and I wouldn’t trade this feeling for anything. Today, I’m overflowing with all the feels.

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Fall was almost in full swing when Natalie and I took our kids to a nearby park. We decided to visit one of the older parks, where the trees were mature, and blankets of earthy leaves covered the ground.

Mitch was known to do a funny, signature skip and hop when he was happy. I’ll share a video of that soon. Because his muscles were growing weaker each day, his happy skip became more uncoordinated and labored as time went on. That never stopped him from doing it, however. In fact, as his body grew weaker, his sense of happiness seemed to grow stronger. I always enjoyed watching him at the park; sometimes, in the distance, Mitch would have a conversation with himself, then suddenly it was as though he was struck by a bolt of joy and he began skipping out of the blue.

On this occasion, when Mitch tried to skip, his legs gave out, and he fell. Ethan, his older brother, quickly reached down to see if Mitch was okay and offered to help him up. My heart swelled with gratitude for my family and the lessons of love and service my children continually taught me. At that moment, I was overcome with an impression that despite the hardship our family was facing, Heaven was using that experience to help shape us – not just Mitch, but all of us.

Over the last few years, I’ve watched my surviving children cope with grief in their own, unique way. It has been a difficult and sometimes dark, treacherous journey. I don’t write about those experiences because I respect my children’s privacy – but I will say, it hasn’t been easy. Sometimes the grief journey was made more difficult by outsiders meddling, other times our grief was made complicated by inexperienced psychologists, forever shutting the door of a young mind in need of that kind of help.

In my book, which will be completed soon, I share some of the challenges we faced and what we learned because of it. I hope it helps others who navigate their journey with loss as we share a kind of “if we could do [certain things] over, we’d do this differently” observations.

I wish weren’t so, but our troubles after Mitch passed were just beginning, and we had to navigate a labyrinth of issues that were as complex as they were bewildering. During that difficult time, I remembered F. Scott Fitzgerald's observation on the difference between trouble and discouragement, “Trouble has no necessary connection with discouragement. Discouragement has a germ of its own, as different from trouble as arthritis is different from a stiff joint.”

I am certainly not immune to discouragement – and sometimes trouble stirs those feelings up. But when I remember Mitch, who never let his troubles make him feel discouraged, I’m reminded to step back and recognize that trouble is only temporary. Discouragement, if not managed, can become a chronic condition.

As I consider this tender moment between little brothers – I’m reminded that no matter my troubles, I can step back and find gratitude for something. In fact, I can find gratitude for many things. Anymore, I’m beginning to see that it’s not trouble that weighs us down … it’s discouragement.

I can’t do much about trouble, but I can find ways to rise above it and be grateful for life.

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For those who don’t know, Mitchell’s dog Marlie, whom he received only a few weeks before he passed away, has been a tender blessing to our our son during his last few weeks. I’ll never forget how she comforted him the day/night he passed away. I’ll share a post about that tender exchange soon.

Ever since Mitch passed away, Marlie has been a curious comfort to us. About a week ago, just a few days before Christmas, she had her first set of puppies. These little pups have grown so much in the last week. Mitch would be thrilled to see his little grand doggies.

Our family continues to heal - every person in their own way, and on their own sacred time. Marlie has become something of an echo of Mitchell’s love and affection. Though a dog is not the same as a son, Marlie occupies a healing place in our hearts.

These little pups are tiny tender mercies and we are so grateful for them. We’ll only have them for the next few weeks, until we find a loving home for them. I share this photo from tonight to gladden a trembling soul or lift a heavy heart.

May 2020 be kind to us all, and may we find healing in tiny tender mercies, wherever we find them. 🙏🏼