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As far back as I can remember, Natalie and I always enjoyed having people at our home; we enjoyed serving those we love a great meal, and we enjoyed good conversation even more. On this day, we had extended family over for a BBQ. It was a hot, muggy afternoon. The cousins were in the backyard playing on an inflatable water slide. Little Mitch didn't have a lot of muscle strength to do what the other kids were doing, so he stayed behind and wanted to be near me, which I loved.

I was busy preparing our meal on the grill. My tripod and camera were on-the-ready to capture any moment that caught my eye. Little Mitch asked if he could wear one of my favorite hats that had artificial grey hair sprouting in every direction from the top. At the time, I didn't have any grey hair, and it was one of my favorite hats. Since I've lost Mitch, I have grown quite a bit of grey hair, which to me, is a visible testament to the price we pay for grief and heartache.

Mitch always wanted to sit next to me at the grill. He'd sit on a stool and quietly talk to me about things on his mind. Sometimes he didn't say anything at all. He just wanted to be – and that's okay, too. Often, Mitch would make funny observations that were both insightful and witty.

I remember this summer afternoon so vividly. I also remember having a distinct impression this day that a terrible life storm was on the horizon and that darkness was near. I didn't understand that feeling at the time, but looking back, I can see it was my loving Father preparing me … in effect, warning me to make moments matter.

For almost 2 years following the death of Mitch, certain places in my home evoked the most tender feelings. Whenever I was at my grill, I'd instinctively look to my side, hoping to see little Mitch next to me, only to find emptiness. I'd burst into tears, and my heart would break all over again. For a season, all I saw was emptiness everywhere. I had an aversion to certain rooms in my home – for they reminded me of my absent son, and those places became a source of deep pain.

Over time, however, I knew I needed to create new memories in those empty places – to fill those voids with something of joy and happiness. It took time. Step by step, new memory by new memory, I began to replace that sense of profound emptiness with something new.

Part of my grief was magnified because I wanted to go home … you know, the home I once knew and loved. Yet everything stood as a testament that I was no longer home and could never go there again.

Author Thomas Wolfe wrote a book, You Can't Go Home Again (1940), which, among other things, describes how the passing of time prevents us from returning "home again." On at least one level, it is a brilliant meditation on life and making the most of the time we have.

On my grief journey, I had to learn that I could never go home again … at least to the home I once knew. That time before, with little Mitch, was my old home. Today is now, and that is where I've learned to live.

I chronicle my journey with Mitch here, not to fixate on yesteryear and on sorrow – but instead, I write my memories as though I were a weary traveler who discovered a treasure, a memory I wish to keep. I put it here for safekeeping.

Pain has been my teacher and has shown me how to appreciate my present. Whether through death or simply the passage of time, all that we have today will be different tomorrow.

--- UPDATE ---

Since I first posted this story, my daughter has graduated as a nurse and is married with two children. My oldest son Ethan is married and going to college in California, and my youngest, Wyatt, will graduate high school next year. We sold our home and almost everything we owned - in part, to step into the sacred practice of detachment (from things).

We live only a few miles from our old home. The truth is, I miss that place, not so much the place (even though it was lovely); I miss my little children who used to live there. However much I yearn to go home again, I will never be able to return to that place again. Even if we still lived there, it would be a different home than it once was.

Today, Natalie and I live in a different place, making new memories with our children and grandchildren. I carry the light of hope in one hand and a treasure chest of gratitude in the other. Somewhere, between my hands, my heart still carries a longing for home. A longing for what once was. That is grief.

Though grief is heavy and it hurts, it also teaches me. The home I used to have is forever gone. But I have today. And that's something. My grief has taught me that home isn't so much a place but a condition of the heart, and I intend to make the most of the home I have today.

Some moments in life burn an image into your mind with permanent ink – and some experiences are so hard to bear they change the shape of your soul. This was one such moment that broke and reshaped me in ways I'm still learning to understand.

My dear wife was dressing Mitch at the funeral home. Our mothers and oldest sisters were with us, each of whom played a unique and sacred role in Mitchell's life, and we wanted them to participate. Also, we were afraid of doing this alone.

Our once-little-baby had grown into a beautiful, funny, thoughtful, intelligent, and caring young boy. Yet, there he was, lying quietly on a table – motionless and frighteningly cold to the touch. My sweet wife, along with these other good women, reverently dressed Mitch in preparation for his funeral - where we would honor the good little boy that he was.

Natalie was doing okay until she got to the last button. Then, grief washed over her like a title wave, thrashing her about on the inside. This was the last button she would ever fasten for our son – and that broke her heart into infinite pieces of pain. I shattered, too.

I was a wreck that day. In fact, I was a wreck on the inside for many months afterward. Years actually, to learn how to put my broken pieces back together again. Even still, I carry a father's grief, and it is a terrible burden. Yet as much as I hurt on the inside, I know my wife hurts in ways I cannot imagine - for I am a simple man. She carried him, gave birth to him, and made sacrifices in ways only a mother can - and with that pain and sacrifice comes a unique fingerprint of love. A depth that is only earned by a mother's service and surrender. So, I consider her grief hallowed ground. I silence my own tears so that I might wipe hers and scoop up her shattered pieces for safekeeping. And when I can, I try to gather mine.

All too often, I hear people suggest "there is nothing like a mother's love" – in a manner that subordinates or dismisses the love of a father. In like manner, I hear less often the same of a father's love as being more than anything else. It's almost as if people claim one love is greater than the other. Nothing could be further yet closer to the truth at the same time. They are correct in saying there is nothing like a mother's love; in the same way, there is nothing like a father's love. Both are different; both are beautiful and uniquely sacred. But to suggest one is more significant or weightier than another ignores one immutable truth ... a mother and father are both parents and hurt deeply for the one they loved and lost. Maddeningly, some people are so focused on comparing grief they forget to simply honor it.

So, when I look at this photo, I set aside my sorrows and reverenced my wife's. I realized at this moment Natalie's pain was as unique to her as her relationship was with Mitch. Her love was beautiful, vast, and deep. Her grief was then and remains today hallowed ground.

I'll never forget this sacred, agonizing moment; under a canopy of soft light and even softer whispers, we were trembling at the last button.

It seems the hardest things in life are always the last thing: the final lap around the track – when your legs are about to collapse; the last conversation you will ever have with a loved one before they die; or just looking back on a squandered moment realizing, in retrospect, that was our last and wishing we were different.

Neal Maxwell, a man whose intellectual and spiritual insight I've long admired, once wrote, "We should certainly count our blessings, but we should also make our blessings count." I love that statement because it reminds me of the importance of putting our blessings to good use - otherwise, we are throwing our gifts away.

I've discovered that some of our most profound blessings are sometimes camouflaged in tragedy, pain, and despair – and they can remain forever hidden if we don't seek after them. And when we find that hidden treasure, we discover our torment has become our teacher.

This image, burned in my mind and heart, reminds me suffering is sacred.

Among the many blessings I've received in life, Mitch ranks among my sweetest and most sacred. To this day, when I button my own shirt, I remember Mitchell's last button. Sometimes I cry. But every single time, I vow to lift heavy hands and hearts and help soften the blow for others who face their last.

#mitchellsjourney #babiesmadeofsand

Mitch had passed a few hours prior, and we each spent sacred time saying goodbye to our boy. His body was beginning to change, and it was disturbing to see. I was frightened by the spectacle of it all. So, I called the funeral home and asked them to hurry. Soon, in the dark of winter, I’d hear a soft knock on our door that would usher a kind of trauma we weren’t prepared to experience.

The funeral home employees were kind and professional and went reverently about their work. They entered Mitchell’s room and slid a sheet under his body, then lifted my sweet boy onto a gurney, then strapped his body in. They covered his cold form with his blanket – not to keep him warm, but to show respect for a little boy who had gone too soon. I suppose they covered him, also, to soften the blow.

Natalie stood at the foot of Mitchell’s bed with a look of horror and disbelief on her face. Indeed, it was a horror show. In the long nights that would follow, my dear wife would weep and say, “I don’t want to live.” The long night of grief had just begun – and a long night it would be. As a husband and father, I scrambled to keep myself, my wife, and my children together.

In truth, I don’t need this photo to remind me of this horrible yet sacred event. The memory of this night is seared into my mind and soul – written in the most permanent of inks. I keep it, however, not to wallow in sorrow – but to stay sober about life. To stay centered in the heart and soul.

The other day I had lunch with an old friend and colleague. We talked for a while and covered a lot of ground. It isn’t my practice to speak of Mitch or grief with people unless they ask. But, somehow, our conversation turned toward Mitch, and we started to talk about life and loss. My friend had lost his sister many years ago, and though he grieved her loss, he didn’t understand the degree of sorrow his parents felt. He tried to understand – but until you experience it – it cannot be fully understood.

At one point in our conversation, I observed the spectators of grief – you know … the ones who, from the comfort of their own life, say things like, “Isn’t it time to get over it?” Or, “Just be glad you’ll see them again in the next life.” These, and a million platitudes like them, only cut deeper into tender wounds of the soul.

I said, “There is a kind of darkness one comes to know when they lose a child. And when you walk through that wilderness, you eventually come out the other side a different person. You change. Suddenly, the world is different. The pettiness of people and so much of what consumes society is both pedestrian and trivial. It’s like someone who knows only simple math is trying to tell you how to solve an abstract problem with theoretical physics. Suddenly, their level of understanding is elementary – and you are in graduate school, whether you’re ready or not.”

I went on to say that when I hear people talk of people ‘moving on,’ I want to say, “Okay, here’s a thought experiment. What if I told you to leave your young child (or grandchild) on the corner of a busy road and never look back? What’s more, you only have a few weeks to stop loving them – then, you must never feel after them. You must stop talking about them and act as if they never existed. Move on. Get over them. Impossible, right? Why? Because we love them – and that love is forever. So it is with grief. Yet, so often, grief feels a lot like love with nowhere to go – and it hurts to hold it in.”

We both had tears in our eyes. He could see my pain begin to surface, and he said, “I think I’m beginning to understand what my parents felt … and feel.” I smiled and told my friend that grief, like love, doesn’t end. Though our conversation was met with tender feelings – it was also healing and bridge-building. Talking helps. Remembering can be soul-soothing.

The death of a child is exactly similar to the birth of a child. It changes you forever. In the same way, your life is multiplied by their very existence; it is divided by their absence.

A grief remembered is only love trying to find its way.

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Our goal was to get him home as fast as we could. Mitch had days to live, but there were times at the hospital he was so animated, we wondered if the doctors misdiagnosed him. But, like a thief in the shadows, symptoms of heart failure would suddenly emerge and turn the happy boy we knew into someone distant. Someone very, very sick.

Just moments before this photo, Mitch was laughing. My sweet daughter, Laura-Ashley, made cupcakes to cheer him up. She handed one to him, but Mitch turned his head and said, "I'm not feeling well." In his heart, Mitch wanted to eat one – but at this moment, his world was being turned upside down.

I'll never forget meeting with a team of specialists as we were preparing to leave. Each took their turn, educating us on what to do under certain circumstances. If I thought taking a newborn baby home to live was overwhelming, I had no idea what it would feel like to take our baby home to die. The instructions were soul-crushing. If something medically scary happened, there was no ambulance to call, no future hospital visits to offer a glimmer of hope. Just a constant stream of medicine to erase from my son's mind oxygen hunger, morphine to whisk away the pain of organ failure, and other drugs to buy a little time.

The nutritionist was about to tell us what Mitch should eat; she paused as if to remember Mitch only had days, then said, "You know what, it doesn't matter. Let him eat whatever makes him happy." I nearly burst into tears as my heart fell to the floor, bleeding and writhing. Medicine had taken us as far as it could. Nature, faith, and fate were all that was left.

While Mitchell's physical heart was failing, his spiritual heart remained tender and teachable. As parents, our spiritual hearts were being tested. But then, a beautiful paradox emerged as our son became our teacher. If Mitch could face death with a humble heart, we could, too.

Some wonder (even criticize) why I return to these moments, detailing agony and trauma. As if to retraumatize myself with each story. What I've observed about trauma is that it's first like a rapidly spreading cancer, weaving its tendrils into our minds and hearts, then it lies dormant. Seemingly invisible. It feeds off inattention and misdirection. I believe trauma can be seen to some degree, but the bulk of its roots seem to live in the deeper parts of our psyche. As far as I can tell, trauma thrives in the unexamined shadows of our souls, unexplored and misunderstood. If left unattended, the ripple effects of trauma can turn into waves and disrupt us for the rest of our lives.

I visit these moments to discover and untangle trauma, removing its poisonous dripline, root by root. Is it uncomfortable? Of course. But so is dressing a deep wound. And with each time I apply the medicine of meaning, I heal a little. Sometimes a lot.

So why this moment? This moment taught me what being courageous looks like. Sometimes having courage looks like being sick, sad, or tired. Sometimes courage shows up as tears and overwhelming heartbreak. Fake courage puts on a mask and cape and pretends it doesn't hurt. True courage is admitting we're trembling at the knees while mustering the strength to take one more step. And if we don't have the strength for one more step – that's quite alright. We can rest a moment and take another step tomorrow.

Separate from pain, trauma will likely come to us all in one form or another. We may not be able to change our circumstances or avoid outcomes, but we can change what meaning those experiences have for us. And that's an act of courage, too.