Time is a slippery thing. One minute you think you have heaps of it, then on a Tuesday, you look back and wonder where it all went. Or, in my case, tragedy struck, and I was left dizzy with grief, wondering how I made the most of the ten years I had with my son.

At this moment, we were rushing Mitch to the ER. About an hour earlier, his stomach was writhing so much Mitch nearly passed out. I had never seen a child in so much pain.

Mitch rolled the window down a bit and hung his hand on the glass. He had a look on his face that was so very far away. I wondered what he was thinking. When I asked him, Mitch said softly, “Not now. I’m thinking.” To this day and forever, I’ll wonder what he was thinking.

A deep fog was rolling across the valley, and by the time we reached the hospital, we couldn’t see much of anything – which felt like a living metaphor. This photo nearly marked the beginning of Mitchell’s end.

“While we wait for life, life passes.” Lucius Seneca, a Stoic philosopher, said that about 2,000 years ago. Two thousand years ago. It would have been neat to know that 20 years ago, when I was a young father trying to find my place in the universe.

However much I tried to be in the moment as a husband and father, I failed more than I succeeded. Sometimes my heart is heavy over my countless moments of inattention, distraction, and procrastination; in my own deep work with grief and healing, I’ve learned how to turn regret into resolve. I can’t fix the past, but I can be in the present – and that will heal an otherwise painful future.

I don’t mean to sound so dramatic – as though everything is monumental. At least for me, being present has taken on a more hopeful meaning. How many of us have thought to record the voice of our little ones and said to ourselves, “Great idea, but I’ll do it later,” only to realize four years have passed and that tiny, helium-filled voice is deeper and more mature? It seems that even when we recognize THAT, we put it off. Then suddenly, our kids become adults, and those opportunities are irretrievable.

Whether we’re losing our loved ones to death or time, it’s the same. You will never have now again. We only have this moment – and what we do with it matters. This isn’t an original idea – but the realization (the awakening to it) is a revelation we’ll all have – hopefully sooner than later. At the deepest level, it seems like only the dying are the ones that awaken to how precious time is – and for the rest of us, we draw from an invisible bank account, never knowing the balance.

Time is a fast-moving river. We don’t often realize how fast it’s moving because we exist in the river of time – in the same way, you can be sitting in a car going 85 mph and not sense that you’re moving. In the same way, we don’t realize we live on a planet that’s spinning about 1,000 per hour, and when we lay our head down to sleep, we’re orbiting the sun at an average speed of 67,000 miles per hour (that 18.5 miles per second). Even still, our solar system is orbiting the galaxy at about 490,000 miles per hour, and the galaxy in which you now live is moving at about 1.3 million miles per hour into the immensity of space. Mitch loved stuff like this, and we talked about it often.

The point is we have no real sense of how fast things are moving … including time. For that reason, I’ve found it helpful to remember that it’s always later than you think. That invisible bank account from which you draw your minutes and hours is finite. One day your account will be empty. You’ll marvel at how fast it went, wonder where you spent it, treasure where you invested it, wince where you squandered it, and wish you had more of it. The prayer of the dying is almost always, “I wish I had more time.”

So, just a few weeks after I took this photo, I found myself kneeling by Mitchell’s side – the candle of life flickering out before my eyes. I’ll never forget how I was awakened by a force unseen. I was sleeping on the floor next to him. I was so tired. Then, suddenly I was wide awake as though someone shook me. I had an impression that felt like an emergency. I knew at that moment I needed to tuck Mitch in. I placed my hand gently on his chest, his heart barely fluttering. I told him I was so proud of him and wanted to be like him when I grew up. I still do. I told Mitch he could go when he was ready and that his mother and I would miss him, but that we would be okay. I whispered other sacred words, father to son. I kissed his face pulled his blanket around his shoulders just how he liked it. Although his body and senses were all but shut down, and what I did and set probably felt like a distant dream, I think he was hanging on for permission to go. I believe he heard me and felt my love for him. That was my last act of love.

Thirty minutes later, he was gone.

That thing you need to do. The words you need to say. That love you need to show.

Do the thing. It’s later than you think.

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Parenthood has been the most difficult yet rewarding experience of my life. I wish I could say I did it perfectly, but I didn’t … and I don’t. Nobody really does. Anymore, I don’t try to be the perfect parent … I just try to be loving and kind … to be the father and mentor I wish I had growing up. It is difficult at times because I don’t know what to emulate – so I just try to be what I never had. I try to be what I wish I had, and that’s the best know to do.

At the end of my days, when I kneel before my Father and account for my life, I hope He looks upon my efforts in the same way I try to look upon my children … with a heart of compassion, pleased with the effort and personal growth over the illusory achievement of perfection.

When Mitch came home with a drawing or school assignment, I was always so proud of how hard he tried. I would hug him and kiss his face and tell him, “Great job, son. I’m so proud of you. Keep trying, and you’ll better and better.” Always, there were imperfections in his drawings … but for him, he did it perfectly. Perfection is a relative term, for he was a young child and did the work of a young child. I didn’t care about flawless execution … at his age, I wanted him to be recognized for doing a little better than the time before. I wanted him to believe in himself and be proud of his accomplishments. As far as I can tell, belief-in-self is the bedrock of education and the scaffolding of character. At the same time, I am a strong believer in providing corrective feedback to know where to stretch ourselves the next time. But, always, offering my children earned praise is high on my list of to-dos as a father.

On this occasion, my neighbor and friend, Jeff Winegar, offered to take our family to Snowbird so Mitch could participate in an adaptive sports program for kids with disabilities. Mitch was nervous about it because he knew he wasn’t very strong and that what little strength he did have would dissipate quickly. “What if I fall, Dad?” Mitch would ask me nervously. I assured him he wouldn’t be required to do anything for which he didn’t have the strength and that they had something special for him to be safe and have fun. Mitch sat in a small carriage attached to two skis. Behind him were two purple tethers, which allowed an adult to ski behind Mitch and control his speed down the mountain. All Mitch needed to do was lean right or left as he decided where he wanted to ski down the mountainside.

I asked my friend Jeff to be on a tether while I skied backward to take a million photos of my son. I loved looking at Mitchell’s expressions of glee as the cold wind rushed against his rose-colored cheeks. At first, I saw an expression that seemed to say, “This isn’t so bad. I’m not scared anymore.” Then later, his face seemed to say, “I’ve got this! I can do it!” I was so proud of Mitch and overwhelmed with gratitude as I saw my son’s countenance filled with a new form of self-confidence. He couldn’t race down the mountain like an Olympian, nor was he required to, but he could bravely face the steep slopes and do what he could, with the heart of an Olympian. That is winning, too.

I remember kneeling in prayer that night, thanking my Father for giving my son such a great experience. I also thanked Him for giving me the blessing of children - a gift for which I'm eternally grateful. Because of Mitch, I try to grow a little on the inside each day, just like he tried. If I color a little outside the lines, I recognize it and try to do better next time.

Maybe that’s the point of it all … to get better a little on the inside each time. Musicians do it, athletes do it, academics do it … nobody achieves greatness in an instant … but through getting a little better each time. And those who have mastered their craft will each say it comes from within. It always comes from within. Each day. A little on the inside.

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HELP ME NOT FALL
"Dad, will you hold my hand? Will you help me not fall?" Mitch said with a sweet, soft voice. I reached out to hold his hand as Mitch leaned down and reached into the crystal clear waters that flowed from a natural hot spring. "It's like a bath! Do you think I could swim in it?" Mitch was fascinated that nature could produce such bathy warm water, for until this moment, he only knew the icy streams that came from snowmelt.

We were at a father's & son's campout, and I was so excited to spend time with my boys. We played Frisbee on the grass and cooked our famous tin foil dinners and were the envy of every camper who could smell the magical meal cooking slowly in the glowing embers. Mitch loved my special recipe.

Later that evening, we would find ourselves huddled in our family tent, listening to a torrential downpour, exhilarated by the constant clash of thunder that boomed right above our heads. Mitch snuggled into me with his sleeping bag as I wrapped my arm around him and held him tight. Little Wyatt sat on my other side, lovingly held by my other arm. Ethan bravely sat with a smile and listened to the rain pound the walls of our tent, ready to pack up on a moment's notice were we to flood.

We made it through the night dry and un-drenched. I am grateful for those moments with my family. If I have a regret in life, it is that I didn't have enough of them. I did my best, but I wish I would have done more.

I often think back on this moment when Mitch asked for help to do something other children could have done with ease. His muscles were weak, and his balance always precarious. The slightest bump from someone could send him crashing to the ground. Often, Mitchie's plea was, "Help me not fall." Every time he said that I was reminded of everything I ever for granted.

Those words "help me not fall" will echo in my mind forever. As his father, I didn't want Mitch to fall and hurt himself; yet at the same time, I didn't want to rob my son the opportunity to do things on his own. Therein lies the delicate parental balance … to help enough to enable growth but not enough to rob it.

When I look back on my life then and now, it doesn't take much to recognize my spiritual Father is doing the same thing with me. His hand is often out of view, and if I'm not mindful, I go about my busy life, unaware of His helping hand.

Yet, every time I kneel and ask my Father to "help me not fall," I get a distinct impression that He is not only there … but that He has always been there – helping me just enough to enable growth, but never enough to rob it.

At least on some level, being a Father myself, I think I understand now; and I wouldn't have it any other way.

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Tucked away in a quiet corner of my home, deep in the shadows of a bookshelf, is a mold of my son gently holding my hand. This artifact is as close to seeing Mitch in physical form as I’ll ever see again in mortality. It's hidden from view, not because it isn’t special – but precisely because it is. I keep it tucked away so it can be safe from unintended harm.

This mold was taken just before Mitch came home from the hospital on hospice. If you look carefully, you’ll see a puncture wound, in the form of a small bump, on the back of Mitchell’s hand. It is just above his wrist, bearing a mark from an IV that had recently been removed. Were you to see this in person, the detail is breathtaking. Every bump, every little flaw, every little part that made him so beautifully human, was captured and preserved. Natalie has something similar with Mitch – except in that mold, a Band-Aid covers his IV wound, which makes it even more tender and unique.

“I discovered sometimes you can’t make sense of suffering, but you can make peace with pain. When that happens, it’s not that you stop hurting; you simply learn to live with longing. ”

— Christopher M. Jones | Mitchell's Journey

At the time these molds were taken, Mitch didn’t know the doctors said he had days to live – and I’m pretty sure he just thought mom and dad were being weird. But then again, it always seemed he knew more than he let on. He not only had a look of knowing in his countenance, but he would also say things from time to time that revealed how deeply perceptive he was.

When I look at this life-size statue of my son and me holding hands, I see several conversations at once. First, a whisper between a father and his little boy, “I love you, son, so very much.” Then, “I love you, too, Dad. I know you’ll keep me safe.” At the same time, because I knew my son’s deadly secret, I see a one-way narrative, “Sweet boy, we’re almost out of time. Let me hold you before it’s too late – for tomorrow, I will miss you forever.”

The final unspoken narrative, at least to me, is symbolic of two souls drowning in a sea of trouble.

At least to me, this statue with my son contains a deeper metaphor; that of two drowning souls trying to comfort each other in their hour of need. As Mitchell’s life was being swallowed up by the sea, I felt like we were both drowning, only differently, me in grief and Mitch to biology.

My wife and I knew what was about to happen, and we felt like we were drowning in grief. Yet, we didn’t know how deep and dark those waters would soon become. As terrifying as grief was at the time, we were still splashing in the shallow end of sorrow. Deep grief would eventually come, years after the loss of Mitch.

Before I knew it, little Mitch was gone, and my wife and I were left feeling empty.

A few months later, the board of a company I was running pitched in and sent our family to Hawaii to get away and perhaps heal a little.

One night, while my family and I were on the shore, I took a photo of the sunset (seen in this image) and wrote the words, “Good night, little Mitch. You are always on my mind. And while I know you're not lost at sea, sometimes in my heart, you may as well be.” Then, Mark Allen, a thoughtful and inspired friend, commented on my post: “Consider him your lighthouse now... so you can make it back home...” I was grateful for his words of compassion and faith.

I’ve spent the last 7 years gathering up my broken pieces, healing one grief moment at a time. I’ve felt my way through the darkest shadows of death and tried to make sense of suffering. I discovered that sometimes you can’t make sense of suffering, but you can make peace with pain. When that happens, it’s not that you stop hurting; you simply learn to live with longing.

I still miss my boy. I think about him every day and wonder what memories we might have made. And when I see his childhood friends in our neighborhood, almost young adults now, I marvel how fast time has passed.

I still wonder what happens on the other side of life. You know that place over there … on the far side of the sea. Sometimes the waves of grief are so great they completely swallow me. Other times I wade softly in the water, smooth and placidly.

The struggle to keep from drowning has made me stronger and given rise to a different kind of me. I’m still flawed and tread water… but I see the world differently… thanks to my son, somewhere over there … on the far side of the sea.