A few weeks ago I spoke at a conference whose focus was on mental health and wellbeing. I was asked to speak twice: once on "Building Resilience Into Our Lives" and then "Where do we go when life changes?"

This video was the endcap to my resilience talk. I put this together the night before I jumped on the plane - still not settled on what I wanted to say. I only knew I wanted to share what was in this video.

Today, as I look back to remember Mitch, I also look forward to the magic that is right in front of me and the wonder that is far ahead.

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I took this photo nine years and a few hours ago, today.

It was the most tender of times. Little Mitch was denied a heart transplant, and just days earlier, his cardiac MRI revealed his heart was profoundly damaged. Hanging by a thread, really.

At the time of this photo, Mitch had come to my office. “Hey, Dad,” he said softly. “Can I just sit by you?”  I smiled and said, “Of course, Mitch. I love it when you’re near me.”  With that, I pulled a chair close to me, chair arms touching, and Mitch watched as I tried to wind down the day. Occasionally he’d put his hand on my arm and squeeze it as if to hug me. I would do anything to hear his voice and to feel his hand again. Not long after he sat down, Natalie came into the room to tell us dinner was ready. With her came a delicious-smelling waft of dinner waiting upstairs. Mitch looked at me and smiled, then stood and started talking to Natalie in front of my window. She did what she does so naturally: love. She grabbed his face, looked Mitch in the eyes, and told him just how much she loved him. I wanted to freeze time – and I suppose with this photo, I did.

You know the saying, “It’s later than you think”? It was late. Very late. In just a few weeks, we’d go to the hospital and learn death was not only coming, it was gashing at our door. The summer of our lives was ending, and we would soon feel grief like a winter wind to our souls.

When this photo came up in my memories today, I began to think of the paradoxes of light and darkness and what I can learn from them. For years I used to think of grief as only darkness. Lately, I’m beginning to think of suffering and grief as a different kind of light. It’s not that grief and sorrow aren’t dark and awful. They are. But I’ve discovered when I close my eyes and quiet my soul, a different set of eyes begin to open. Kind of like the saying, “It’s not what you look at; it’s what you see.”  So, when I stepped into the darkness and allowed my spiritual eyes to adjust, it was as though a door opened from within the prison of grief, and I walked into vast corridors of learning and deep meaning – hidden only by the shadows of sorrow.

My deepest learning, I’ve discovered, happens in the paradox. 

A few years ago, I wrote an essay examining the duality of grief entitled, “I’m okay, but I’m not okay, and that’s okay.”  It was a tender reflection on a conversation I had with my oldest son, who barged into my office while I was in a moment of deep grief over losing Mitch. I quickly wiped my tears and tried to seem normal – but, as with most things, humans aren’t very good at hiding. Ethan said, “Dad, are you okay?”  I did what most men do: I blamed the tears on a rock in my eye – as though it happened while eating boulders, dirt, and tree logs for breakfast.   I rolled up my proverbial lumberjack shirt, thumped my chest, and pretended to be strong and okay. That’s what men do, right? Well, that wasn’t exactly me – but it was kind of me. My impulse as a grieving father was to shield him from my truth. I wanted to let my son know he could come to me with his troubles – and I was worried if I was an emotional wreck, he may be afraid to talk to me.

But then I thought to myself, “How is this teaching my son to live an authentic life?”  “How will he feel safe if I’m pretending to be something I’m not?”  On the heels of pretending to be strong, I told my son I was okay, but I wasn’t okay ... and that was okay. He nodded to me with a sigh of relief – because he knew I was being honest and in honesty there is safety.

That essay “I’m Okay, But I’m Not Okay, And That’s Okay” has been read by millions. Why do those stats matter? They do, and they don’t. They don’t matter concerning me; they only matter because of what it signals. It signals that people want to make sense of the paradox of life. How can someone be okay and not okay at the same time? And is that okay? People were drawn to that story because they realized they weren’t wrong, broken, or abnormal to be two (or more) things at once.

You see, we’re never just one thing. We’re many things at once. We are both harmony and contradiction, love and anger, faith and doubt, grief and joy, fear and courage … the list of dualities is infinite. If you are one thing, you also possess its shadow. 

The trouble is because we’re human; we seek symmetry and safety. Oppositely, paradox feels a lot like brokenness and danger. As far as I can tell, it seems that running from unavoidable pain and discomfort is where we miss out on life’s deepest discoveries. 

Learning to sit in the paradox is where we discover profound truths about ourselves and others.

At the surface of things, learnings from the paradox look a lot like this:

• The more we learn, the more we realize we know nothing.

• If you want to learn deep patience, spend time with someone that deeply annoys you.

• If you want to understand forgiveness, look to the person who most hurt you.

• Empathy and suffering are symbiotic soulmates.

• You cannot have courage without fear.

• Healing hurts.

So, when I look at this tender photo of my wife and son, I’m awash in a curious potpourri of grief and gratitude. As Rumi wisely wrote, “What hurts you, blesses you.”  And in that paradox, I sit. I pray. I listen. I learn.

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It had been two days since Mitchell passed away and I walked into my son’s room with a quiet hope in my heart everything was just a nightmare. Instead, I found my wife in quiet agony. There she lay on his bed holding his small teddy bear, which still bore the scent of our son.

Our home was suddenly barren, our hearts desolate.

Just a few days prior our home was filled with family to support us while our son was dying, each believing they were helping us in our hour of greatest need. What they didn't realize, what none of us realized, was that was the easy part, by comparison. Hell, with all its thunder and fury, happens in the aftermath … long after everyone leaves and you are left to navigate the bewildering wilderness of grief and desolation. It seems that everyone has it all backward - but that is a conversation for another day.

Contrary to what many think, holidays aren't as difficult as one might imagine. Oh, they’re plenty hard, but because you know it’s coming and you’re expecting it to be hard, you brace for impact and it somehow doesn't knock you off your feet. At least most of the time. While holidays are difficult, there are harder things still. It’s the ordinary Saturday mornings when we work as a family to clean the house. I look to the windows my son used to faithfully wash, or the floor he would carefully mop … and he is not there, nor anywhere. It’s the absence of ordinary things that take your breath away and bring you to your knees. It’s the empty bed, the vacant chair at the dinner table, the unfinished Lego projects, or spiral notebook with handwritten stories Mitch wrote; it’s the saved games in The Sims or Minecraft that show a world Mitch worked hard to build … forever frozen in time. It’s the ordinary stuff we miss, the very stuff we take for granted. Among its many layers, grief is a deep longing for the ordinary.

So, as I entered Mitchell’s room and saw my dear wife in pain, my heart sank to the floor. I missed my son with all of my soul – and though my heart wished otherwise, I realized my greatest nightmare was my reality. I fell to my knees and wept ... longing for the ordinary. I hurt for my tender wife and family. I hurt for my son. I later wrote in my journal, while pondering this moment of grief, “At the end of the day all we have is what we've done.” That saying came to my mind with great force and conviction. All the things we work so hard to gather unto ourselves, the riches of earth, and the praises of man can all be taken in an instant. I began to think about the memories we made and the things we did as a family and the love we shared. Though death can take away my son, it cannot take away the things we've done. Though death and absence can hurt our hearts and wrench our souls, it cannot take away the love we shared or memories we hold; for love and memories cannot be bought nor can they be sold.

At the end of the day, indeed, all we really have is what we've done.

It has almost been eight years since I lost my little boy … my little soul mate. Though the weight of grief isn't as constant as it was the first few years, there are times it can be as heavy and visceral as it’s ever been.

There is a Jewish Proverb that says, “Don’t pray for lighter burdens, pray for a stronger back.” It is to that end I pray; that my back will be made strong so that I might carry the inescapable burden of grief with a glad heart and cheerful countenance. Although in the shadow of the moon, or the quiet of my closet, or deep in my wilderness I weep for my fallen son, I can still feel the light of the noonday sun, and happiness returns as I recount my many blessings – each of them, one by one. Indeed, all I really have is what I've done.

I have three other wonderful children who I am also losing. Though I am not losing them to death, I am losing them to time. Before I know it, they will graduate from high school, go to college, find their own purpose in life, and start families of their own. Everything I have today, everything I’m tempted to take for granted, will soon no longer be. One day, in the not-too-distant future, I will long to have my little ones back with me.

I choose this day to make my moments matter, from here to evermore. I have come to understand with greater depth, because of my fallen son, all we really have is what we've done.

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This summer I’ve focused on spending time with my family - so I've been relatively quiet here. I'm not done with writing, though. I just needed a minute.

I don’t visit my son’s place of rest every day like I used to, but I visit him in my heart each day.

Tonight, as I visited Mitch, I felt a gentle peace and deep love for a little guy who turned my life upside down but right side up. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt, it simply means I’m learning to hold hurt, hope, and healing at the same time. And that blend of contrast is like a potpourri of the most sacred aroma.

I’ve been doing something special this summer in memory of Mitch and in celebration of my family. I’ll share that soon. It's been part of my personal journey of intentional healing.

As summer draws to an end, I can sense cooler days ahead. There’s something invigorating about change. Like little Mitch, I’ve grown to love each season for what they are and not complain about what they’re not. In quiet ways, I've grown to appreciate the contrasts of life and those contrasts have become my deep teacher. Summers are never so sweet but when we know its contrast from the coldest winter.

In like manner, I’m grateful for the summer moments of life. I’m grateful for the times life gives us a break so we can rest, heal, and find new strength. Even still, I wonder when the next winter storm will come. I hope it’s yet a few years off, for the warmth of the summer sun has been so kind to my soul.