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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.

Early in my grief journey, I often wondered, “When everything hurts, how will I know I’m healing?”

There was a time, not long after his passing, and for some time after, the very sight of Mitchell’s things was painful to see. I remember his Velcro-strap shoes sitting on the edge of his bed. They were, by design, light as a feather so he could walk more easily. The moment I saw these shoes, they reminded me how difficult walking had become for him. Each step in the hallway at school was a risk; the slightest bump from another child could have sent him falling fast to the floor. Without the strength and coordination to break his fall, he would hit the ground hard. His muscles were getting weaker – and time on his feet more precious. These tender shoes were a reminder of his fragile existence and a symbol of his mother’s love.

When I saw these shoes, I wept like a child. I would have done anything to trade places with him.

Though these shoes were painful to see, for a time, I’m not one to make rash decisions – especially with memories. I could have, like others who cope with grief, swept everything away. I could have swiftly removed anything that might have brought back memories that hurt. While that can be a valid path for some who grieve, I chose a different path. I chose to sit with my pain. I wanted to look at the things that hurt me and healed me, for both are my teachers.

For the first two years, I wept every single day. I didn’t cry. I wept. So-much-so, my lungs were sore and I felt like I had a persistent flu. Every. Single. Day. When we left town, I felt an existential panic leaving my son at the cemetery. It was nightmarish. When it rained, I wanted to race to the cemetery to protect his place of rest. Somewhere deep inside me, I felt a flurry of worry – that if I didn’t have the power to protect his life, at least I could protect him in death. Grief has a way of triggering irrational feelings from a very rational pain.

For me, darkness covered the whole earth; and though I walked among people, I was living in a different dimension. Within the first few months of my son’s passing, I wrote an essay entitled “Walking on Jupiter” where I described the gravity of grief, the thinness of the air, and the difficulty of living. Earth, with all its pedestrian concerns, seemed so very far away. At the same time, I could carry a conversation with a smile … and were I to shake your hand, you probably wouldn’t know the nightmare I was living. Everything hurt.

In private, it felt like I was consigned to an eternity of sorrow. Everything hurt. Even sleep hurt; every morning and night, as I’d drift in and out of sleep, I felt the unbridled panic and sorrow of my son’s passing. It would play out in my mind like a vivid dream and I couldn’t tell if it was happening in that moment or if it happened in the past. There was something about that in-between stage of consciousness that left me especially vulnerable.

It wasn’t long in my grief journey I learned that healing hurts – and that was the first vital step for me. I found if I gave myself space to grieve, the darkness would pass sooner. Moments of acute grief, at least for me, was like a building sneeze: the sooner I let it out, the better I felt. Even still, the general heaviness of grief weighed on my shoulders like a led blanket no matter how much I sneezed.

As far as I can tell, healing isn’t discernable day-to-day. Like getting older or gaining/losing weight, we have to step away from the mirror for a minute. And therein lies the curious paradox of healing: that opposites can be true at the same time.

For example, I’m a believer in living an examined life. That means looking in the mirror and studying what I see, including the things that hurt me. It’s not enough to simply look at our pain, but how we look at our suffering makes the difference. At the same time, I’ve discovered that we must also look away and get busy living. To do one at the expense of the other is to thwart and sometimes deny deeper healing. For me, the choice to look or live has a kind of ebb and flow about it; a delicate dance of the soul.

How do I know I’m healing when everything hurts? I start by recognizing this: if I’m hurting, I’m probably on the path to healing. For one cannot heal without hurting.

The rest is up to me. Sometimes I look, other times I live. Together, they help me heal.

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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.

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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.