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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

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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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Journal Entry: February 10, 2013

Today was a mixture of grief, peace, fear, and love. Mitchell was so happy to be home. It was almost dreamlike. There were no hourly stats being taken by a nurse. No more chaotic mess of cables wired to his body effectively chaining him to his bed. No monitors with alarms that signal the biological horror show that is playing out under the surface of his skin. Just smiles and 100% focus on family.

For the most part, Mitchell was comfortable today. He was able to play with one of his best friends. We made more Legos, cuddled, played UNO, built a base in Minecraft, had lots of conversations, played other video games, watched a movie, and just spent time together. At this very moment, I can hear his sweet little voice in my mind …. as if it were an audible sound. I love the sound of his voice … the way he thinks.

So we try to live each moment as though it were our last. We will only have now – for tomorrow will be different, it will be less. Certainly, less of something and more of another . . . but it will be less, nonetheless.

To me, it is strange to think that ~15 years ago there were 4 less people on the earth . . . and I was quite content without them. But now that I have them, I cannot imagine a day without them – not even a minute. There’s the saying: “Making the decision to have a child - it's momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart walking around outside your body.” I always admired that quote – but now it has taken on a much deeper meaning.

Mitchell’s left eye became very blurry twice; once in the morning and a second time this evening. The second episode was more intense and lasted longer than the first. Our nurse informs us that his profusion is so low that organs will begin shutting down very soon. It looks like his vision may go soon. He is getting dark rings under his eyes. We’re also told it won’t go away and will get worse. Sometimes his chest pounds so hard it looks like there’s someone inside his rib cage trying to violently punch their way out. Those are scary times. Very scary.

The truth is, grief comes in massive waves … almost instantly …. and without consideration or apology. And between the agony of the inevitable and moments of calm, I sometimes feel a panicked rush ... the horrific feeling that I need to race to do something else for my sweet little boy. Oh ... how my heart wants to... I yearn to save him. My mind understands what’s happening and why. But my heart sometimes desperately searches for a way out … something we missed. Then, it occurred to me in a moment of profound spiritual peace … that perhaps in all my rush to save my boy, a greater purpose to all this suffering is at play … and in the end, he will be the one who saves me.

There is a transformation occurring. Something profound. His life, his sweetness, his goodness … it is changing me. And I want to be a better husband, father, friend, and human because of him. His short and tattered life has a divine purpose. And while painful now, all will be made whole in the end.

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NOTE ABOUT THIS ESSAY:

I’ve been getting messages from a lot of readers lately sharing their grief, wondering if they’re normal (if there is such a thing), and if the night will ever end. My heart goes out to everyone who suffers in whatever way they suffer. I wish I had the power to heal others – that is my heart’s deepest desire.

I thought I’d share a sacred journal entry exactly 8 years ago today. This was my grief. This was my son. I share this journal entry for those who sit on the edge of significant change. I stand with you in the sacred space of your suffering.