It’s been one year of sacred silence. I’ve needed it.

I haven’t written here—not because I had nothing in my heart, but because I needed time to feel what this season of life was asking of me. And then, as life often does, something small became something sacred.

This picture is just that: something small turned sacred.

Meet my youngest grandson, Velzy—grandchild #3. Just a few months old, and already… he’s become my teacher.

Lately, I’ve been practicing something:

When he coos or squeals, I resist the urge to flood the space with my own sounds. Instead, I look him in the eyes, pause, and respond—as if I understood him completely. As if the sound he made… mattered. And do you know what happens next? He lights up. His face stretches wide with surprise and delight. As if some part of him is astonished that his tiny voice moved the world outside his head.

That exchange has stayed with me. And this morning, it spoke louder than ever.

Sometimes, I think we do this to each other. When someone shares sorrow—a death, a lost faith, a heartbreak—we rush in with words meant to soothe. But often, they smother.

The more I work with people in their various spaces, I’m beginning to sense we’re not so different from this precious child in my hands—wanting to be heard, waiting to be seen, and hoping to be loved… no matter what.

Today, on the anniversary of Mitchell’s birth, I’ve been thinking about the space between life and death and the million-and-one deaths we experience in between. I don’t simply mean the death of loved ones; I mean the death of our former selves, the passing of time, the comings and goings of friends we thought would be forever, but in the end were not. Each is a grief worthy of reverence.

At least for me, grief often speaks in whispers. Lately, it’s been more like Fleetwood Mac on a quiet drive. “Can I handle the seasons of my life?” That line gets me every time. Sometimes, I wonder.

Grief has aged me.

Parenting, in some ways, untangled me.

And grandparenting is now… remaking me.

And so, on this April day, as I reflect on a boy whose broken heart touched mine, I find myself thinking about this photo of my youngest grandson, whispering: “I am as this child.”

At least, I hope to be. Curious. Soft-hearted. Ready to be shaped.

Sometimes I think the world teaches us to be wise by knowing. But the older I get, I’m beginning to wonder if real wisdom begins by unknowing—by learning to listen, to notice, to respond with presence instead of performance.

As I step into my future, I will best honor my son (and everyone that has gone before me) not by simply remembering what I’ve lost, but by living what I’ve learned.

As I step back into writing, I don’t know what I will explore – I only know it will be a potpourri of then and now, woven with threads of curiosity, wonder, and love.

As a child, I go.

Unfinished. Unhurried. Unafraid.

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.

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.

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