I remember gently waking my daughter, who was deep asleep, to let her know her little brother had passed away. You know those rare moments in life that you remember with vivid detail? The smells, the color of light, the layout of a room, and precisely what you were doing at that very moment, something big happened … those details of life that seem to crystalize in your mind. Forever. I remember, as a young boy, exactly where I was when I heard the space shuttle Challenger explode. I don’t remember anything else that happened that year … not like I remember that moment. I just remember crying as a young boy because I knew people were hurting over such a loss.

Well, this night was one of those moments I will never forget. “Ash,” I said with a whisper. She arose instantly, as if her body and soul knew something terrible had happened, “I’m so sorry, but Mitch passed away.” No sooner had I uttered those words than her eyes gushed with tears as she fell back to her pillow and wept.

Laura-Ashley faithfully loved and served her little brother, and they had developed a deep bond between them. I marveled how she balanced softness with strength – a testament that we, being human, are quite capable of being both. On the one hand, she would speak ever-so tenderly with Mitch, and you could tell she listened with her heart as much as her ears. At the same time, she would carry her not-so-little brother on her back with ease. She was strong yet tender … a beautiful blend of attributes I long to possess.

I took this photo on the California coast while on our last summer adventure with Mitch. He loved the ocean and was fascinated by the power of waves. Mitch couldn’t play in the ocean by himself at this time in his life because even the tiniest wave would knock him helplessly over. Where smaller children could play in the splash and foam of the ocean’s edge, those same waters were more punishing for him. Even the smallest wave threatened to knock him over. Any prolonged exposure to even moderately deep water, causing him to adapt to the ebb and flow of the current, would tire his muscles quickly, and he would most certainly drown if left to his own strength.

Laura-Ashley, this beautifully kind sister, sensing little Mitch wanted to experience the ocean again, heaped her brother on her back and began walking into the water. Mitch laughed and squealed as the waves rolled by and tickled his feet. At this moment, it occurred to me in ways it hadn’t before that there’s something very special about a sister.

As I captured them playing, I remember being washed over by waves of love and gratitude for my daughter and son. Of all the world’s greatest riches, none compared to the treasure of this moment with my children. They were a gift to each other, and their love was awesome to see. Love, after all, is the substance of life and the fabric of eternity.

When I look at my own life experience, sisters and mothers seem to balance out fathers and brothers.

I don’t know what it is, exactly. I only know the world is richer because it is filled with loving sisters.

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The year after Mitch passed away my aunt and mother came to visit our home. We love having visitors – and enjoying their company that day was a treat. In many ways, my aunt is like a second mother to me and I love her dearly. She is currently in the final stage of her battle with cancer. I pray for her every single night and count myself blessed to be part of her family. 

When I was much younger I remember my aunt visiting our home. At one point we started playing some word game around the kitchen table; a moment that I treasure to this day. It wasn’t long ago she shared her memory of that night some 27 years ago … when I conjured up a funny definition to a word. While playing the game, she presented an obscure word for which I then had to come up with a definition. I didn’t know what the word meant so I said “the irresistible urge to saddle a horse.” My family comes from strong cowboy stock, so she laughed and laughed at my silly definition. When she reminded me of that moment we both laughed again, all these years later. 

It’s the little things. It’s always the little things.

So on this beautiful spring afternoon their visit may have seemed little to them, but it was big to me. I was at an especially tender time in my life – learning to live without my son – and their company and smiles seemed to lighten the weight of grief. How I needed that relief. 

My heart was full that day – because I was able to reflect on some good moments from a time long gone. I also gained a deeper appreciation for all that I had in the moment. 

As my mother and aunt began to walk down my driveway, I took a photo of these two beautiful souls, sisters joined in arms. As they carefully made their descent my mind flooded with memories of Mitch on this same slope. In my mind, I could almost see visions of Mitch laughing as he drove his scooter down at reckless speeds … or the snow blowing across the way as he slid down the snow-packed concrete. 

One place, so many memories … and here, for good measure, was yet another memory to keep and treasure.

Raising little Mitch taught me that if I look for beauty, I will find it. Well, I found something beautiful that day and my heart was overflowing with love and gratitude for these two good souls who helped shape me in their own special ways.

Today I will look for beauty. When I find beauty my grief turns into gratitude … and that is a good thing. 

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When our kids were younger, Laura-Ashley would hold make-shift classes on Saturday morning. Instead of playing with toys or calling friends to hang out, she would gather up old stools and turn them into ad hoc desks. Within minutes she would transform her bedroom into a classroom. My sweet daughter would spend an hour writing up some form of curriculum, drafting handouts and preparing homework assignments for her younger brothers. And when class started, she would teach the boys about math, science, english and other topics. At the time, Wyatt was a tiny toddler and had no idea what was going on; he just sat patiently in his chair because his brothers were there. 

Ethan and Mitch, being older, would always walk away with a homework assignment in hand, only to return later and have it graded. Most of the time Ethan and Wyatt attended her class - but Mitch always showed up. Always. 

This is a photo of Mitch showing up. In truth, he didn't need to be there. He had already finished his chores, completed his real homework and was entitled to play time. But because showing up was important to his sister, it was important to him. I love that about him.

When I stumbled upon this photo series recently I was reminded of the power of showing up. He never had an agenda for personal gain – he simply offered his love and support. And that is a powerful thing.

So, when I look at this photo of an ordinary Saturday morning, when Mitch decided to show up, I feel a deeper resolve to be there for my wife and kids in every way I know how. I am flawed. I struggle to do the very things of which I write – but I try. God knows that I try. I am getting a little better at it each day.

Sometimes for those who wrestle with grief or struggle in other ways, just showing up and offering love and support is all that is needed. I receive thousands of private messages from people asking for advice, so they might help their friend or family member who is struggling. They almost always worry about saying the right thing in the right way – carefully treading an invisible minefield of words and unknowable emotions. 

In my experience words of consolation, while comforting at times, do very little in the end. My advice to those who seek to comfort another is to worry less about the words you use and think more about how you cause the other person to feel. Sometimes showing up and saying, “I want you to know I care” is enough … and more. 

I remember when my neighbor, Nate Copling, came to the hospital when Mitch was in the cardiac intensive care unit, on the verge of dying. He simply showed up, just like little Mitch did for his sister, and offered love and support. That meant a lot to me. But it was what he didn’t say … what he didn’t need to say … that made all the difference. 

After this gentle, good man said goodbye to Mitch I walked him out of the CICU into a darkened hospital hallway. He turned to me with tears in his eyes and said nothing. He didn’t need to. I felt that he cared deeply. I knew that he mourned with me – which was more powerful and consoling than any arrangement of words.

Mitch and my friend Nate taught me how to show up in body, heart and soul. And when we do that, everybody grows.

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For those interested, I just posted a few extra photos of this moment on instagram.com/mitchells_journey

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Laurel wanted to see the cemetery and visit our boy. Locked in arms, these two women a generation apart, yet sisters in sorrow, carried each other's broken pieces in a most beautiful, healing way.