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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Our goal was to get him home as fast as we could. Mitch had days to live, but there were times at the hospital he was so animated, we wondered if the doctors misdiagnosed him. But, like a thief in the shadows, symptoms of heart failure would suddenly emerge and turn the happy boy we knew into someone distant. Someone very, very sick.

Just moments before this photo, Mitch was laughing. My sweet daughter, Laura-Ashley, made cupcakes to cheer him up. She handed one to him, but Mitch turned his head and said, "I'm not feeling well." In his heart, Mitch wanted to eat one – but at this moment, his world was being turned upside down.

I'll never forget meeting with a team of specialists as we were preparing to leave. Each took their turn, educating us on what to do under certain circumstances. If I thought taking a newborn baby home to live was overwhelming, I had no idea what it would feel like to take our baby home to die. The instructions were soul-crushing. If something medically scary happened, there was no ambulance to call, no future hospital visits to offer a glimmer of hope. Just a constant stream of medicine to erase from my son's mind oxygen hunger, morphine to whisk away the pain of organ failure, and other drugs to buy a little time.

The nutritionist was about to tell us what Mitch should eat; she paused as if to remember Mitch only had days, then said, "You know what, it doesn't matter. Let him eat whatever makes him happy." I nearly burst into tears as my heart fell to the floor, bleeding and writhing. Medicine had taken us as far as it could. Nature, faith, and fate were all that was left.

While Mitchell's physical heart was failing, his spiritual heart remained tender and teachable. As parents, our spiritual hearts were being tested. But then, a beautiful paradox emerged as our son became our teacher. If Mitch could face death with a humble heart, we could, too.

Some wonder (even criticize) why I return to these moments, detailing agony and trauma. As if to retraumatize myself with each story. What I've observed about trauma is that it's first like a rapidly spreading cancer, weaving its tendrils into our minds and hearts, then it lies dormant. Seemingly invisible. It feeds off inattention and misdirection. I believe trauma can be seen to some degree, but the bulk of its roots seem to live in the deeper parts of our psyche. As far as I can tell, trauma thrives in the unexamined shadows of our souls, unexplored and misunderstood. If left unattended, the ripple effects of trauma can turn into waves and disrupt us for the rest of our lives.

I visit these moments to discover and untangle trauma, removing its poisonous dripline, root by root. Is it uncomfortable? Of course. But so is dressing a deep wound. And with each time I apply the medicine of meaning, I heal a little. Sometimes a lot.

So why this moment? This moment taught me what being courageous looks like. Sometimes having courage looks like being sick, sad, or tired. Sometimes courage shows up as tears and overwhelming heartbreak. Fake courage puts on a mask and cape and pretends it doesn't hurt. True courage is admitting we're trembling at the knees while mustering the strength to take one more step. And if we don't have the strength for one more step – that's quite alright. We can rest a moment and take another step tomorrow.

Separate from pain, trauma will likely come to us all in one form or another. We may not be able to change our circumstances or avoid outcomes, but we can change what meaning those experiences have for us. And that's an act of courage, too.

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A year had passed since we learned of Mitchell’s diagnosis and our hearts were still tender. It was mid-July and the hot summer air wrapped our bodies like a warm sweater you couldn't take off. Only the shade of a tree, a soft breeze, or a scattered cloud that covered the sun would offer a moment of relief. The sound of insects filled the air. I couldn't help but think of those endless summers I came to know and love during my own childhood; where the woods were vast and deep and perfectly camouflaged the forts we made of scrap wood and plastic sheets. Those summers I played with my friends deep into twilight. To this day I can almost hear the laughter of my friends or the voice of my mother calling me home.

The laughter I heard in my mind from yesteryear slowly faded to the back of my mind as the sounds of Ethan & Mitch came back into focus … and my heart was glad. Ethan absolutely loved his little brother, and Mitch loved him. I sat on the grass as these two little brothers romped around as little boys do. I remembered being just like them. In many ways, I still am. At one point Mitch spontaneously grabbed his older brother and kissed his cheek. Ethan instinctively wrapped his arms around him and hugged Mitch with all the love he had. Suddenly I thought to myself, “Now this is a life worth living.”

Although the future frightened us, we made a conscious effort to let tomorrow be – for we understood that to give in to worry and stress would rob us of today – and today was all we could count on. It wasn't easy. It took practice. But each day we became a little better at it. Each day we got a little better at living. A little better at loving.

A year had passed since we learned of Mitchell’s diagnosis and our hearts were still tender. It was mid-July and the hot summer air wrapped our bodies like a warm sweater you couldn't take off. Only the shade of a tree, a soft breeze, or a scattered cloud that covered the sun would offer a moment of relief. The sound of insects filled the air. I couldn't help but think of those endless summers I came to know and love during my own childhood; where the woods were vast and deep and perfectly camouflaged the forts we made of scrap wood and plastic sheets. Those summers I played with my friends deep into twilight. To this day I can almost hear the laughter of my friends or the voice of my mother calling me home.

Yet despite my sorrows, life is still worth living.

When Mitch was 3 years old he was given a death sentence. My wife and I could have wasted away our days in fear of the inevitable. But at some point we realized life is also fatal – and none of us can escape it. The point of life isn’t that we escape death, but that we learn how to live it while we have it. And to live a life of love and service is a life worth living.

As I said in a post a few years ago, "losing my son has been the bitterest of cups; it has turned my life upside down, but right-side-up."

It isn't possible to count the many pieces of my heart that are still broken and scattered about – for they are without number and seem to stretch out for miles … even to infinity. But I am picking up each tender piece as I find them and washing them with my tears and putting them back where they belong.

And while I search to heal my heart, I have discovered each time I love or serve someone my heart heals a little – and that makes life worth living, too.

The laughter I heard in my mind from yesteryear slowly faded to the back of my mind as the sounds of Ethan & Mitch came back into focus … and my heart was glad. Ethan absolutely loved his little brother, and Mitch loved him. I sat on the grass as these two little brothers romped around as little boys do. I remembered being just like them. In many ways, I still am. At one point Mitch spontaneously grabbed his older brother and kissed his cheek. Ethan instinctively wrapped his arms around him and hugged Mitch with all the love he had. Suddenly I thought to myself, “Now this is a life worth living.”

When Mitch was 3 years old he was given a death sentence. My wife and I could have wasted away our days in fear of the inevitable. But at some point we realized life is also fatal – and none of us can escape it. The point of life isn’t that we escape death, but that we learn how to live it while we have it. And to live a life of love and service is a life worth living.