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One of my favorite memories with our young kids was sitting on the porch on a hot summer evening eating popsicles and enjoying the approaching sound of crickets. I can still smell their freshly shampooed hair and feel the softness of their pajamas – just out of the dryer. When I look at this photo, I’m reminded of Gretchen Rubin’s observation of raising a family, “The days are long, but the years are short.” Oh, how the years slip by.

One hot summer evening, Mitch tapped my shoulder and said, “Dad, get some Windex and come check this out. Something weird is happening.” Mitch held my hand as he led me toward a light along the edge of our driveway.

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When we were about 10 feet from the light, Mitch whispered, “Shhh, Dad, … listen.” We could hear a faint buzzing noise, and the closer we got to the light, the louder the sound became.

Mitch pointed to the silhouette of a hornet busy building a home in the warm embrace of the light. “I think he’s building a house in there, Dad,” Mitch said with the tone of a detective. Mitch also knew that a generous spray of Windex on a bee sting helps take the pain away. Always prepared, he was a good little Scout.

“Should we dig it out?” I asked. Mitch furrowed his brow as if to weigh the options. “Let’s investigate.” He said. Mitch put his hands on his knees as he bent over as he looked more closely. “I don’t want to hurt them, but I’m afraid they’ll sting me.” Mitch was right – hornets can’t be domesticated, and all the benevolence in the world won’t change that. So, we carefully placed a net around the light and gently removed the growing nest. “Dad, will you put the nest in the secret forest? That way, they can make a home up there.”

With that, I ran to the top of our yard and gently placed the hornets’ nest at the foot of two large boulders – far from where the kids would ever play. The next morning Mitch asked if I’d check on the nest; all the hornets were gone. “Oh well, at least I’m safe now.”

At an early age, Mitch gained a healthy respect for the things that would hurt him. Because his muscles were weak, he was always prone to trip and fall; he lacked the coordination and strength to break his fall – so pain was often his companion. I was ever moved by Mitchell’s compassion toward insects and every living thing. He knew their nature – and while he didn’t want to hurt them, but he was wise enough to keep his distance.

Since losing Mitch, I’ve tried to emulate his kind-hearted way of being. Yet, we’ve encountered some hornets on our grief journey. Though difficult at times, I had to remind myself that “hurt people, hurt people.” Remembering that truth doesn’t make their sting hurt less – it only reminds me that sometimes the healthiest thing we can do for our mental health is to remove the hornets from our lives. Like Mitch, I didn’t want to hurt them – but I had to create safe distance so we could do the work of healing. Thankfully, there haven’t been many of them.

Even though we removed the aggressive hornets, we’ve experienced the sting of indifference from people close to us: the impatience that we haven’t ‘moved on’ (as though we could magically stop loving our child), the Monday-morning quarterbacks, the pious pontiffs, and the well-meaning but misinformed. As if grief isn’t tricky enough.

What Mitchell’s life has taught me is that strength comes through struggle – and we’re often better because of it. Perspective has become my Windex – and when I feel a sting from someone fumbling or someone mean, I apply it generously. At least for me, that’s the only way to be.

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Toward the end, I couldn’t kiss my boy enough. And when Mitch started to sleep a lot, I cuddled with him so he would never wake and be scared he was alone. There were times I wept so hard I shook the bed and woke him a little. I didn’t want to scare him – but in the quiet of my heart, I was terrified to lose him.

By this time, Mitch knew he was dying. At one point, he said, “I don’t think I can survive.” Those are some heavy words for a little boy to carry. When Mitch said that, I quietly turned my head as tears streamed down my face like Niagara Falls. I pleaded with God that I could take it all away – that I could die so my son could live. To my sorrow, life was not so kind.

I’ve spent the last several years examining grief. To this day, I still can’t conjure the words to describe the permanent trauma of watching your child slip through your fingers like a baby made of sand. I’ve tried to describe it in the past, but words are inadequate, much like trying to describe color to someone blind since birth.

I’ve discovered that grief is amorphous – and there are many faces of grief. Each face is my teacher. Here are five among many:

GRIEF THE DRUNKARD

Sometimes grief comes barging in the home of your heart, drunk and belligerent—an uninvited houseguest who always has keys to the back door. However much you try to change the lock, grief knows the locksmith. This kind of grief is difficult to manage because you can’t make sense of or negotiate with it. Instead, you learn to sit with it, help it calm down, and let its slurry sorrow burn off. The sooner you listen to what it has to say; the sooner sorrow turns sober.

GRIEF THE SERGEANT

Other times, grief is a demanding drill sergeant – bent on working your already weary heart to the ground. Sometimes the sergeant bursts onto the stage of your mind and heart while you’re in a meeting – it doesn’t care who you are or what you’re doing … it only demands your attention. Quietly, you lift grief through an emotional obstacle course as your knees and heart buckle. I’ve learned to listen to the sergeant and “do the work” – though painful; it always makes me stronger.

GRIEF THE GHOST OF REGRET

Regret is inevitable – and being human, we all carry regret. That thing we didn’t say but wish we did, the opportunity to spend time but didn’t, and a-million-and-one dumb decisions that lead to some form of regret. This face of grief isn’t just haunting; it’s horrifying—all those missed opportunities are gone forever. However, I’ve learned to sit with this ghost and find ways to turn regret into resolve. Resolve to do better and to be better. Then, that ghost fades away – and I’m all the better because of it, for I’ve learned to live a better way.

GRIEF THE PRETENDER

Sometimes grief acts like a pretender. I’ve seen others hide behind the veneer of their faith – as if being sad is a sin or a betrayal of sacred beliefs. They flex their muscles and try to seem strong, even super-human. “It’s been a month, and it’s time to move on. I must show everyone that I’m righteous and strong.” That only teaches ourselves and others to hide under a thin sheet of inauthenticity. Grief, the Pretender, is an imposter, a shadow pretending to be light. Sorrow is not only human but also our birthright. I would sooner trust a broken soul than a perfect one – for one is true, and the other is not. Losing someone we love hurts, and it hurts a lot.

GRIEF THE DIVINE TEACHER

Of the many faces of grief, this one is my tender teacher – for it has the power to turn vinegar into water – but it is the most solemn work of all. It asks deeper, more searching questions. This face of grief isn’t at all interested in “why me” or “why Mitch?” but instead turns the mirror inward. It asks the hard questions like, “Why not?” or “What makes you an exception to human suffering?”

I then bow my head in reverence of everyone who suffers. In this reflection, I have learned to look at my own soul and ask, “Yes, it hurts, but what am I to learn from this?”

Grief is a magic mirror, really, and though it appears to wear different masks – each of them are part of a greater whole. And if I’m listening, this divine face of grief shapes my heart and contours my soul.