Chris was asked to speak at Myraid Genetics about the impact their work has on patients and their caregivers.

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

The night before Mitchell passed away, we sensed time was running out. As the sky quickly darkened, the air grew eerily cold … and with each breath, we felt a heavy, somber feeling grow within our hearts. The abyss that was inching to devour our son had its mouth stretched wide and was beginning to swallow him up.

We were preparing to cuddle with Mitch in his room and read him stories to comfort him when we received a call from his best friend and next-door neighbor who wanted to see if he could play. Unaware Mitchell was already slipping away, coming in and out of consciousness (mostly out), we asked this young boy if we could speak to his mother. We told her Mitch didn't have much time and that perhaps her son would want to come over one last time. Within a few minutes of that call, this young boy came over to say goodbye to our baby, his best buddy.

Mitch absolutely loved Luke. Whenever he heard his friend knock on the door, Mitch would yell out, "Lukey!!!" Mitch was always excited to spend time with him … so this last visit would mean more to Mitch than I think Luke realizes to this day.

What I then witnessed in the quiet of Mitchell's room was the most tender interaction between two young boys I have ever seen. It was a sacred exchange between two boys made of clay; before my eyes, each being shaped by experience, hardship, sacrifice, and love.

Lying on the bed was our young boy, much too young to die. Standing next to him, another young boy holding his hand, bearing his young soul … much too young to say goodbye. It was not my place to ask God why such heavy things were required by the hands of these two innocent souls. Instead, I began to ponder deeply and pray in my heart to understand what we were meant to learn from this hardship.

These aren't the only two children to experience this, and they won't be the last. But they were our kids … and we loved them so. It hurt so very much to see.

This young boy, who had loved Mitch like a brother and faithfully served him with all his heart, told Mitchell how much he meant to him, that because of Mitch, he learned what it meant to be a true friend and that he would never forget him. Luke struggled to hold back the tears; his voice was broken with emotion as Mitchell lay unable to move or speak. His eyes barely open, my little son listened to tender words of affection and friendship. My wife and I wept as we witnessed love and friendship in its purest form. I knew that Luke, Mitchell's faithful little friend, was breaking inside.

Afterward, I hugged him and told him how much my wife and I loved and appreciated him. I told him I was sure if Mitchell were able to speak, he would tell Luke that he loved him like a brother and that he appreciated how he was always there to help him when his muscles were too weak and how much it meant to him that he always cheered him up when he was sad. I told Luke that he taught Mitchell and his parents what it meant to be "your brother's keeper" and that we were so grateful to him.

Later that evening, I couldn't help but think of that tender experience between these two young boys who were forced to grow up much too fast. I pondered the meaning of human suffering and the difficult experiences we sometimes must endure. I have learned to appreciate an old Jewish proverb, "Don't pray for lighter burdens; pray for a stronger back." It would seem that in all religious texts, no matter one's religion, God makes no apology for pain and suffering. In fact, I have come to understand there's a sacred relationship between suffering and spirituality if we learn to listen and endure it well.

The burden of losing my precious son has been heavy; so much so, I found my knees trembling, hands shaking, and my soul weary with grief. There exist no words in the human language to describe the depths of this sorrow. It is simply, utterly, bewilderingly heavy. But, like all suffering, the sting of that pain can make way to deeper compassion toward others, a greater capacity to love, a stronger desire to reach toward God and understand the greater meaning of things.

The truth is, we are [all of us] no different than these two little boys. We are all made of clay. And with each choice we make, each reaction to events in our life, we carve out something beautiful or something hideous – something that loves or hates. We need only look at our own life experience to know this is true … we have all seen some let the clay in their hearts harden and become brittle or unmovable. Others allow the tears of suffering to keep their clay soft and pliable.

Nine years have passed since this sacred evening, and in many ways, I have made peace with pain. That's not to say that it doesn't hurt; it does. The difference is I've come to accept deep pain is part of me now. As such, I allow it to come and go like a houseguest to my heart. Even if I tried to lock the door, pain knows where the key is and always finds a way in. At least for me, making peace with pain means grief can come and go as it needs – and with each episode, I gather up my tears and do the work to keep my clay soft and my soul pliable.

Tonight, on the anniversary of my son's passing, I celebrate my Mitch with a potpourri of grief and gratitude and a promise to Heaven and to my boy that I will never forget the tender lessons he taught me. Most importantly, I promise to use my hurt to help others as long as I live.