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I don’t often look at photos of the funeral. Most of the time, I prefer to look at other parts of my son’s life and the things he taught me. Today, as I browsed photos of Mitch, I stumbled into this image, and I immediately welled with tears.

We were gathered as a family to say our final goodbyes to Mitch. Soon the casket would close, and I would never again see my son’s physical form in mortality. The funeral services would begin shortly, and Natalie and I would give the most difficult addresses of our lives.

At one point during this family gathering, I saw my nieces from across the room; I could tell they were emotional and struggling over the loss of their cousin. My heart was filled with compassion for them, so I excused myself from a conversation and walked in their direction, wanting to offer a little hope and sunshine during a dark time.

I asked if I could share something with them, and they smiled softly, then nodded yes. I showed my nieces a screengrab I took of Mitch guiding me through Facetime to find a specific Nerf gun for one of his neighbors and best buddies, Derek Mackerell. I was fumbling around Walmart’s toy section pointing to options … and all of them swiftly rejected. Mitch was particular – he was making plans to have an epic Zombie battle in our basement, and he thought Derek would be a great sniper. He also wanted this gun to be a gift to him.

Were you to look closely at this image; you’d see Mitch smiling (almost laughing) at me. I had become what I thought I’d never be: a clueless parent when it came to childhood pop-culture. As a kid, I wondered why my parents couldn’t figure out how to use a VCR or remote control. Cables confused them, and I had become a childhood tech geek. Things were much simpler back then. Now I get it.

In this case, I didn’t know the make and models of Nerf guns … I only knew the basics: they were plastic and shot foam darts. Beyond that, I was useless, and Mitch thought that was pretty funny. At one point, Mitch laughed, then put his hand on his forehead and said, “Dad, how can you not know these things?” We both laughed, and I finally found the sniper rifle he so wanted for his friend.

The boys would have an epic battle soon after. I can still hear the youthful laughs of those kids immersed in make-believe. Mitch would pass away about a week later, and the sound of his laughter, as unique as a fingerprint or a snowflake, as beautiful as a songbird, would be silenced forever.

Gosh, I miss him today. It hurts, but that’s okay.

Having passed away just before his 11th birthday, he would have turned 18 today. I wonder what he would have been like. I’ll always wonder. Such is the burden of those who grieve.
A few years would pass, and we’d walk down the street to give that Nerf sniper rifle to Derek, thanking him for being such a good friend to our boy. I’ll always love that young man for being such a good friend to Mitch.

I don’t know where the time goes, but it moves much faster than grief.

I’ve learned that I can be happy and sad at the same time. In this very moment of journaling, my heart is broken, but it is also gushing with gratitude and love. My heart is heavy as lead and my soul, light as a feather.

Tonight we’ll celebrate Mitchell’s 18th birthday as a family. Because of the pandemic, we’ll be ordering Orange Chicken from Panda Express and eat at the cemetery. We’ll play UNO, share our favorite memories, and just enjoy each other’s company. My kids miss Mitch, too, and they’re allowed to feel all the feels - however and whenever they come.

I suspect it will be all the things: happy, sad, nostalgic, and forward-thinking — a beautiful potpourri of real.

If there’s one thing my little boy has taught me, it’s this: of all the things we give and take, the only things we truly keep are the memories we make.

Happy Birthday little boy, raising you was such a treat, now I treasure the memories I keep.

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As Mitch began to drift away, I'd look at him with deep sorrow in my heart. I desperately wanted to scoop him up in my arms and take him to someplace safe. A place like the children's books we often read to him – a place of hope and happiness, joy, and dreams. My little boy once glowing bright with laughter and childhood had become a dim candle about to flicker out. The light in his countenance had been growing dimmer by the day, and I was greatly pained therewith. When I took this photo, I had the distinct impression we were no longer counting the days, but the hours.

I remember cuddling next to my son just after I took this photo. I held him gently but firmly and said, "I am so sorry this is happening, son. You are so brave. I think sometimes God sends us the little ones like you to teach us grown-ups what it means to be truly grown up. And Mitch, when I grow up, I want to be just like you." Mitch squeezed my hand and smiled softly. I kissed his cheek and held him close to my chest as he drifted away, soft as a feather, into an afternoon nap.

While Mitch slept, I wept.

I wept so hard the bed was shaking, and I worried I would wake him. The grief I knew then was but a foretaste of the pain to come. For death was the easy part … the echoes of emptiness and longing were a more painful hell yet to come.

I learned long ago it isn't productive to raise my fist to the heavens and wonder why we suffer. Instead, I learned to turn my ear heavenward, to listen for secrets to the soul, and learn what I was meant to learn. Too often, people get hung up on asking the wrong questions – and therefore get no answers. They ask, "why would God do this?" When we hurt, it can be tempting to shake our fists at the Universe and bemoan our circumstance as though we're being singled out or treated unfairly. But the last time I checked, life isn't fair, and it rains on the just and unjust. Why should we be the only exception? The other day I learned over 150,000 people die each day. Countless others will suffer all manner of tragedies. In the few minutes it might take to shake our fist at the sky and complain about or own lives, hundreds of people will have passed from this life to the next, and a great many more will mourn their absence.

The world is filled with grief and suffering. Some sorrows we bring upon ourselves. Other suffering just happens, whether from an act of God or simply life in motion.

At least for me, I've come to discover suffering and sorrow are an important part of life's learnings. Any more, I worry less about the origins of my sorrows – for what difference would it make? Surely God isn't caught off guard or surprised by the events in our lives. Whether He's the author of some of our sorrows, as a divine teacher, or simply a patient tutor as we struggle with life in motion.

He could change the course of our sorrows if He wanted to. Perhaps the fact He often doesn't remove our sorrows is the most compelling message of all. I stopped asking "why me?" and began searching myself and ask, "Yes, it hurts, but am I listening?"

So, as I laid next to my dying son, weeping in the deepest of grief, I felt a pain beyond description, a pain that left my soul weary, bruised, and weak. I didn't want my little boy to go, for he was my tender son, and I loved him so. Though I prayed mightily for his safe return, the answer I received was, "No, my son, for there are things you must learn."

Thus began my journey with grief, down a bewildering path in search of spiritual relief. And though I still hear the deafening sound of death's terrible toll, I have come to understand our mortal bodies are but clothing to the soul.

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About a month ago, on the anniversary of Mitchell’s passing, I sat next to my father-in-law, who wanted to meet briefly to offer his love. The atmosphere that day was almost identical to the day of my son’s passing – unusually warm, bright, and sunny. Ironic for the day that ushered in the darkest time of my life.

I never really grew up with a stable father-figure, so I often find myself quick to observe others. It’s become my quiet nature to watch other men show up as fathers, then I instinctively ask myself, “Is this what a father does? Is this what it looks like?”

In a way, my father-in-law has the presence of a butterfly. It’s beautiful, but all-too-fleeting. Sometimes I wish he’d linger a little longer – for life is so short and one day, all too soon, it will be over. We only live on this planet for 5 minutes and I’m learning to savor every second. I think, in a way, he tries to stay out of the way of our young family as we try to forge our own path. I respect that. Whatever his reasons, I’m deeply grateful for this good man and father; firstly, for bringing my sweet wife into this world, and for being such a loving grandfather to my children. His gentle and reaching ways always helped Mitch feel loved, seen, and heard. I could write a book on their sweet exchanges and the lessons this good man taught me.

We went to lunch briefly, then parted ways. Natalie and I were grateful for the moments we shared with her parents that day. On the anniversary of my life’s greatest trauma, my mind was quiet, my soul was at peace.

One of the recurring themes of Mitchell’s Journey is being still and learning to live in the moment. I’m not always good at it, but I am getting better. Today, in another place where I’m trying to serve people, I wrote of stillness and quieting our mind, “A quiet mind is an empowered mind. When fear and other blinding emotions are set aside, we give rise to our intuition.” I then asked the group how intuition has served them. One woman responded, “Learning to be still and quiet your mind after a lifetime of fear is unbelievably hard.” She then shared breadcrumbs that pointed to trying to cope with pain while not hurting herself or others. She asked, “What suggestions or baby steps do you have for anyone and everyone?”

This was my response:

Arriving at a place of stillness is challenging enough for people dealing with day-to-day distractions. It's especially challenging to do after someone has experienced protracted trauma. Finding peace and stillness while trying to cope with a storm of unrest that lies within is a tall order.

As a student of trauma and grief myself, I've discovered at least 4 things that have helped me quiet my mind and achieve stillness. I hope this is helpful:

STEP ONE: BE PATIENT, HEALING HURTS

Finding stillness seems like a distant dream when we're in pain. The very suggestion sounds impossible, even patently absurd. Understanding healing hurts and learning to be patient with ourselves while sorting through our pain is the first step. When we accept the idea healing hurts and give ourselves a little grace as we sort it out, we take the first and vital step toward stillness and peace. Pain is no longer a surprise, but something to be expected.

STEP TWO: HEALING BEGINS WITH FEELING

Though it sounds like step one, this second step is as distinct as fire is from water. Knowing that something hurts and allowing ourselves to hurt are very different indeed.

I've discovered that scheduling time to grieve and release emotion is a healthy practice and that it always leads to a measure of stillness and peace in the end. Allowing ourselves to experience "all the feels" is vital to our emotional and spiritual health. Running from or suppressing pain can alter our thinking in ways that harm ourselves and others. Letting pain course through us can be terrifying at first, but it is necessary if we're to do the deep work of healing. Processing pain can feel like a forceful sneeze; as we breathe in deeply, then let it out, we feel much better on the other side. Put simply, we cannot heal what we don't allow ourselves to feel.

STEP THREE: SEARCH FOR MEANING AND PURPOSE

The very suggestion that we search for meaning and purpose in our pain may sound like a trite slogan; however, it can be a powerful tool to discover deep stillness and peace.

When it comes to pain (or anything, really), the key is to not ask, "why me?" but rather, "what can I learn from this?" When we examine our struggles with the intent to learn and understand, we begin to see pain as our teacher, not our tormentor. This shift in how we see things can be a great source of understanding and understanding leads to peace, peace to stillness.

STEP FOUR: PRACTICE MAKES …

Perfect? Not always. But practice has the power to make things permanent. If we practice allowing ourselves to feel and to search for understanding, stillness will eventually come. It takes time, but if we practice, we can build a kind of emotional muscle memory that can take us through pain more quickly and to peace and stillness more readily.

Each day I’m learning the deep relationship between peace and quiet and how they contribute to healing.

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HELP ME NOT FALL
"Dad, will you hold my hand? Will you help me not fall?" Mitch said with a sweet, soft voice. I reached out to hold his hand as Mitch leaned down and reached into the crystal clear waters that flowed from a natural hot spring. "It's like a bath! Do you think I could swim in it?" Mitch was fascinated that nature could produce such bathy warm water, for until this moment, he only knew the icy streams that came from snowmelt.

We were at a father's & son's campout, and I was so excited to spend time with my boys. We played Frisbee on the grass and cooked our famous tin foil dinners and were the envy of every camper who could smell the magical meal cooking slowly in the glowing embers. Mitch loved my special recipe.

Later that evening, we would find ourselves huddled in our family tent, listening to a torrential downpour, exhilarated by the constant clash of thunder that boomed right above our heads. Mitch snuggled into me with his sleeping bag as I wrapped my arm around him and held him tight. Little Wyatt sat on my other side, lovingly held by my other arm. Ethan bravely sat with a smile and listened to the rain pound the walls of our tent, ready to pack up on a moment's notice were we to flood.

We made it through the night dry and un-drenched. I am grateful for those moments with my family. If I have a regret in life, it is that I didn't have enough of them. I did my best, but I wish I would have done more.

I often think back on this moment when Mitch asked for help to do something other children could have done with ease. His muscles were weak, and his balance always precarious. The slightest bump from someone could send him crashing to the ground. Often, Mitchie's plea was, "Help me not fall." Every time he said that I was reminded of everything I ever for granted.

Those words "help me not fall" will echo in my mind forever. As his father, I didn't want Mitch to fall and hurt himself; yet at the same time, I didn't want to rob my son the opportunity to do things on his own. Therein lies the delicate parental balance … to help enough to enable growth but not enough to rob it.

When I look back on my life then and now, it doesn't take much to recognize my spiritual Father is doing the same thing with me. His hand is often out of view, and if I'm not mindful, I go about my busy life, unaware of His helping hand.

Yet, every time I kneel and ask my Father to "help me not fall," I get a distinct impression that He is not only there … but that He has always been there – helping me just enough to enable growth, but never enough to rob it.

At least on some level, being a Father myself, I think I understand now; and I wouldn't have it any other way.