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My dear wife wanted to take our kids out last night so we could spend time as a family. Ethan is on a scout trip, but Laura-Ashley and Wyatt were with us. We visited a nearby pond Mitch loved to visit and capture sunsets with his iPod. Soon I will start exploring his iPod with his many photos, videos and other things he created. I will share some of that here, too. It is sure to be a tender, emotional experience.

Natalie and Laura-Ashley ran to the store to get a loaf of bread while Wyatt and I waited on the dock. Wyatt and I talked about our plans for the summer and I was as excited to spend time with him as any person on earth. 

It wasn't long before the girls returned and we began to feed the gaggle geese and all manner of web-footed creatures that seemed to know the party was just about to start and came racing to the dock. Our aim was to throw little pieces of bread near the baby ducks so they could eat first. These baby ducks were so little, fast and light they could almost run on top of the water. They were so very cute. Mitch loved baby animals.

I loved last night. I loved every second of it. There couldn't have been a more perfect night. Well, if Mitch were with us, in the way we want him with us, it would have been whole. But, like my friend and author John Michael Stuart taught me about what it means to be human, “Perfect is a relative term.” With what we had, last night was perfect and for that I am grateful.

My heart was at peace last night because I was so grateful to be surrounded by people I love with all my heart. I’m just an imperfect man and I know I am hard to live with at times – and I am grateful they still keep me. Although imperfect I love my family perfectly – at least I think I do. That is until I fall deeper in love with my wife and kids and realize all the love I thought I knew was just beginning. To my surprise the depths of love grow deeper still.

I miss my little Mitch and I am slowly learning how to live without him. One of the great challenges for those who grieve the death of a child is learning how to reconcile the past, make peace with a painful present and look to the future with a hope of an easier tomorrow. No small task.

I love the words of Elana K. Arnold, “Perhaps that is where our choice lies -- in determining how we will meet the inevitable end of things, and how we will greet each new beginning.” It seems to me that is the quintessential story of life; a series of painful ends and hopeful beginnings – and how we respond to them shape us in ways we do not yet realize.

I am grateful for each new day, a chance to begin again. Yet, I needn't wait for tomorrow to begin again … for every moment of every day is a chance to begin anew.

Last night was a blessing; for there was peace in my heart, beauty all around and most importantly more love than I knew what to do with. Every moment I am learning, and when I stumble with grief or life, I choose to begin anew.

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It was April 2012, Mitchell’s last spring, and we were about to head home from our annual Easter trip at our family ranch. A few weeks prior I had returned from a business trip in Honduras and was so glad to be back with my family. The US State Department issued a travel warning indicating the risk was critically high, having the highest murder rate in the world. While there I was careful, but I found the people of that country beautiful, kind and my heart went out to them. I fell in love with their people and wished only to help them. Coming home was especially sweet because I realized how blessed I have been. The lyrics to the song “Because I have Been Given Much, I Too Must Give” kept playing in my mind.

While I have enjoyed traveling the world a little, I have discovered how much my family is my world. I would sooner explore the peaks and valleys of family life with them than visit all the wonders of earth. 

As I took this photo of my kids I remember feeling the genuine, unrestrained love among these children. My heart sang. Mitch surrounded by siblings and a cousin proudly wore the soccer jersey I gave him as a souvenir from Honduras. Unlike his siblings, Mitchie would wear his souvenirs long after my other kids moved on from theirs. It wasn't that my other children were ungrateful; Mitch just had a heart that was more sentimental than the average person. While he loved getting things, he appreciated the meaning behind things even more. You could give him a paperclip and say, “I got this for you because it reminded me how sweet you are.” Mitch would treasure that simple paperclip as an emblem of affection. Sweet Mitch was the keeper of many virtues; chief among them, gratitude. I love that little boy.

At this moment I had no idea we would have less than a year with our son. No one handed me a memo that read, “Mind your moments, it’s later than you think.” 

A few weeks from this photo we would get just such a memo from Mitchell’s cardiologist that read, “Beware: Mitchell’s heart is in trouble.” We had hope medicine would slow the catastrophic muscle wasting to his heart, but we were awakened to the harsh realities of DMD, once again. I remember not sleeping well the night we got the first memo. I went to my computer and put this video together. (vimeo.com/42931543) In many respects, this was my first real post on Mitchell’s Journey. Sure I’ve back-dated some early photos, but this was my first, clunky attempt at sharing the gravity of it all. 

Within six months of this photo, we would get second memo that our son was in serious trouble and was at risk of sudden death. Within 10 months, a memo our son would die any day. Then, a few weeks later, the end. 

I wonder how often life has handed me a memo and I ignored it because I was too proud, too preoccupied or simply chasing squirrels. I have always tried to manage life’s memos, but being human I am sure I missed some. I know I cannot change the past, redo missed moments, nor can I undo my mistakes however big or small; but I can own my moments … from this moment to forever. I get it now. I got the memo. 

I cannot wait for the day I get the memo that says “Your son is just around the corner.” For I will run to him with paperclips and kisses and a heart overflowing with love. I think I will cry. Forever.

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“Though my heart, at times, feels heavier than all the planets combined, I am so grateful to have raised this little boy … that I can call him mine. Though I thought I was to teach my son the things of life and love and heaven above, I now see things differently. I was mistaken, you see: I was never meant to teach my son, for he was teaching me.”

Every so often people come into our lives and shape us a little. Then, less often, there are those who change everything. Little Mitch changed my everything.

I cannot look at this photo and not be overcome by the tenderest of feelings for my son. In less than a second I go from a grown man to a fumbling boy tripping over my little heart. Immediately I feel weak at the knees and my heart swells, then it breaks and strangely heals – all in the same moment of reflection. My tears, too, are of a strange variety: at once they're tears of sorrow and gratitude, of longing and belonging, tears of love and hope. 

I remember this day with little Mitch so well; and, as time passes, I am finding that my memories are both a blessing and a burden. My memories are so clear but they sometimes come at a cost. 

Never a day passed that Mitch wasn't showered with loves and kisses by Natalie and me; and never a day passed he didn't want to do the same to us, in kind. I loved how affectionate he was. I never imagined a love so deep.

I think I'm finally beginning to understand the words of Washington Irving who said, “There is a sacredness in tears....They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition and of unspeakable love.” 

I realize I can't run from grief, but I can run with it. However heavy, grief is my constant companion, a weight equal to my love and I will carry it until the day I die. If I carry it well, I know I will get stronger and it may feel less heavy. But it will still be grief, and there will still be the deepest of sorrow. I'm reminded of the saying, “It never gets easier, you just get stronger.” So it is with grief, I believe.

Grief is a curious thing. I find myself with prolonged moments of robustness and clarity of mind; my heart steady and calm. On balance I'm high-functioning throughout the day. Then in an instant, without warning or permission, a memory flashes through my mind, the color of light, a smell, a faint thought … a quiet whisper to the mind … or a little hand-written note from my son slips from a drawer to the floor … and everything falls apart.

Though my heart, at times, feels heavier than all the planets combined, I am so grateful to have raised this little boy … that I can call him mine. Though I thought I was to teach my son the things of life and love and heaven above, I now see things differently. I was mistaken, you see: I was never meant to teach my son, for he was teaching me.

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Just a few days before my son went into end-stage heart failure I sat on the edge of his bed and talked about what he wanted to do for the summer. It was the end of January and the winter air chilled us to the bone, so we stayed inside and took a little comfort dreaming of warmer days ahead. At the time of this photo, he was hanging by a thread and a pebble … hours away from tumbling into the abyss. I knew my son was in trouble but I didn't know he would die in a few short weeks. I thought we had more time; but then again, everyone does.

Mitch lifted his faithful puppy into his arms then told me he wanted to work for his grandmother at the ranch. Although he was still too young to work there he was anxious to take on more responsibility and earn some money. At 10 years old, Mitch was already saving up for a home and wanted to be sure he could take care of his future wife and family. I was surprised how often this young boy talked of being a husband and dad one day. Mitch had big plans for the future and was already taking strides to get there. Yet, even under the best of circumstances Mitch wouldn't have seen such days and I was pained to carry that secret in my heart. Death was coming for my son, no matter what.

I knew in my mind by the time Mitch would have been old enough to work at the ranch (about the age of 12-13, or two years from the time of this photo) his muscle wasting would have already reached a point he wouldn't be able to use his arms, let alone walk. From there, it would only be a matter of time before he could no longer breathe on his own. Such is the uncompromising burden of Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy. It is brutal and spares no one.

So, as I sat on the edge of my son’s bed listening to the desires of his heart, my soul ached for him. As his father, I wanted only for his happiness and wellbeing. Though I knew I couldn't save him from DMD, I knew that I could love and care for him as long as I had him. 

Mitch often spoke to me through his eyes and he did just that on this occasion. I remember being taken aback because his eyes spoke deeply to me this day … it was almost as if he knew the end was near and he wanted me to know that he sensed it. 

Though we had great oral conversations, Mitch spoke to me in ways that transcended the spoken word. I have many, many photos where Mitch isn't just looking at me, he is speaking to me. What’s more, I found I could be across the room and see a look in his eyes and intuitively know just what he needed or was thinking. The same was true of him toward me. I always considered it a tender mercy to talk to my son that way.

I once heard a saying that changed the way I thought about communication. It reads, “Among the more meaningful and honest aspects of communication is hearing what is not said aloud.” I believe there is great truth to this. Perhaps it’s when we’re not listening to the conversation within the conversation, when we ignore breadcrumbs or don’t read between the lines … it is then that we get ourselves in trouble; in relationships, in business and in life. 

Mitch trained me how to hear what is not said aloud; that hearing the inaudible is not only the language of relationships but also the soul.

I hope and pray that I will have ears to hear … everything.