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Tiny Mitch reached up to grab a door handle that stood just above his head. He had an almost tangible curiosity about him this day – so much so, he would have seemed mischievous if he wasn’t so innocent. With a soft tug, his chubby hand and tiny little fingers began to pull downward. If you were listening carefully, you could hear the old springs in the handle ping and pong as rusty mechanics started to move.

To an adult, this was just an ordinary doorknob. To this little boy, that golden handle was a gateway to endless curiosities just beyond the finger-smudged glass.

Tiny Mitch didn’t realize I was following him, so I kept my distance and zoomed in with my lens. By this time in his life, he was so used to the sounds of my camera, he had no idea I was shadowing him. I followed him because I wanted to keep my tiny boy safe from harm … but I was also curious to get a glimpse into his little mind and heart. “I wonder what he does when no one is looking …”, I thought to myself.

As the door opened, Mitch walked outside … and, like a good little boy, he closed the door behind him to keep the cold Wyoming wind from stealing away the warmth of the cabin. Then Mitch crawled backward from the edge of the old wood patio, down a few stairs, and began to tromp on grass browned by an early winter’s chill. I waited patiently until his back turned, then I opened the door quietly and stepped outside. A kitty approached him, and Mitch began to talk to it in ways only a 2-year-old can know. Softly he hugged his furry friend and kissed its head. I smiled at Mitchie’s goodness and wanted some of that to rub off on me. After a few minutes of furry love, Mitch began to walk toward a bush that was home to a little bird’s nest, or so it seemed. He got on his tippy toes as he pulled a branch down only to see an abandoned nest. Mitch smiled softly, then turned to explore a pile of wood. He talked to himself and hummed nursery songs. At this moment, my heart broke open and poured out more love than it could possibly hold. I never knew how much love a heart could hold until that moment.

What I learned about little Mitch that day was how much he loved to be alive, even as a toddler. I also discovered anew how much little things matter. He found joy in the smallest of things. There wasn’t a flower he walked by that he didn’t lean in to smell softly. Not a furry pet he didn’t want to love, or a sunset admire. Mitch not only taught me how to love him, but how to love everything and everyone.

Later that night, I knelt in a prayer of gratitude for the gift of little ones. I thought I had known love before I had a child. But, I soon discovered a love so deep that it changed me from the inside out. Completely. Even still, when I think I’ve reached the furthest depths of love for my children, I find that it continues to deepen with each passing day. How deep that love will go, I cannot say. I only know my love is deeper than it was yesterday.

If ever I am discouraged about a personal failure or disappointment, this image gives me hope. It reminds me that, in the grand scheme of things, we’re all toddlers reaching to open doors and make new discoveries. And though we may be imperfect, our Father sees us reach and try, and we are loved. That is no small thing.

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Early in my grief journey, I often wondered, “When everything hurts, how will I know I’m healing?”

There was a time, not long after his passing, and for some time after, the very sight of Mitchell’s things was painful to see. I remember his Velcro-strap shoes sitting on the edge of his bed. They were, by design, light as a feather so he could walk more easily. The moment I saw these shoes, they reminded me how difficult walking had become for him. Each step in the hallway at school was a risk; the slightest bump from another child could have sent him falling fast to the floor. Without the strength and coordination to break his fall, he would hit the ground hard. His muscles were getting weaker – and time on his feet more precious. These tender shoes were a reminder of his fragile existence and a symbol of his mother’s love.

When I saw these shoes, I wept like a child. I would have done anything to trade places with him.

Though these shoes were painful to see, for a time, I’m not one to make rash decisions – especially with memories. I could have, like others who cope with grief, swept everything away. I could have swiftly removed anything that might have brought back memories that hurt. While that can be a valid path for some who grieve, I chose a different path. I chose to sit with my pain. I wanted to look at the things that hurt me and healed me, for both are my teachers.

For the first two years, I wept every single day. I didn’t cry. I wept. So-much-so, my lungs were sore and I felt like I had a persistent flu. Every. Single. Day. When we left town, I felt an existential panic leaving my son at the cemetery. It was nightmarish. When it rained, I wanted to race to the cemetery to protect his place of rest. Somewhere deep inside me, I felt a flurry of worry – that if I didn’t have the power to protect his life, at least I could protect him in death. Grief has a way of triggering irrational feelings from a very rational pain.

For me, darkness covered the whole earth; and though I walked among people, I was living in a different dimension. Within the first few months of my son’s passing, I wrote an essay entitled “Walking on Jupiter” where I described the gravity of grief, the thinness of the air, and the difficulty of living. Earth, with all its pedestrian concerns, seemed so very far away. At the same time, I could carry a conversation with a smile … and were I to shake your hand, you probably wouldn’t know the nightmare I was living. Everything hurt.

In private, it felt like I was consigned to an eternity of sorrow. Everything hurt. Even sleep hurt; every morning and night, as I’d drift in and out of sleep, I felt the unbridled panic and sorrow of my son’s passing. It would play out in my mind like a vivid dream and I couldn’t tell if it was happening in that moment or if it happened in the past. There was something about that in-between stage of consciousness that left me especially vulnerable.

It wasn’t long in my grief journey I learned that healing hurts – and that was the first vital step for me. I found if I gave myself space to grieve, the darkness would pass sooner. Moments of acute grief, at least for me, was like a building sneeze: the sooner I let it out, the better I felt. Even still, the general heaviness of grief weighed on my shoulders like a led blanket no matter how much I sneezed.

As far as I can tell, healing isn’t discernable day-to-day. Like getting older or gaining/losing weight, we have to step away from the mirror for a minute. And therein lies the curious paradox of healing: that opposites can be true at the same time.

For example, I’m a believer in living an examined life. That means looking in the mirror and studying what I see, including the things that hurt me. It’s not enough to simply look at our pain, but how we look at our suffering makes the difference. At the same time, I’ve discovered that we must also look away and get busy living. To do one at the expense of the other is to thwart and sometimes deny deeper healing. For me, the choice to look or live has a kind of ebb and flow about it; a delicate dance of the soul.

How do I know I’m healing when everything hurts? I start by recognizing this: if I’m hurting, I’m probably on the path to healing. For one cannot heal without hurting.

The rest is up to me. Sometimes I look, other times I live. Together, they help me heal.

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The other day, Natalie and I were walking near a reservoir by our home. We often go on walks and talk about our kids, our hopes for the future, and of course, little Mitch.

At one point, we noticed a tiny puppy scurrying about on his front legs while his back legs dragged lifelessly behind him. My first impulse, aside from shock, was to feel profoundly sorry for this little pup. As we approached to pet him, we noticed some friends of ours who used to live in our neighborhood. It turned out this good family adopted this puppy who had sustained a paralyzing injury when he was just a few months old.

As we were catching up with our friends, I couldn’t help but reach down several times to hold and kiss this little guy. He was so tender, curious, and full of puppy-like energy. In many ways, this little pup reminded me of Mitch: broken and tender, yet happy and full of life.

At one point, Julie, his adopted mother, and former veterinarian said, “Don’t feel sorry for him. He’s happy and doesn’t know any different.”

I was struck by the deep truth and wisdom of her words. Later that night, I thought about what she said over and over and over.

It occurred to me that sometimes we limit empathy to feelings of sorrow for another’s struggle. But empathy is much more than that. It’s about mirroring and experiencing the feelings of others – for better or worse. Empathy is about getting on someone’s level and seeing life through their lens and feeling with their heart.

In the case of this puppy, he was as happy as any furry kid I’ve ever seen. My temptation to feel sorry for him was irrelevant to his circumstance. He was happy and loved by his family, and that’s all that mattered. And because he was happy, I was happy.

Over the years, through Mitchell’s Journey, I’ve worked with many people who struggle with mental health, grief, and wellness. The struggles range from depression, feelings of low self-worth, grief, the loss of faith, processing past trauma, and so much more. My heart goes out to everyone who suffers.

As I’ve observed comments here and other places, I’ve discovered that it isn’t helpful to superimpose what we think or feel to another person’s circumstances – because what we’re experiencing in their moment of struggle is almost always irrelevant to their circumstance. When we see someone struggle, we often hear phrases like, “Don’t be sad. Your loved one wouldn’t want you to see you hurt.” Or “Everything happens for a reason.” Or “They’re in a better place now.” Or “Just don’t give up on your faith.” Each of these clichés is about as useless as they are meaningless. Though often well-meaning, these statements (and others like them) dismiss the suffering of the one who’s injured.

If I’m to help a friend, a neighbor, or a stranger – the deeper practice of empathy requires me to get on their level, see the world through their eyes, and feel what they feel. Then, and only then have I practiced deep empathy. That is the essence and truest form of mourning with those that mourn and comforting those who stand in need of comfort. It is not an easy practice, but it is powerful when we apply it.

Empathy has big ears and a small mouth. It listens more than it speaks. And when it speaks, it says things like, “I’m so sorry. Please know that I care.” Or “That must be difficult.” Or “I can see how that would be hard.” Most importantly, empathy is felt more than it’s heard. It’s not the words we say, but how we say them. It’s not just about listening to words spoken; it’s about hearing what’s not said aloud.

When I think of little Mitch, though he was not strong enough to do things like healthy kids, he, like this puppy, was happy to be alive. Natalie always demonstrated compassionate empathy with Mitch. She helped when he needed it but did not allow pity for what might have been to rob him of what he had. Mitch, like this puppy, enjoyed independence. Perhaps that's what inspired Mitch to say, "Be nice to each other and be glad you're alive. Nothing else matters." He valued kindness and life above all things.

So, as I look to practice deeper empathy, I’ll remember what this little puppy and his parents taught me. I’ll suspend my thoughts and feelings so I can listen and learn, understand and relate; because empathy has less to do with how I feel about someone’s circumstance and more to do with how that person (or puppy) feels about it.

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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.