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During Mitchell's last Christmas, he had two Secret Santa’s that did variations on the 12-days of Christmas. This quiet, daily act of love was performed by two caring neighborhood families, who to this day have remained anonymous.

I was humbled how they went out of their way to give Mitch a lift and offer a glimpse of hope and happiness to a little boy who was very sick and whose parents' hearts trembled with fear.

Each evening they placed a thoughtful package at our door addressed to our son with a thoughtful note and gift from the heart. I hesitate to show one photo (as seen here) because I don’t want either of these families to think their gifts were any less valued. The truth was, each night as Natalie and I went to bed we wept tears of gratitude for both anonymous families and we prayed that whoever was responsible for being so good to our son would be blessed 100-fold.

When I look back on my photos of Mitchell's last December & January I'm shocked sometimes to see how sick our son looked. Every day Mitch was getting sicker and weaker - but as I saw his reaction to these Secret Santa gifts he would bounce back a little and find new energy. Mitch loved the surprise but he loved the thoughtfulness even more so.

My sweet wife, ever the thoughtful giver, has also shown me over the years by her quiet example that gifts can be the instruments of our affection … a way of saying “I understand you” or “I care.” In the end, the gifts that last [the ones with the greatest impact] are never really about the objects we give each other but instead are found in the meaning behind them. A thoughtful gift is a gift twice.

I hope those who gave our son the gift of love and care know how much that meant to us – but even more, what it did for little Mitch. The photo on the right was Mitch on his last Christmas Eve. We were eating his favorite dinner but he wasn't feeling well. Looking back, knowing what we know now, he was experiencing end-stage heart failure.

I'll never forget how Mitch reached for my hand and asked in a quiet voice, “Dad, do you know who’s giving me those gifts?” I told him I didn't know but that I knew they loved him – otherwise they wouldn't have been so kind. He smiled softly and said, “I wish I could thank them.”

In honor of my son’s wishes to thank whoever gave those gifts, I want to thank you for him and hope you know that your gifts were a gift twice.

In fact, looking back, your gifts weren't just a gift twice, they were a gift thrice.

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Parenthood has been the most difficult yet rewarding experience of my life. I wish I could say I did it perfectly, but I didn’t … and I don’t. Nobody really does. Anymore, I don’t try to be the perfect parent … I just try to be loving and kind … to be the father and mentor I wish I had growing up. It is difficult at times because I don’t know what to emulate – so I just try to be what I never had. I try to be what I wish I had, and that’s the best know to do.

At the end of my days, when I kneel before my Father and account for my life, I hope He looks upon my efforts in the same way I try to look upon my children … with a heart of compassion, pleased with the effort and personal growth over the illusory achievement of perfection.

When Mitch came home with a drawing or school assignment, I was always so proud of how hard he tried. I would hug him and kiss his face and tell him, “Great job, son. I’m so proud of you. Keep trying, and you’ll better and better.” Always, there were imperfections in his drawings … but for him, he did it perfectly. Perfection is a relative term, for he was a young child and did the work of a young child. I didn’t care about flawless execution … at his age, I wanted him to be recognized for doing a little better than the time before. I wanted him to believe in himself and be proud of his accomplishments. As far as I can tell, belief-in-self is the bedrock of education and the scaffolding of character. At the same time, I am a strong believer in providing corrective feedback to know where to stretch ourselves the next time. But, always, offering my children earned praise is high on my list of to-dos as a father.

On this occasion, my neighbor and friend, Jeff Winegar, offered to take our family to Snowbird so Mitch could participate in an adaptive sports program for kids with disabilities. Mitch was nervous about it because he knew he wasn’t very strong and that what little strength he did have would dissipate quickly. “What if I fall, Dad?” Mitch would ask me nervously. I assured him he wouldn’t be required to do anything for which he didn’t have the strength and that they had something special for him to be safe and have fun. Mitch sat in a small carriage attached to two skis. Behind him were two purple tethers, which allowed an adult to ski behind Mitch and control his speed down the mountain. All Mitch needed to do was lean right or left as he decided where he wanted to ski down the mountainside.

I asked my friend Jeff to be on a tether while I skied backward to take a million photos of my son. I loved looking at Mitchell’s expressions of glee as the cold wind rushed against his rose-colored cheeks. At first, I saw an expression that seemed to say, “This isn’t so bad. I’m not scared anymore.” Then later, his face seemed to say, “I’ve got this! I can do it!” I was so proud of Mitch and overwhelmed with gratitude as I saw my son’s countenance filled with a new form of self-confidence. He couldn’t race down the mountain like an Olympian, nor was he required to, but he could bravely face the steep slopes and do what he could, with the heart of an Olympian. That is winning, too.

I remember kneeling in prayer that night, thanking my Father for giving my son such a great experience. I also thanked Him for giving me the blessing of children - a gift for which I'm eternally grateful. Because of Mitch, I try to grow a little on the inside each day, just like he tried. If I color a little outside the lines, I recognize it and try to do better next time.

Maybe that’s the point of it all … to get better a little on the inside each time. Musicians do it, athletes do it, academics do it … nobody achieves greatness in an instant … but through getting a little better each time. And those who have mastered their craft will each say it comes from within. It always comes from within. Each day. A little on the inside.

About a month ago I pre-recorded a virtual keynote for a conference in Israel. I was honored to share our son's story with this remarkable group of medical professionals, caretakers, parents, and patients. When I'm asked to speak, hosts usually ask me to spend 1-2 hours (which goes by in a blink) - so condensing this to 15 minutes was a challenge.

The title of this keynote was "The In-Between: Why the little moments matter more than you think." Translated in Hebrew and Arabic, It was an extension of an earlier keynote I gave for PPMD where I suggested the best moments in our life exist in the in-between. At the end of the day, when we long for what we lost, we don't long for trips ... we long for the ordinary. In an earlier essay, I wrote "I miss everything in between. I miss everything that was ever routine."

At least for me, grief has taught me the very things I long to do with those who are gone are the things I should be doing with those who are now living. Time is such a slippery thing ...