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Natalie carefully helped young Mitch to the examination table for a routine cardiology exam. Mitch smiled at his mom as she gently lifted his hand and kissed it and then told our son how much she loved him. Little Mitch gave her a hand-hug and my heart was overflowing. Suddenly I lost my breath as the thought occurred to me: “This is my Everest.” 

Life has so many mountains to climb. I would rather traverse the valleys and rolling hills with the summer breeze at my back. I would take up my abode by the gentle stream and beautiful lake and look upon Everest like a painting, admiring its majesty from the comfort of my rocking chair. But such was not my lot. 

This was the day we learned Mitch had cardiomyopathy; that DMD had prematurely destroyed his heart and his life was in jeopardy. Over the next 9 months, each checkup revealing things were getting worse, I found myself no longer looking at Everest, but scaling it. 

I can see the summit far in the distance. Basecamp, I can scarcely see below. The air is thin and bitter cold as storms circle about. This Everest is bewildering and its difficulty is matched only by its majesty. Many people don’t reach the summit; they retreat, lose their way or find easier paths that lead to lesser summits. Some never come back. 

While this hardship is daunting and I often worry I’m not prepared for such a journey, I have developed a spiritual connection with this Everest. I have learned it is not my enemy, but my teacher. It is merely an obstacle I must climb in order that I might grow. 

And on that fateful day when I reach the summit, where the air is thinnest and the stars barely out of reach, I know I will see far into the horizon … things that cannot be seen in valleys, or by gentle streams.

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About a week after my son passed away I walked into his room and found his faithful puppy Marlie sleeping at the foot of his bed waiting for him. Upon seeing this I immediately fell to my knees and began to sob. Although my vision was blurred by tears I eventually noticed the white rose on his pillow that was left by the mortuary when they came to take my son away. It hit me in a way it hadn't before … my sweet son was gone. Really gone. The weight of grief was so profound at this moment that breathing was nearly impossible and in many ways death for me would have been a sweet release. Of course, I know better but the aching in my heart was visceral and brute. 

Last weekend, eight months later, we watched a Primary program from the children in my church. It was beautiful and my heart was filled with gratitude for the women who volunteered their time and talents to create such a special occasion for parents to see their little ones shine. I kept my eye trained on Wyatt and I was so proud of him. I tried to stay focused on my youngest boy and I smiled and winked at him often. I wanted him to know he was loved. But at some point during the program my eyes scanned the landscape of young faces and I saw Mitchell’s classmates and best friends. Once again I was overwhelmed with the harsh reality my sweet son is gone. Really gone. As I watched these children sing my heart fell to the floor and was trampled by a stampede of brutal emotions. I did everything I could to keep from weeping and I almost lost it 1,000 times. Every second was a battle to remain composed. As beautiful as that program was, it was a very difficult day because a very special boy was gone.

Today Mitchell’s room remains relatively untouched. On his wall hangs a Halo calendar with February still on display. His drawers are filled his treasures just as he left them; Cub Scout advancements waiting to be sewn to his uniform, his favorite candy, unfinished Lego projects, a closet filled with things he treasured. Behind his door, hanging from a coat hook, is his backpack with January homework assignments he worked diligently to complete. On his bedpost are two of my hats he wanted to wear while he was home on hospice, which I gladly gave him and adjusted them to his head so they would fit properly. The deep sentimentalist inside me doesn't think I can wear them again. 

When we eat meals as a family we often don’t realize, as a matter of habit, we've set 6 places at the table until we’re seated. Five seats are occupied. One seat, visibly empty. Nobody says a word about it and we carry about our usual business of catching up with each other and enjoying conversation. We smile, laugh and talk about life today and our memories of yesterday. 

As a family we are not morose and we naturally celebrate all that is good in our lives. But, deep inside me, the father who desperately seeks after his lost son, anguishes that he is gone. 

At moments when I least expect it powerful emotions come barging into my life. And when they do, they are soul-rending and utterly heartbreaking. Like a drowning man gasps for air, I find myself at times gasping for my son in a sea of grief. Thankfully these moments are less frequent, but they are no less powerful and overwhelming.

I often hear of stereotypical fathers who never show emotion and seemingly never feel them. If there are such men in the world, sometimes in my moments of grief, I envy them. But, alas, I am not that kind of father – nor do I ever want to be – because when I love, I am me.

Since Mitchell’s passing I have had moments of peace that defy human experience. I have had some experiences that are so sacred I will never share them publicly. But I will say that I know my son lives. But he is over there. And I am here. And even though I have a spiritual understanding of things as they really are, that doesn't keep my heart from breaking. And sometimes my soul weeps. 

Love and sorrow are part of the mortal journey. Both exquisite, both dear teachers of the soul; and I will forever be their student.

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It was summer and the color of the evening sun had poured into the room like a glass of warm orange juice. Grandpa hiked his pant legs a little as he sat down to tell my small children some tall tales. My little ones sat around him (Mitch on the right), captivated and smiling as their grandfather lovingly wove a story of fiction, magic, and a little bit of nonsense. 

Mitch tugged softly at my arm as he pointed to the glowing lint floating in the air as it crossed paths with the window. He said in a whisper, “Dad, it looks like space.” I put my arm around him as he began to lay his head into my chest. Time slowed to a near halt as we had one of those perfect moments you wish could last forever. There were no digital screens to look at, no ear buds drowning out the world, no text messages, RSS feeds and other suffocating distractions … nothing but each other, love and the lost art of storytelling.

I remember admiring my father-in-law [a man who is as kind-hearted as he is good] connect with my children in his own, unique way. I was grateful for this soft moment. As my children were swept away in story my mind drifted to other things. I couldn't help but think of my son, a little boy who had done the world no harm yet was victim to a deadly disease from which there was no escape. Although he appeared healthy, I knew that he was dying faster than the rest of us. And that broke my heart.

When I leaned down to kiss Mitchell’s forehead he put his hand on the side of my face as if to keep me there and whispered, “I love you dad.” My eyes welled as I whispered back, “I love you more.” 

As I lifted my head and looked at a wise grandfather spend time and loving attention with my children I began to think about the passage of time and the natural order of life. It occurred to me that before we know it, age will catch up to this wonderful man and he will soon pass away. Whatever material possessions he may have accumulated will matter not. Neither will popularity or prestige. The only thing he will take with him is what he has become. And the echo of his choices will be the only lasting inheritance he will pass on to the generations that follow. 

As I sat in this room surrounded by a family that I love deeply, I began to contemplate the echoes we make, the ripples our choices have on ourselves and others. They can build or destroy. They can be loud as thunder or soft as whispers. They can last generations or be silenced in less than one. 

Author Peggy O’Mara said “The way we talk to our children becomes their inner voice.” I found this to be true, at least for me. I hope that any inpatient or unkind word I may have ever said to my son was drowned out by how much and how often I tried to love him. And I hope that when my son was passing that he found comfort in his inner voice – that he looked forward with faith, not fear. That he knew he was loved by those of us here ... and the many that are over there.

As I peer into the abyss of death, unable to see with mortal eyes what exactly lies within, I can hear the echo of my son; his goodness, his love, his obedience and faith. I hope that I carry his echo forward. 

Losing my precious son has been a painful reminder that suns set, seasons change, leaves fall, and so do our bodies – if I cannot carry his echo and pass on that which is good, I will have failed indeed.

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During his short life Mitch was blessed with some very special relationships. Evan, one of his older cousins, was one such blessing. 

Whenever possible Evan had Mitch on his shoulders, physically or emotionally, and helped him do what was difficult or lonely. At every family event this good soul always seemed to make sure my son was included. Mitch loved him like a brother and I know Evan loved him, too. That’s the funny thing about service: you can’t help but love and be loved. I wonder how many world conflicts could be solved by serving with love those we are tempted to hate.

In so many ways, it seemed as if Evan and Mitch were cut from the same spiritual cloth and that somehow, in some heavenly place before they came to earth, they knew each other … and well. 

When Mitch was sick and dying, just a few days before he passed, Evan called my phone and left a tender and loving message just for Mitch. I wept and I wept when I heard it. When I put myself together I shared it with Mitch and he cried, too. He didn't cry because he was sad, he cried because he was loved, and he felt it. Once again Evan put Mitch on his shoulders and carried him a ways. That message is still on my phone and I cannot bring myself to delete it. 

I’m convinced on the shoulders of giants and noble kings are the people they serve. They don’t use their stature to be served by others, but rather to serve others. The giants of which I speak lift so others might see and do things that are out of reach. And noble kings do the same, in kind. Neither gives thought to keeping score, ever looking to serve others more. 

If ever I lose my way and forget how to live and love, I will look to this image and remember the special bond between these noble souls. This is how I want to live and love – and I am grateful for these young boys for teaching me.