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Last weekend I was invited to give a keynote to a remarkable organization whose mission is to support families after a child dies. The non-profit is called The Compassionate Friends (TCF) and they just had their 38th annual national conference in Dallas. People from all over North America were in attendance and I was struck by TCF’s leadership, organization, workshops and tools they provided attendees to help bereaved parents and siblings navigate their way through grief. 

Until Saturday night, I had never spoken to an audience with such a concentration of personal grief. Virtually everyone in attendance, with perhaps the exception of the sound and light technicians, had lost a child or sibling. Every person was carrying the heaviest of burdens – yet carried with them the hope of a better tomorrow. As I shared the story of my own loss and our family’s journey through life, hospice, death and grief, I realized each of them had their own story. I found myself wishing the roles were reversed and that I could learn from them. 

Here are 4 things I shared at the end of my presentation … my personal observations on grief, hope and healing:

GRIEF IS LIKE FIRE
Grief is like a flame that cannot be extinguished. As long as I love, there will be fire. What the flame means to me … what it does to me or for me is found in how I carry it. The flame of grief can either burn me or help me see. 

THE LANGUAGE OF GRIEF
Like love languages, grief has its unique language, too. Our grief language can be as different as our fingerprints or personalities – we may share similarities, but we also have differences. If we allow our loves ones to grieve in their own way, we may find beauty in the ashes.

HEALING HURTS
At least for me, I’ve observed that healing hurts. And hurting is a necessary path to healing. The less I resist the hurt, the more I allow my grief and sorrow to run through my body and soul, the sooner the storm passes. Though I am only 2 years into my grief journey, I can promise you that the storm will eventually break. However much the sky may be pitch as night, the sun will rise again. I promise. But the sun will also set. Grief will come and go for the rest of our lives.

GATHER GRATITUDE
One of the more healing aspects of my personal grief recovery has been in finding gratitude for everything. Alan Pedersen, the Executive director of TCF wisely observed at the beginning of the conference, “We aren’t here because our children died, but because they lived.” Alan’s observation was empowering and altered the way we see things.

So I told the audience, in like manner, if we focus on the positive things we may find that our cup, though cracked and tattered by grief and sorrow may still be overflowing. Gratitude for the time we had, the lessons we learned and the things that remain … gratitude is a gift we can give to ourselves. Gratitude is a supernal gift because it heals and mends. 

As I ended my address I did what any thoughtful person might do … I wondered if I hit the mark and began to contemplate what I could have done better. By the time I found my seat I had already thought of 15 things I could have done differently to offer a little more help and hope. I thought to myself, “Okay little Mitch, next time … I’ll say those things next time.” 

Yet, when I stop and think about that experience with TCF, I realize that there is no single book, no keynote presentation, no music, no piece of art … no single thing fixes the sorrow. Yet, compassionate friends … those people who empathize and care … people who lift one another’s burdens and love each other for just being them … that has the power to heal broken hearts and broken souls to mend. 

There are few things as powerful and healing as the compassion of friends. As TCF wisely says, “you need not walk alone.” 

www.compassionatefriends.org

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About a week ago I was approached by a Mitchell's Journey follower who had something in common with our family. Her Charlie and our Mitchell were both students of a very special preschool teacher who was about to retire. Both of our children had also passed away. 

So, yesterday Natalie and I attended a retirement banquet for this remarkable woman who played in important role in our son's life. She was a tender mercy for our boy as she helped him make a delicate transition to school. Mitch quickly grew in confidence because of the way she encouraged and guided him. We hadn't seen her for about 10 years so this was a special reunion. At her display table was a kind of memorial with photos of all of her students throughout her career - an evidence this woman was a remarkable teacher who loved her students. The best educators are the ones that teach with love of topic and student. 

Next to the collage of former students was a larger panel with tributes to three of her special needs students who passed away, Mitch being one of them. It was a tender reunion filled with a lot of love and gratitude. 

Here Natalie writes a note to "Mrs. Nancy" thanking her for being so kind and loving to our baby. We had never forgotten her and she clearly remembered little Mitch. When we moved from our first home a decade ago we thought we'd never cross paths with this remarkable teacher again. Fate, or providence, would have it otherwise.

It is interesting how at any given moment we might think a person in our lives a solitary, temporary thread ... unaware how woven our lives may become. The people and events in our lives make for a fascinating tapestry we may not appreciate, or even see, until deep in the twilight of our own lives.

instagram.com/mitchells_journey/

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It wasn't long ago my dear wife came into my basement office and handed me a sealed envelope. It was another breadcrumb left behind by our tender son that had been sitting in a small stack of papers waiting to be organized. On the front of the envelope was Mitchell’s handwriting in purple crayon addressed to his best friend Luke. As my wife gestured me to open it, my hands trembled a little. Actually, they trembled a lot. This undelivered letter was from Mitchie’s last real birthday (April 29th 2012).

As I opened the envelope and then the carefully folded paper, I felt that all-too-familiar lump in my throat begin to grow. Swallowing suddenly became difficult and the air became as thin as Jupiter's. The last person to touch that paper was my dear son – and my fingers trembled with grief. Mitchell’s sweet letter read, “Dear Luke, I am so sorry. Will you still be my friend? I really want to play with you. :-) I really want you to come to my birthday party this Friday.”

Beneath the hand written letter were balloons for those he invited or near to his mind. Included were his brothers and sister, and Derik and David (two young boys who live just down the street). Floating above the other balloons were two; one for Mitch and another for Luke – as if to symbolize their special friendship and olive branch. As if his carefully drawn artwork weren't enough, Mitch re-traced his letters with different colors to show that he really cared. I love children. 

Mitch and Luke almost always got along, but because they were human they also had disagreements from time-to-time. Clearly, this was one of those moments. A childhood indiscretion was noted, a soft petition for forgiveness was made … and my heart swelled to see the innocence of children on display. 

In the grand scheme of things their disagreement was hardly a speed bump … but to Mitch, a young boy who treasured his relationships, it was a mogul turned mountain and he wanted to make it right. Luke, was ever the faithful, forgiving friend to Mitch and they always seemed to bounce back quickly if there was ever a disagreement on either side. 

I’ll never forget when Luke stood at the foot of Mitchell’s bed the evening before he passed away to say goodbye and share how much he loved him. That was a moment that brought me to my knees and broke my soul into smithereens. Never had I seen a more powerful gesture of brotherly love among humans. I pray that I never have to see such a sight again.

I admire the absolute goodness of children. If only adults could be as grown up as our little ones are at times. Emma Goldman wrote, "No one has yet fully realized the wealth of sympathy, kindness and generosity hidden in the soul of a child. The effort of every true education should be to unlock that treasure." At least to me, this handwritten note from my son (a letter that could have been written by any one of your children), is a master class in what it means to be human. Mitch and Luke taught me through crayon and pencil that to forgive is to truly live.

Any more, it seems the older I get the more I find myself trying to unlearn what the world has taught me and re-learn what children demonstrate so naturally.

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Over the Christmas break I took some time off … pretty much everything. I didn't post much here or anywhere. I still captured a lot of photos – but my mind and attention were on my family.

Natalie prepared a fabulous candlelight meal Christmas Eve. As we sat in our dining room I noticed a place set for Mitch, right next to me … where he always sat. Never a chair felt as empty as that chair did that night. I didn't say anything, but I noticed it. I think everyone quietly noticed it. Sometimes, in the rush of routines, we forget and set six places at the dinner table. This time it was deliberate. This time it was quiet act of love, a yearning of the heart, that somehow our little son might join us, sight unseen. And if not, it served as a memorial to a little boy we all loved and missed – and whose company we dearly wished.

As we ate our meal, everyone took turns telling each other what we loved about one another. It was a tender time and I loved to hear my kids talk so kindly about their siblings. Sometimes when our children fight or argue, I worry. But alas, my heart swelled when I heard Laura-Ashley sincerely compliment her younger brothers; I was proud of Ethan as we listened to him offer thoughtful observations and gestures of love toward his siblings; and I loved to hear Wyatt express his love for everyone in his young, unique way. Natalie and I both took turns, too, telling our kids what we admired and loved about them. Of all the gifts we shared that holiday, the gift of love was chief among them.

At the end we all took turns saying what we thought Mitch might have said about each one of us. We giggled a lot and cried a little. It was a beautiful night. I took a photo of the candle at the table and thought about Mitchie's last Christmas, two years prior. I then began to think about how fast, yet slow, time has already passed and how grief is no less punishing today as it was the day of his passing. 

The truth about grief is it is a flame that cannot be extinguished. As long as I love, there will be fire. The difference is found in how I carry it. How I channel it. 

Grief can either burn me or help me see. I choose to see.