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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.

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Fall was almost in full swing when Natalie and I took our kids to a nearby park. We decided to visit one of the older parks, where the trees were mature, and blankets of earthy leaves covered the ground.

Mitch was known to do a funny, signature skip and hop when he was happy. I’ll share a video of that soon. Because his muscles were growing weaker each day, his happy skip became more uncoordinated and labored as time went on. That never stopped him from doing it, however. In fact, as his body grew weaker, his sense of happiness seemed to grow stronger. I always enjoyed watching him at the park; sometimes, in the distance, Mitch would have a conversation with himself, then suddenly it was as though he was struck by a bolt of joy and he began skipping out of the blue.

On this occasion, when Mitch tried to skip, his legs gave out, and he fell. Ethan, his older brother, quickly reached down to see if Mitch was okay and offered to help him up. My heart swelled with gratitude for my family and the lessons of love and service my children continually taught me. At that moment, I was overcome with an impression that despite the hardship our family was facing, Heaven was using that experience to help shape us – not just Mitch, but all of us.

Over the last few years, I’ve watched my surviving children cope with grief in their own, unique way. It has been a difficult and sometimes dark, treacherous journey. I don’t write about those experiences because I respect my children’s privacy – but I will say, it hasn’t been easy. Sometimes the grief journey was made more difficult by outsiders meddling, other times our grief was made complicated by inexperienced psychologists, forever shutting the door of a young mind in need of that kind of help.

In my book, which will be completed soon, I share some of the challenges we faced and what we learned because of it. I hope it helps others who navigate their journey with loss as we share a kind of “if we could do [certain things] over, we’d do this differently” observations.

I wish weren’t so, but our troubles after Mitch passed were just beginning, and we had to navigate a labyrinth of issues that were as complex as they were bewildering. During that difficult time, I remembered F. Scott Fitzgerald's observation on the difference between trouble and discouragement, “Trouble has no necessary connection with discouragement. Discouragement has a germ of its own, as different from trouble as arthritis is different from a stiff joint.”

I am certainly not immune to discouragement – and sometimes trouble stirs those feelings up. But when I remember Mitch, who never let his troubles make him feel discouraged, I’m reminded to step back and recognize that trouble is only temporary. Discouragement, if not managed, can become a chronic condition.

As I consider this tender moment between little brothers – I’m reminded that no matter my troubles, I can step back and find gratitude for something. In fact, I can find gratitude for many things. Anymore, I’m beginning to see that it’s not trouble that weighs us down … it’s discouragement.

I can’t do much about trouble, but I can find ways to rise above it and be grateful for life.

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I don’t often look at photos of the funeral. Most of the time, I prefer to look at other parts of my son’s life and the things he taught me. Today, as I browsed photos of Mitch, I stumbled into this image, and I immediately welled with tears.

We were gathered as a family to say our final goodbyes to Mitch. Soon the casket would close, and I would never again see my son’s physical form in mortality. The funeral services would begin shortly, and Natalie and I would give the most difficult addresses of our lives.

At one point during this family gathering, I saw my nieces from across the room; I could tell they were emotional and struggling over the loss of their cousin. My heart was filled with compassion for them, so I excused myself from a conversation and walked in their direction, wanting to offer a little hope and sunshine during a dark time.

I asked if I could share something with them, and they smiled softly, then nodded yes. I showed my nieces a screengrab I took of Mitch guiding me through Facetime to find a specific Nerf gun for one of his neighbors and best buddies, Derek Mackerell. I was fumbling around Walmart’s toy section pointing to options … and all of them swiftly rejected. Mitch was particular – he was making plans to have an epic Zombie battle in our basement, and he thought Derek would be a great sniper. He also wanted this gun to be a gift to him.

Were you to look closely at this image; you’d see Mitch smiling (almost laughing) at me. I had become what I thought I’d never be: a clueless parent when it came to childhood pop-culture. As a kid, I wondered why my parents couldn’t figure out how to use a VCR or remote control. Cables confused them, and I had become a childhood tech geek. Things were much simpler back then. Now I get it.

In this case, I didn’t know the make and models of Nerf guns … I only knew the basics: they were plastic and shot foam darts. Beyond that, I was useless, and Mitch thought that was pretty funny. At one point, Mitch laughed, then put his hand on his forehead and said, “Dad, how can you not know these things?” We both laughed, and I finally found the sniper rifle he so wanted for his friend.

The boys would have an epic battle soon after. I can still hear the youthful laughs of those kids immersed in make-believe. Mitch would pass away about a week later, and the sound of his laughter, as unique as a fingerprint or a snowflake, as beautiful as a songbird, would be silenced forever.

Gosh, I miss him today. It hurts, but that’s okay.

Having passed away just before his 11th birthday, he would have turned 18 today. I wonder what he would have been like. I’ll always wonder. Such is the burden of those who grieve.
A few years would pass, and we’d walk down the street to give that Nerf sniper rifle to Derek, thanking him for being such a good friend to our boy. I’ll always love that young man for being such a good friend to Mitch.

I don’t know where the time goes, but it moves much faster than grief.

I’ve learned that I can be happy and sad at the same time. In this very moment of journaling, my heart is broken, but it is also gushing with gratitude and love. My heart is heavy as lead and my soul, light as a feather.

Tonight we’ll celebrate Mitchell’s 18th birthday as a family. Because of the pandemic, we’ll be ordering Orange Chicken from Panda Express and eat at the cemetery. We’ll play UNO, share our favorite memories, and just enjoy each other’s company. My kids miss Mitch, too, and they’re allowed to feel all the feels - however and whenever they come.

I suspect it will be all the things: happy, sad, nostalgic, and forward-thinking — a beautiful potpourri of real.

If there’s one thing my little boy has taught me, it’s this: of all the things we give and take, the only things we truly keep are the memories we make.

Happy Birthday little boy, raising you was such a treat, now I treasure the memories I keep.