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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.

Without warning, an enormous clap of thunder exploded, and my boys and I jumped with fear. A dark storm was brewing, and the afternoon sky had become almost dark as night. The campfire we were just about to start would have to wait until the downpour passed. From the looks of it, it seemed the storm was going to linger a while as the cool mountain wind almost ushered us into our tent for protection.

Mitch squirmed into his sleeping back and wiggled around as if to snuggle deeply into the mound of soft things that surrounded him. I chuckled a little because I did the same thing when I was a boy, and at that moment, I remembered how fun it was to be young. I looked upon my boys with a touch of envy. Mitch pulled his hands behind his head, his face bearing a light mustache from chocolate milk, and began to smile softly. "We're safe and sound, right, Dad?" Mitch said with a mixture of confidence and concern. "You bet, Mitch. This is going to be a crazy camping adventure." Mitch smiled and said, "I know you'll keep us from floating away."

Within minutes, we could hear the occasional pitter-patter of raindrops on the tent. A few minutes later, a burst of raindrops assaulted the side of the tent as the wind began to pick up speed. Soon, we were in the middle of a torrential downpour. I worried if our tent was rated for an hurricane-like storm. Mitch nudged my arm and said, "Doesn't this remind you of Winnie the Pooh and the Blustery Day?" Mitch giggled as I peered nervously out the window, keeping an eye out for a flash flood.

We knew there might be bad weather, so our backup plan was to have a den party in the tent. So, I pulled out a portable DVD player, broke out some snacks, and pulled up our covers as the boys and I watched a movie under the thinly veiled safety of our tent.

I didn't sleep well that night. Aside from a few breaks in the early evening, the rain never really let up. So, I laid in the tent in a trance-like state – somewhere between sleep and wakefulness … sitting up every hour to make sure the boys were dry. By morning the kids were rested, and I was hammered.

Of all the moments in life, the ones I remember with great fondness and nostalgia aren't the time's things went perfectly. Instead, the moments I treasure most are when we struggled and found our way through a hard time. Don't get me wrong; perfect times are just that … perfect. I love and appreciate them for what they are; honey is honey. But the taste of lemonade is never so sweet as when you must work to make it so. Perhaps that's why hard times often end up becoming our best times, in the end.

This photo of Mitch reminds me that even in our difficulties, we can make the best of what we've got – and somehow, someway, we'll look back and be glad we lived the life we lived. In every struggle, there's a price to be paid; but in the end, that's what makes the sweetest lemonade.

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I remember this moment so vividly; the cold December air on my neck, the subtle clatter of teeth shivering in the wintry wind, and the smell of burning wood from fireplaces nearby. The smell of chimney smoke seemed to beckon us back to grandmas with the promise of a glowing hearth and delicious hot chocolate to warm us on the inside and out.

It hadn’t snowed yet, but you could feel winter was near.

Mitch, ever anxious to drink life in by the gallon, asked if we could drive ATV’s around the woods. At one point, Mitch wanted to stop and see his Grandma’s garden that had long gone to sleep for the winter.

Mitch said softly, “Dad, will you take a photo of Effie and me?”

“I’d love to!” I said with a smile.

I remember chuckling at Ethan, who didn’t get the memo; it was actually cold outside. I mean really cold. For the most part, he didn’t mind; and though he was under-dressed, he seemed to have my Canadian tolerance for cold air. He welcomed wintery weather in summery clothes. Mitch always thought his brother was a touch weird - which is why he loved him so. I was enjoying this time with my oldest boys but couldn’t wait to snuggle by the fire and drink hot chocolate.

It’s a curious thing how a single moment can be two things at once. In this case, it was a beautiful tragedy. On one side, I was glad to be with my children; on the other side, my soul was heavy. Mitchell’s face seemed pale as the November sky and his eyes seemed to whisper to me he knew his time was short. I was weighed down by a vague and pressing feeling time was slipping through my fingers at a rate I couldn’t fully appreciate. At one point on this trip, I had a distinct impression this would be Mitchell’s last time at Grandmas. From the time this photo was taken, Mitch had a little more than three months to live.

The more I step back and examine Mitchell’s life, the more I believe he was inspired. You see, he acted on feelings he had, and those tiny impressions-turned-actions would eventually become breadcrumbs of love for the ones he left behind. This photo is one of those breadcrumbs, a gift to his brother, and a gift to me. His silent acts of service remind me to slow down, listen, and give more of my actual myself.

When my boys sat to have their photo taken, the ancient Apocryphal words came to mind, “A faithful friend is a strong defense: and he that hath found one … hath found a treasure.” Captured in this image was not only two brothers, but two friends. I was grateful Mitch had a faithful friend in his brother, and Ethan had a faithful friend in Mitch.

Young Mitchell’s life was made rich by faithful friends. He had a few of them he especially loved – Luke, Derek, and David were his closest – but he had many others he also adored.

In my short 46 years, I’ve discovered casual friends are plentiful, but a truly faithful friend is as rare as it is special.

When I think about the kind of friends Mitch had and the friend he tried to be to them, I want to work harder and be a better friend to the people I love. I have my family who I love so very much – they’re not just family, they’re my friends. Add to that, a growing list of people near and far, whose friendship I treasure.

This image haunts and inspires me. It reminds me to slow down because time moves so fast. Mitch is looking at me in this photo, and I can almost hear him saying, “Dad, there isn’t much time. Let’s make the most of it.”

This Thanksgiving, I’m going to express my gratitude to my family and friends by slowing down and being more deeply in the moment. What better way to express my love and gratitude for my family and friends than by giving them all of me? I can think of none.

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Evening was drawing near when Mitch asked if our family could go on a ride around the neighborhood. His muscles were getting weaker by the day, and walking distances of any length were more than he could bear. As the world was getting bigger for healthy kids, Mitchell’s world was getting smaller. His options, more limited. But Mitch smiled anyway and was glad to be alive.

Whenever possible, Mitch wanted to go outside to feel the wind on his face and experience any part of life. Sometimes I wonder if my grief is magnified because I know how much my son appreciated being alive – and my heart is pained that his life was taken away. But those are the thoughts of a mere mortal, and I know that there is more to life and death than we imagine. Even still, death hurts me so.

So, on this peaceful evening, Ethan took point on his bicycle, ensuring the path was clear for his brother while Mitch tugged his sister on skates. Mitch enjoyed giving others rides because it allowed him to do something nobody else could. What made him different also made him special.

Like Mitch, I loved the atmosphere of sunsets and always paused to appreciate the beauty of natural light. Just as I was admiring the sky, Mitch looked up at me and said, “Dad, isn’t it beautiful tonight?” I smiled and said, “Yes, Mitch, it is beautiful. Just like you.” I leaned down and kissed his head only to catch the faint scent of shampoo; a hint bedtime was near. I thought to myself, “How I love having children.”

When I think back on my most treasured memories as a father, they’re found in the most ordinary moments – those times and occasions that seem to hide in plain sight. They’re the things I am tempted to overlook and take for granted. I don’t know that I’ve ever confused shallow things for significance – but I have sometimes missed the simple things, not recognizing how significant they truly were.

I have written in the past that grief is my teacher – but what does that mean, exactly? One example, at least for me, is grief has taught me the very things I long to do with those who are gone are the things I should seek after with those who are now living.

I don’t grieve that I can’t take Mitch to Disneyland. I grieve that I can’t sit on the couch and read books to him. I don’t long to go on vacation with my son, I long to tuck him in and listen to him talk about his day and share his hopes and dreams. I don’t miss taking him to a fancy restaurant; I just want little Mitch to sit by me at the dinner table again and hold my hand like he used to. If it’s the ordinary stuff I long for, then it is the ordinary stuff I should seek after and cultivate.

Looking back, I can see how easily one can get swept up in grief and sorrow – so much so, it becomes a paralytic. Yet, my grief doesn’t paralyze me; it mobilizes me. You see, the irony of death is it has taught me how to live. My pain, for example, has led me to my life purpose. I don’t know that I would have found it otherwise. I suppose I can thank my Father for that. It seems to me that pain in life is inevitable, finding purpose is a choice.

If my son’s journey has taught me anything, it’s taught me slow down and find significance in simple things. And when I do that, gratitude and joy inevitably follow.

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REPOST from 2017