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This summer I’ve focused on spending time with my family - so I've been relatively quiet here. I'm not done with writing, though. I just needed a minute.

I don’t visit my son’s place of rest every day like I used to, but I visit him in my heart each day.

Tonight, as I visited Mitch, I felt a gentle peace and deep love for a little guy who turned my life upside down but right side up. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt, it simply means I’m learning to hold hurt, hope, and healing at the same time. And that blend of contrast is like a potpourri of the most sacred aroma.

I’ve been doing something special this summer in memory of Mitch and in celebration of my family. I’ll share that soon. It's been part of my personal journey of intentional healing.

As summer draws to an end, I can sense cooler days ahead. There’s something invigorating about change. Like little Mitch, I’ve grown to love each season for what they are and not complain about what they’re not. In quiet ways, I've grown to appreciate the contrasts of life and those contrasts have become my deep teacher. Summers are never so sweet but when we know its contrast from the coldest winter.

In like manner, I’m grateful for the summer moments of life. I’m grateful for the times life gives us a break so we can rest, heal, and find new strength. Even still, I wonder when the next winter storm will come. I hope it’s yet a few years off, for the warmth of the summer sun has been so kind to my soul.

Tonight I took Ethan to his old elementary school. We wanted to see the tree planted in his brother's memory. There used to be a brick at the foot of the tree with an inscription in honor of Mitch. It's gone now, and the tree is more mature than the near sapling the school planted 7 years ago. It blends in among the others. Inconspicuous. Ordinary. It's purpose and meaning all but forgotten to a passerby.

That is to be expected, I suppose, for that is the way of things. We all live for a small moment, and then we die, and soon our story fades softly into the background of an ever noisy now.

I used to visit this little place, overwhelmed with emotion. Today my heart was as calm as a zen garden. I was grateful for this memorial while it lasted. It counted. It meant something to my family and me, and we are thankful to everyone who made this happen. Now it's purpose has been fulfilled and it can just be beautiful for the remainder of its days.

After we spent a moment at Mitchell's tree, I asked Ethan to take me around the school and share his memories as a young boy. He pointed to the jungle gyms he climbed and the classrooms he attended. He even looked to the ground at a hopscotch print on the asphalt and said, "those used to be much bigger." We both laughed.

As we walked around the corner of the school, near the cafeteria, I remembered Mitchell's school aide telling me Ethan would visit him every single day while he was having lunch and give him a hug. I know that meant a lot to Mitchell. Ethan was both loving and kind to his little brother.

As we made our way to the front of the school, our conversation had become a potpourri of memories and feelings. All of them beautiful and peaceful.

Our last stop was a small fenced-in area for preschoolers. That was where Ethan first attended that school. We stopped and talked about his memories, and my eyes welled with tears. There before me was my tiny boy-turned-man. I was so proud of the person he has become.

The longer I travel down my grief journey, I worry less about the physical monuments we create and more about the living memorials we become. After all, memorials almost never change lives. But the people around us do.

I do not care if people remember this tree and why it was planted. In many ways, I'm not so worried if people even remember my little boy's name in the years to come. But I hope the awakening, the deeper empathy, the habit of pausing to be in the moment, and the impulse to find gratitude echoes in the lives of people for generations.

What good are tears if they do not soften our hearts to love others more deeply? What good are heavy burdens if we do not allow them to make us stronger? Pain, though tender, is life's deepest teacher. These things can shape us into living memorials - so our lives become an echo of grace, gratitude, and goodness. To be an echo and a light, that is my hope for the remainder of my life.

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Tiny Mitch reached up to grab a door handle that stood just above his head. He had an almost tangible curiosity about him this day – so much so, he would have seemed mischievous if he wasn’t so innocent. With a soft tug, his chubby hand and tiny little fingers began to pull downward. If you were listening carefully, you could hear the old springs in the handle ping and pong as rusty mechanics started to move.

To an adult, this was just an ordinary doorknob. To this little boy, that golden handle was a gateway to endless curiosities just beyond the finger-smudged glass.

Tiny Mitch didn’t realize I was following him, so I kept my distance and zoomed in with my lens. By this time in his life, he was so used to the sounds of my camera, he had no idea I was shadowing him. I followed him because I wanted to keep my tiny boy safe from harm … but I was also curious to get a glimpse into his little mind and heart. “I wonder what he does when no one is looking …”, I thought to myself.

As the door opened, Mitch walked outside … and, like a good little boy, he closed the door behind him to keep the cold Wyoming wind from stealing away the warmth of the cabin. Then Mitch crawled backward from the edge of the old wood patio, down a few stairs, and began to tromp on grass browned by an early winter’s chill. I waited patiently until his back turned, then I opened the door quietly and stepped outside. A kitty approached him, and Mitch began to talk to it in ways only a 2-year-old can know. Softly he hugged his furry friend and kissed its head. I smiled at Mitchie’s goodness and wanted some of that to rub off on me. After a few minutes of furry love, Mitch began to walk toward a bush that was home to a little bird’s nest, or so it seemed. He got on his tippy toes as he pulled a branch down only to see an abandoned nest. Mitch smiled softly, then turned to explore a pile of wood. He talked to himself and hummed nursery songs. At this moment, my heart broke open and poured out more love than it could possibly hold. I never knew how much love a heart could hold until that moment.

What I learned about little Mitch that day was how much he loved to be alive, even as a toddler. I also discovered anew how much little things matter. He found joy in the smallest of things. There wasn’t a flower he walked by that he didn’t lean in to smell softly. Not a furry pet he didn’t want to love, or a sunset admire. Mitch not only taught me how to love him, but how to love everything and everyone.

Later that night, I knelt in a prayer of gratitude for the gift of little ones. I thought I had known love before I had a child. But, I soon discovered a love so deep that it changed me from the inside out. Completely. Even still, when I think I’ve reached the furthest depths of love for my children, I find that it continues to deepen with each passing day. How deep that love will go, I cannot say. I only know my love is deeper than it was yesterday.

If ever I am discouraged about a personal failure or disappointment, this image gives me hope. It reminds me that, in the grand scheme of things, we’re all toddlers reaching to open doors and make new discoveries. And though we may be imperfect, our Father sees us reach and try, and we are loved. That is no small thing.

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Early in my grief journey, I often wondered, “When everything hurts, how will I know I’m healing?”

There was a time, not long after his passing, and for some time after, the very sight of Mitchell’s things was painful to see. I remember his Velcro-strap shoes sitting on the edge of his bed. They were, by design, light as a feather so he could walk more easily. The moment I saw these shoes, they reminded me how difficult walking had become for him. Each step in the hallway at school was a risk; the slightest bump from another child could have sent him falling fast to the floor. Without the strength and coordination to break his fall, he would hit the ground hard. His muscles were getting weaker – and time on his feet more precious. These tender shoes were a reminder of his fragile existence and a symbol of his mother’s love.

When I saw these shoes, I wept like a child. I would have done anything to trade places with him.

Though these shoes were painful to see, for a time, I’m not one to make rash decisions – especially with memories. I could have, like others who cope with grief, swept everything away. I could have swiftly removed anything that might have brought back memories that hurt. While that can be a valid path for some who grieve, I chose a different path. I chose to sit with my pain. I wanted to look at the things that hurt me and healed me, for both are my teachers.

For the first two years, I wept every single day. I didn’t cry. I wept. So-much-so, my lungs were sore and I felt like I had a persistent flu. Every. Single. Day. When we left town, I felt an existential panic leaving my son at the cemetery. It was nightmarish. When it rained, I wanted to race to the cemetery to protect his place of rest. Somewhere deep inside me, I felt a flurry of worry – that if I didn’t have the power to protect his life, at least I could protect him in death. Grief has a way of triggering irrational feelings from a very rational pain.

For me, darkness covered the whole earth; and though I walked among people, I was living in a different dimension. Within the first few months of my son’s passing, I wrote an essay entitled “Walking on Jupiter” where I described the gravity of grief, the thinness of the air, and the difficulty of living. Earth, with all its pedestrian concerns, seemed so very far away. At the same time, I could carry a conversation with a smile … and were I to shake your hand, you probably wouldn’t know the nightmare I was living. Everything hurt.

In private, it felt like I was consigned to an eternity of sorrow. Everything hurt. Even sleep hurt; every morning and night, as I’d drift in and out of sleep, I felt the unbridled panic and sorrow of my son’s passing. It would play out in my mind like a vivid dream and I couldn’t tell if it was happening in that moment or if it happened in the past. There was something about that in-between stage of consciousness that left me especially vulnerable.

It wasn’t long in my grief journey I learned that healing hurts – and that was the first vital step for me. I found if I gave myself space to grieve, the darkness would pass sooner. Moments of acute grief, at least for me, was like a building sneeze: the sooner I let it out, the better I felt. Even still, the general heaviness of grief weighed on my shoulders like a led blanket no matter how much I sneezed.

As far as I can tell, healing isn’t discernable day-to-day. Like getting older or gaining/losing weight, we have to step away from the mirror for a minute. And therein lies the curious paradox of healing: that opposites can be true at the same time.

For example, I’m a believer in living an examined life. That means looking in the mirror and studying what I see, including the things that hurt me. It’s not enough to simply look at our pain, but how we look at our suffering makes the difference. At the same time, I’ve discovered that we must also look away and get busy living. To do one at the expense of the other is to thwart and sometimes deny deeper healing. For me, the choice to look or live has a kind of ebb and flow about it; a delicate dance of the soul.

How do I know I’m healing when everything hurts? I start by recognizing this: if I’m hurting, I’m probably on the path to healing. For one cannot heal without hurting.

The rest is up to me. Sometimes I look, other times I live. Together, they help me heal.