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Ever since my sweet wife was a little girl, she wanted to be a mother. It was her dream to have and raise children – and it has been my deepest honor to watch this good woman love, protect, and nurture our kids. It has been my greatest honor to be her partner in life, love, and parenting.

Lately, I’ve been stumbling into little breadcrumbs Mitch left behind, and these breadcrumbs have brought me a great deal of joy and gratitude for all that ever was. One example happened just a few weeks ago; Natalie and I moved Mitchell’s bed and discovered a laminated poem he wrote in school. Somehow, someway, this little paper slipped and drifted under his bed, far from view. And there it slept for 7 years, Natalie and I unaware of its tender existence.

This is what Mitchell wrote in honor of his mother:

THE BEST MOM EVER
Golden, shiny hair,
Eyes like the ocean,
Pretty, young,
Special to me.

Cooks juicy stroganoff,
Makes my comfortable bed,
Buys me cool presents on my birthday.

Rode the Dragon ride at Legoland,
Pushes me on the swings.
Tucks me in at night.

My mom is the best.

When Natalie and I read that, our hearts gushed with gratitude. We marveled over some of his word choices (“eyes like the ocean”) but more importantly, we melted over his heartfelt sentiments. Although we cried tears of loss and longing later that night, at that moment, we were captured by the sweet innocence of our son.

Mitch was right; he had the best mom ever, and his short life reminds me that while nothing lasts, everything that matters is forever.

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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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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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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.