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Earlier today, my dear wife Facetimed me so I could see my little granddaughter. My heart leaped to the heavens, and it hasn't come back to earth yet. I hope it lingers there a while.

How I love this little girl.

I've been absent for the last few months because my family has undergone a significant change. I'll share more of that soon, but all is well with our family, and we are writing new chapters of love, hope, and healing. And oh, what a feeling is healing. Most importantly, I'm back and have stories yet to share; stories of the past, observations of the present, and musings over the future.

I wish Mitch could have met my grandaughter (his niece) in this life. He loved kids, and I know he would have adored her. And though little Mitch is a great way off, sometimes I feel his presence close to me, and my heart skips a beat. I close my eyes and thank heaven that our souls crossed paths and that our stars connected. I thank heaven Mitch was my teacher.

I'm still very much a student of grief and growth - and I'm taking careful notes.

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I took these photos the night Mitchell was released from Primary Children's Hospital. The hospital wanted to keep working on him because, as an institution, that's what they do. But our cardiologists were compassionate and knew better. Their personal advice was to go home as quickly as possible and love this boy with all that we had because the end was coming, and there was nothing they could do to save him.

I'll never forget the look on sweet Mitchell's face when we told him we were going home. In his soft voice, tempered by shallow breaths, he said, "Dad, really? ... I get to go home?" Mitch was relieved and excited. My wife and I were overflowing with fear. We were not doctors; our medical experience was limited to Band-Aids and Neosporin. But within hours, we were given a crash course on how to run oxygen tanks, manage the device that would pump medicine into his heart 24 hours a day, flush his lines, manually administer other drugs through an IV, and more. We were overwhelmed with sorrow, new information, and the inevitable.

Doctors inserted a PICC line that ran from his arm directly into his heart (no small procedure). This line was connected to a little computer that would administer Milrinone, the drug that would keep our boy alive a few more weeks. Without it, he would have become very, very sick within hours. Without it, he would have died rather quickly and painfully.

At the moment this photo [on the left] was taken, I had asked Mitchell if he was excited to go home. His soft smile and loving eyes melted my heart. But inside, I was falling apart. Inside, I was stumbling over the rubble of dashed hopes and dreams. I was trying desperately to feel my way through ashes and darkness. All the while, I tried to contain my fear and emotions so as not to frighten him. I wanted him to be happy. I had to find a way to live in the moment and let tomorrow be.

After he was discharged, Natalie rolled him to the curb – he was so anxious to live his life free of hospital constraints, to reclaim the life he loved so much, to be a little boy again. He had a look of determination in his eyes – an appetite for living I seldom see in anyone. At the time, he didn't know this was a one-way trip. And that trip was the longest, most painful drive of my life.

Once loaded, before we even left the parking lot, Mitchell reminded us it was his week to lead Family Night (a tradition we have once a week to spend time together as a family). We were humbled by Mitchell's desire to contribute, but Family Night was the last thing on our mind. We told him he didn't need to worry about it, that we could do something different instead if he wanted. Mitchell had a tremendous sense of duty. Once he understood a rule or expectation, he lived it to the letter of the law. A more obedient soul I've never known. Mitchell felt it was his duty (a duty he loved) to serve his family.

Two days later, Mitchell would humbly teach a Family Night lesson that focused on love and service. I filmed his heart-felt, soft-spoken lesson. He had prepared some ideas to teach us and games to reinforce what he taught. It was an evening never to be forgotten. Our boy, hanging by a thread, struggling to breathe, put what little energy he had into teaching us about one of life's most important lessons. Perhaps one day, I'll post the video of his lesson to our family. At this moment, my frail son sat on the edge of his couch to share his ideas on love. I was mesmerized. As great as his lesson was, the most powerful lesson wasn't found in his words but in his humble and faithful actions. This little boy, broken and withering away, was magnanimous. I stood in his shadow ... in awe.

Seven years have passed, and not a day passes that I don't reflect on Mitchell's longing for home. Home was where he felt safest, where he could love and be loved. And despite his love for his physical home, a simple touch, a hug, a kiss on the forehead took him home, no matter where he was. Mitchell taught me home isn't a place; it's a condition of the heart.

For the first few years after his passing, my physical home felt profoundly empty without him. There was, and remains, an echo in my heart that will last a lifetime. I don't get to see Mitch when I come home anymore – and I never will for as long as I live on this earth. So, I choose to remember the tender lesson Mitch taught me; that home is not a place but a condition of the heart – and in that way, Mitch is home in my heart and soul. It's not the same, but it's all I've got, and that will have to do.

But alas, there is another home where he now resides. I cannot see it … and oh, how I wish I could. But I have felt it. And it is that home that I long to be.

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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.

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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.