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Our goal was to get him home as fast as we could. Mitch had days to live, but there were times at the hospital he was so animated, we wondered if the doctors misdiagnosed him. But, like a thief in the shadows, symptoms of heart failure would suddenly emerge and turn the happy boy we knew into someone distant. Someone very, very sick.

Just moments before this photo, Mitch was laughing. My sweet daughter, Laura-Ashley, made cupcakes to cheer him up. She handed one to him, but Mitch turned his head and said, "I'm not feeling well." In his heart, Mitch wanted to eat one – but at this moment, his world was being turned upside down.

I'll never forget meeting with a team of specialists as we were preparing to leave. Each took their turn, educating us on what to do under certain circumstances. If I thought taking a newborn baby home to live was overwhelming, I had no idea what it would feel like to take our baby home to die. The instructions were soul-crushing. If something medically scary happened, there was no ambulance to call, no future hospital visits to offer a glimmer of hope. Just a constant stream of medicine to erase from my son's mind oxygen hunger, morphine to whisk away the pain of organ failure, and other drugs to buy a little time.

The nutritionist was about to tell us what Mitch should eat; she paused as if to remember Mitch only had days, then said, "You know what, it doesn't matter. Let him eat whatever makes him happy." I nearly burst into tears as my heart fell to the floor, bleeding and writhing. Medicine had taken us as far as it could. Nature, faith, and fate were all that was left.

While Mitchell's physical heart was failing, his spiritual heart remained tender and teachable. As parents, our spiritual hearts were being tested. But then, a beautiful paradox emerged as our son became our teacher. If Mitch could face death with a humble heart, we could, too.

Some wonder (even criticize) why I return to these moments, detailing agony and trauma. As if to retraumatize myself with each story. What I've observed about trauma is that it's first like a rapidly spreading cancer, weaving its tendrils into our minds and hearts, then it lies dormant. Seemingly invisible. It feeds off inattention and misdirection. I believe trauma can be seen to some degree, but the bulk of its roots seem to live in the deeper parts of our psyche. As far as I can tell, trauma thrives in the unexamined shadows of our souls, unexplored and misunderstood. If left unattended, the ripple effects of trauma can turn into waves and disrupt us for the rest of our lives.

I visit these moments to discover and untangle trauma, removing its poisonous dripline, root by root. Is it uncomfortable? Of course. But so is dressing a deep wound. And with each time I apply the medicine of meaning, I heal a little. Sometimes a lot.

So why this moment? This moment taught me what being courageous looks like. Sometimes having courage looks like being sick, sad, or tired. Sometimes courage shows up as tears and overwhelming heartbreak. Fake courage puts on a mask and cape and pretends it doesn't hurt. True courage is admitting we're trembling at the knees while mustering the strength to take one more step. And if we don't have the strength for one more step – that's quite alright. We can rest a moment and take another step tomorrow.

Separate from pain, trauma will likely come to us all in one form or another. We may not be able to change our circumstances or avoid outcomes, but we can change what meaning those experiences have for us. And that's an act of courage, too.

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Every time I saw Natalie comfort Mitch, I thought I witnessed the most beautiful scene in all the universe. It was the day before Halloween, and Mitch wanted to get on with life and not be stuck at the hospital. Mostly, he was excited to greet kids who knocked on the door and give them candy. Mitch was a tender giver.

So there we were. Mitch just received an echocardiogram. We were sitting with his cardiologist, who was trying to educate us on heart failure. With a light thump of a knuckle on the door, a technician slipped in to hand our cardiologist the results. He paused a moment to digest what was on the paper, then said, “May we speak privately?” Immediately, the already tender lump in my throat ballooned into a boulder. I could hardly swallow.

Laura-Ashley got up to take her brother on a gentle stroll in a wheelchair around the hospital. As the door shut, his already faint smile began to fade into a look of deep concern. “Things aren’t well,” he said with a pause. “A lot has changed since his echo in the spring.” As he began to describe how Mitchell’s heart function declined rapidly, he warned, “Your son is at risk of sudden death.”

Grief washed over me like a title wave. I stood still, doing my best to remain stoic and composed, but on the inside, I was thrashing about and gasping for breath. If I, being a simple father, felt that way – I imagined at that moment how much more my dear wife felt the title wave of grief. For she carried Mitch in the womb of her body and hearth of her heart; she had a connection to our child only mothers know. My heart went out to Mitch and my dear wife, for neither deserved what was before them. My soul yearned heavenward – bargaining to take their place.

About 20 minutes later, after talking about what to do, our daughter and son returned to the examination room – unaware of the new weight placed on our shoulders. My hands were shaking from fear and grief. We did our best to put on a brave face – but on the inside, my wife and I felt like children ourselves – very much in need of comfort. We were desperate to keep our broken boy’s body together while, at the same time, we were falling apart.

What I thought was breaking inside me that day didn’t compare to the shatter I experienced in the months and years that followed.

It’s been 8 years since losing our boy, and I have witnessed the breaking of myself, my wife, children, and others. Whether through death, disease, misfortune, or poor choices, not one of us is spared. Being mortal and flawed, we all break and then pay the price in one way or another.

Being broken can be so many things; it can be toxic, hateful, fearful, or humbling, tender, and beautiful. We all break, but what we do with our brokenness that matters. And it matters a lot. It seems there are two types of people in the world: those who are broken and those that admit it. I am eternally drawn to the people who admit it.

Niels Bohr (a fascinating philosopher and scientist) observed, “The opposite of one profound truth may very well be another profound truth.” On the deepest level, I agree. I often see that principle play out in the world of grief and brokenness. Yes, to break can be devastating, but it can also be beautiful. I can imagine how probably all of us have observed how some broken people tend to hurt other people, but we’ve probably also seen broken people become healers.

Mitch taught me what being broken and beautiful looks and feels like. When I grow up, I want to be just like him. As I continue to discover my own broken parts, which are many, Mitch taught me to focus more on purpose and less on the pain. And when I do that, love and empathy are what I gain.

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Motionless, Natalie stared through our front window for the last time. To say our home was filled with memories would be a gross understatement. This was the same window Mitch would peer through to see Trick-or-Treaters before he opened the door and smiled as he handed other children treats; the same window Mitch would yell out, "Hey Mom, look at the storm coming!" This was the same window Mitch would see his best friends, Luke, Derek, and David, who'd come over to see if he could play. Perhaps most poignantly, this was the same window we saw Mitchell's body being rolled away by the funeral home.

 I didn't know how to comfort my wife – or if she even wanted it. I could tell she stepped into a deep place, so I honored her space and allowed silence to become my teacher.

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 Earlier this spring, we sold our home of 15 years; it was time. We only had one child at home, and we felt the gentle tug, an almost spiritual invitation that it was time for a change.

 When I took this photo of my wife, our family was on the edge of a significant change. This was the home we built specifically to help Mitch cope with his muscle wasting disease. We poured concrete wheelchair ramps, customized a bathroom with room enough for a wheelchair, built a caretaker's apartment, installed a wheelchair ramp to our deck, and so much more. In many ways, our home was a symbol of love; we built it not only to raise our family, but so we could catch Mitch when his body fell.

 There was no way of knowing all our efforts would be in vain. We couldn't see into the future and know our little boy would die long before he required any of the preemptive things we did to help him. Yet, I'm not sure those "wasted efforts" matter. I've learned that what we get for our efforts is far less important than what we become because of our efforts. (Henry David Thoreau) At the end of the day, everything we did to help our son was a symbol of love and devotion – and we were changed because of it. Nothing else mattered. Looking back, I do it again. A million times, even to infinity, I would do it again – if not for anything but to know my son.

 So, we sold our home and almost all our furniture. We purged. We simplified. Then, we packed what remained, and we took a big step into the unknown. The days and months that followed were especially difficult for my wife – but we grieved over the change. To us, our home was more than a place to sleep and break bread, it was a living journal, and every corner of that place was filled with richly layered memories.

 We rented a small Townhome in a neighboring city and began looking for our next home. We wanted to move back home (to Herriman) to be close to Mitch and the people & community we've grown to love. Thankfully, we found a place we love. It's different in almost every way. Very different. But we're almost empty-nesters – and soon, perhaps even this place will be too big. Change is good – if not for anything but to remind us that everything is temporary. Everything ends.

 Yet, the longer I live and the further I step back, I can't tell the difference between a beginning and an end. Anymore, they've become one-in-the-same.

 For those who have read Mitchell's Journey over the years, you'll recognize you had a front-row seat to my personal therapy. I was both the patient and the therapist at once, working through my pain one sentence at a time. Writing was, and ever will be, my way of processing. Writing is my therapy.

In the next few weeks and months, I want to share some of the things our family did to process our grief and make meaning of suffering. In addition, I have at least 150 (actual) stories I'm writing about Mitch and the things I learned from him. Also, there are many other things and awakenings that have happened in the past 8 years; I want to write about that, too. I'll still write of grief. But I have so much more to say about hope, healing, and living an examined life.

 Sitting on the edge of change can be bewildering on a lot of levels. What's more, Mitchell's Journey has taught me healing our wounds requires a unique blend of hanging on and letting go. That blend is as individual as our personalities. It's not my place to tell someone what to cling to and what to let go of – that balance is the deeply personal work of the soul. But perhaps, if we can talk about it openly, we can each find our own broken pieces and learn to create a new mosaic of ourselves. Something more beautiful and dynamic than we now imagine.

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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.