It’s been one year of sacred silence. I’ve needed it.

I haven’t written here—not because I had nothing in my heart, but because I needed time to feel what this season of life was asking of me. And then, as life often does, something small became something sacred.

This picture is just that: something small turned sacred.

Meet my youngest grandson, Velzy—grandchild #3. Just a few months old, and already… he’s become my teacher.

Lately, I’ve been practicing something:

When he coos or squeals, I resist the urge to flood the space with my own sounds. Instead, I look him in the eyes, pause, and respond—as if I understood him completely. As if the sound he made… mattered. And do you know what happens next? He lights up. His face stretches wide with surprise and delight. As if some part of him is astonished that his tiny voice moved the world outside his head.

That exchange has stayed with me. And this morning, it spoke louder than ever.

Sometimes, I think we do this to each other. When someone shares sorrow—a death, a lost faith, a heartbreak—we rush in with words meant to soothe. But often, they smother.

The more I work with people in their various spaces, I’m beginning to sense we’re not so different from this precious child in my hands—wanting to be heard, waiting to be seen, and hoping to be loved… no matter what.

Today, on the anniversary of Mitchell’s birth, I’ve been thinking about the space between life and death and the million-and-one deaths we experience in between. I don’t simply mean the death of loved ones; I mean the death of our former selves, the passing of time, the comings and goings of friends we thought would be forever, but in the end were not. Each is a grief worthy of reverence.

At least for me, grief often speaks in whispers. Lately, it’s been more like Fleetwood Mac on a quiet drive. “Can I handle the seasons of my life?” That line gets me every time. Sometimes, I wonder.

Grief has aged me.

Parenting, in some ways, untangled me.

And grandparenting is now… remaking me.

And so, on this April day, as I reflect on a boy whose broken heart touched mine, I find myself thinking about this photo of my youngest grandson, whispering: “I am as this child.”

At least, I hope to be. Curious. Soft-hearted. Ready to be shaped.

Sometimes I think the world teaches us to be wise by knowing. But the older I get, I’m beginning to wonder if real wisdom begins by unknowing—by learning to listen, to notice, to respond with presence instead of performance.

As I step into my future, I will best honor my son (and everyone that has gone before me) not by simply remembering what I’ve lost, but by living what I’ve learned.

As I step back into writing, I don’t know what I will explore – I only know it will be a potpourri of then and now, woven with threads of curiosity, wonder, and love.

As a child, I go.

Unfinished. Unhurried. Unafraid.

Mitch would have turned 22 today. So, over the weekend and into today we remembered Mitch in big and little ways. A perfect celebration of all that ever was, and everything that is today.

If you were to ask me what surprised me most about grief I’d say, among other things, I imagined grief never leaves (it, in fact, stays) … but what surprised me is grief and pain are not the same. That I would always grieve but not always feel pain.

PS: when it hurts, I’ve found love is the best painkiller

This was Mitchell’s last October. We went to a local farmer’s lot to pick out some pumpkins to carve. Autumn had slipped away, and we were deep into fall, each day getting colder and colder. Except this day was unusually summer-like, and the evening sun warmed our skin as if from a distant fireplace.

Because his leg muscles had wasted away, Mitch had trouble walking around the uneven terrain. We lived on a hill at the time, so going from home to home was even a chore. He tripped and stumbled a few times, and he was much slower than the rest of the children. I couldn’t help but notice the look on my son’s face as he saw other kids race past him. He had a look of gratitude and determination. At one point, he just smiled and said, “Dad, I’m just glad I can still walk.”

After lumbering about the pumpkin patch for a while, we each took turns giving our boy a piggyback so our little boy’s legs could rest. Though he was getting bigger each year, carrying him was never a burden but, in fact, a great blessing.

Halloween was just around the corner, and I wondered what my boy wanted to do. Each year, trick-or-treating became more and more difficult. In the beginning, he used his electric scooter to go from home to home. As each year passed, his muscles became weaker, and trying to climb up a neighbor’s stairs to knock on their door was exhausting for him. The year prior to his last Halloween, he just parked on each driveway, and Luke or Wyatt would take his basket and trick-or-treat for him. That wasn’t much fun for Mitch because, like so many other children’s activities, he sat on the sidelines and watched the party from afar. No matter his disappointment or wanting to do what other children did, Mitch bore his burden with a tender smile - grateful to be alive.

So, as I carried my son on my back this warm October evening in the Pumpkin patch, I asked Mitch what he wanted to be for Halloween. He said, “Dad, I just want to stay home and give candy to other kids.”

“Are you sure, Mitchie? I will carry you door-to-door if you want.” I replied.

He responded with a soft whisper, “No, I want to stay home with you. Plus, I like giving to others more.”

True to his word, Mitch stayed home Halloween night and handed candy out to other children. Each time he shut the door, he had a big smile on his face. Giving to others brought more joy to little Mitch than getting ever did. Although his Halloween bag was empty that night, his heart was overflowing. So was mine.

To our surprise, later that night, thoughtful friends, knowing he was too weak to trick-or-treat, brought him some of their candy.

Though Halloween was different that year, in every way that matters, it was a happy Halloween.

In honor of my son, I'll look for those whose bags are a little empty and try to fill them with love and encouragement. Where I can, I will try to carry those who stumble, though I often stumble myself.

The key to happiness, I’ve discovered, is found in giving, not getting.

The things that hurt us can have the power to help us. Through a deeply personal and transformative journey, Chris Jones shares an unexpected discovery during the darkest moment of his life, where he uncovered a universe of interconnected points of light. In this poignant talk, he offers a novel way to respond to life when the lights go out, and the next step seems hard to see. He invites us to embrace both the darkness and light of our experiences and discover what treasures lie hidden just out of sight