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During Mitchell's last Christmas, he had two Secret Santa’s that did variations on the 12-days of Christmas. This quiet, daily act of love was performed by two caring neighborhood families, who to this day have remained anonymous.

I was humbled how they went out of their way to give Mitch a lift and offer a glimpse of hope and happiness to a little boy who was very sick and whose parents' hearts trembled with fear.

Each evening they placed a thoughtful package at our door addressed to our son with a thoughtful note and gift from the heart. I hesitate to show one photo (as seen here) because I don’t want either of these families to think their gifts were any less valued. The truth was, each night as Natalie and I went to bed we wept tears of gratitude for both anonymous families and we prayed that whoever was responsible for being so good to our son would be blessed 100-fold.

When I look back on my photos of Mitchell's last December & January I'm shocked sometimes to see how sick our son looked. Every day Mitch was getting sicker and weaker - but as I saw his reaction to these Secret Santa gifts he would bounce back a little and find new energy. Mitch loved the surprise but he loved the thoughtfulness even more so.

My sweet wife, ever the thoughtful giver, has also shown me over the years by her quiet example that gifts can be the instruments of our affection … a way of saying “I understand you” or “I care.” In the end, the gifts that last [the ones with the greatest impact] are never really about the objects we give each other but instead are found in the meaning behind them. A thoughtful gift is a gift twice.

I hope those who gave our son the gift of love and care know how much that meant to us – but even more, what it did for little Mitch. The photo on the right was Mitch on his last Christmas Eve. We were eating his favorite dinner but he wasn't feeling well. Looking back, knowing what we know now, he was experiencing end-stage heart failure.

I'll never forget how Mitch reached for my hand and asked in a quiet voice, “Dad, do you know who’s giving me those gifts?” I told him I didn't know but that I knew they loved him – otherwise they wouldn't have been so kind. He smiled softly and said, “I wish I could thank them.”

In honor of my son’s wishes to thank whoever gave those gifts, I want to thank you for him and hope you know that your gifts were a gift twice.

In fact, looking back, your gifts weren't just a gift twice, they were a gift thrice.

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Parenthood has been the most difficult yet rewarding experience of my life. I wish I could say I did it perfectly, but I didn’t … and I don’t. Nobody really does. Anymore, I don’t try to be the perfect parent … I just try to be loving and kind … to be the father and mentor I wish I had growing up. It is difficult at times because I don’t know what to emulate – so I just try to be what I never had. I try to be what I wish I had, and that’s the best know to do.

At the end of my days, when I kneel before my Father and account for my life, I hope He looks upon my efforts in the same way I try to look upon my children … with a heart of compassion, pleased with the effort and personal growth over the illusory achievement of perfection.

When Mitch came home with a drawing or school assignment, I was always so proud of how hard he tried. I would hug him and kiss his face and tell him, “Great job, son. I’m so proud of you. Keep trying, and you’ll better and better.” Always, there were imperfections in his drawings … but for him, he did it perfectly. Perfection is a relative term, for he was a young child and did the work of a young child. I didn’t care about flawless execution … at his age, I wanted him to be recognized for doing a little better than the time before. I wanted him to believe in himself and be proud of his accomplishments. As far as I can tell, belief-in-self is the bedrock of education and the scaffolding of character. At the same time, I am a strong believer in providing corrective feedback to know where to stretch ourselves the next time. But, always, offering my children earned praise is high on my list of to-dos as a father.

On this occasion, my neighbor and friend, Jeff Winegar, offered to take our family to Snowbird so Mitch could participate in an adaptive sports program for kids with disabilities. Mitch was nervous about it because he knew he wasn’t very strong and that what little strength he did have would dissipate quickly. “What if I fall, Dad?” Mitch would ask me nervously. I assured him he wouldn’t be required to do anything for which he didn’t have the strength and that they had something special for him to be safe and have fun. Mitch sat in a small carriage attached to two skis. Behind him were two purple tethers, which allowed an adult to ski behind Mitch and control his speed down the mountain. All Mitch needed to do was lean right or left as he decided where he wanted to ski down the mountainside.

I asked my friend Jeff to be on a tether while I skied backward to take a million photos of my son. I loved looking at Mitchell’s expressions of glee as the cold wind rushed against his rose-colored cheeks. At first, I saw an expression that seemed to say, “This isn’t so bad. I’m not scared anymore.” Then later, his face seemed to say, “I’ve got this! I can do it!” I was so proud of Mitch and overwhelmed with gratitude as I saw my son’s countenance filled with a new form of self-confidence. He couldn’t race down the mountain like an Olympian, nor was he required to, but he could bravely face the steep slopes and do what he could, with the heart of an Olympian. That is winning, too.

I remember kneeling in prayer that night, thanking my Father for giving my son such a great experience. I also thanked Him for giving me the blessing of children - a gift for which I'm eternally grateful. Because of Mitch, I try to grow a little on the inside each day, just like he tried. If I color a little outside the lines, I recognize it and try to do better next time.

Maybe that’s the point of it all … to get better a little on the inside each time. Musicians do it, athletes do it, academics do it … nobody achieves greatness in an instant … but through getting a little better each time. And those who have mastered their craft will each say it comes from within. It always comes from within. Each day. A little on the inside.

About a month ago I pre-recorded a virtual keynote for a conference in Israel. I was honored to share our son's story with this remarkable group of medical professionals, caretakers, parents, and patients. When I'm asked to speak, hosts usually ask me to spend 1-2 hours (which goes by in a blink) - so condensing this to 15 minutes was a challenge.

The title of this keynote was "The In-Between: Why the little moments matter more than you think." Translated in Hebrew and Arabic, It was an extension of an earlier keynote I gave for PPMD where I suggested the best moments in our life exist in the in-between. At the end of the day, when we long for what we lost, we don't long for trips ... we long for the ordinary. In an earlier essay, I wrote "I miss everything in between. I miss everything that was ever routine."

At least for me, grief has taught me the very things I long to do with those who are gone are the things I should be doing with those who are now living. Time is such a slippery thing ...

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It had been two days since Mitchell passed away and I walked into my son’s room with a quiet hope in my heart everything was just a nightmare. Instead, I found my wife in quiet agony. There she lay on his bed holding his small teddy bear, which still bore the scent of our son.

Our home was suddenly barren, our hearts desolate.

Just a few days prior our home was filled with family to support us while our son was dying, each believing they were helping us in our hour of greatest need. What they didn't realize, what none of us realized, was that was the easy part, by comparison. Hell, with all its thunder and fury, happens in the aftermath … long after everyone leaves and you are left to navigate the bewildering wilderness of grief and desolation. It seems that everyone has it all backward - but that is a conversation for another day.

Contrary to what many think, holidays aren't as difficult as one might imagine. Oh, they’re plenty hard, but because you know it’s coming and you’re expecting it to be hard, you brace for impact and it somehow doesn't knock you off your feet. At least most of the time. While holidays are difficult, there are harder things still. It’s the ordinary Saturday mornings when we work as a family to clean the house. I look to the windows my son used to faithfully wash, or the floor he would carefully mop … and he is not there, nor anywhere. It’s the absence of ordinary things that take your breath away and bring you to your knees. It’s the empty bed, the vacant chair at the dinner table, the unfinished Lego projects, or spiral notebook with handwritten stories Mitch wrote; it’s the saved games in The Sims or Minecraft that show a world Mitch worked hard to build … forever frozen in time. It’s the ordinary stuff we miss, the very stuff we take for granted. Among its many layers, grief is a deep longing for the ordinary.

So, as I entered Mitchell’s room and saw my dear wife in pain, my heart sank to the floor. I missed my son with all of my soul – and though my heart wished otherwise, I realized my greatest nightmare was my reality. I fell to my knees and wept ... longing for the ordinary. I hurt for my tender wife and family. I hurt for my son. I later wrote in my journal, while pondering this moment of grief, “At the end of the day all we have is what we've done.” That saying came to my mind with great force and conviction. All the things we work so hard to gather unto ourselves, the riches of earth, and the praises of man can all be taken in an instant. I began to think about the memories we made and the things we did as a family and the love we shared. Though death can take away my son, it cannot take away the things we've done. Though death and absence can hurt our hearts and wrench our souls, it cannot take away the love we shared or memories we hold; for love and memories cannot be bought nor can they be sold.

At the end of the day, indeed, all we really have is what we've done.

It has almost been eight years since I lost my little boy … my little soul mate. Though the weight of grief isn't as constant as it was the first few years, there are times it can be as heavy and visceral as it’s ever been.

There is a Jewish Proverb that says, “Don’t pray for lighter burdens, pray for a stronger back.” It is to that end I pray; that my back will be made strong so that I might carry the inescapable burden of grief with a glad heart and cheerful countenance. Although in the shadow of the moon, or the quiet of my closet, or deep in my wilderness I weep for my fallen son, I can still feel the light of the noonday sun, and happiness returns as I recount my many blessings – each of them, one by one. Indeed, all I really have is what I've done.

I have three other wonderful children who I am also losing. Though I am not losing them to death, I am losing them to time. Before I know it, they will graduate from high school, go to college, find their own purpose in life, and start families of their own. Everything I have today, everything I’m tempted to take for granted, will soon no longer be. One day, in the not-too-distant future, I will long to have my little ones back with me.

I choose this day to make my moments matter, from here to evermore. I have come to understand with greater depth, because of my fallen son, all we really have is what we've done.