When Cooper graduated from high school, he wanted to go to Puerto Peñasco (Rocky Point), Mexico, with 18 friends. I was okay with this, provided there would be at least some parental supervision. So, I went with another father, Jason. We stayed in a different hotel, away from the kids. We weren’t there so much as supervisors but more as support in case the kids needed help.

As it turned out, Jason and I had a great time. In the mornings, we would kick our feet up on the balcony, drink coffee, and watch several walks of shame pass by below us. “Oh, hi,” we would wave and smile. It was quite comical.

There was only one time when we had to “pump the brakes” and play our dad cards. We were at Wrecked at the Reef Cantina, hanging out. Jason and I were with a group of parents from Southern Arizona, eating, drinking, and chatting, when Cooper came up to me to ask a question. He had a JUUL (vape) in his hand and took a long drag, blowing smoke in my face.

He was buzzed and genuinely wasn’t being a smartass; he had just lost complete situational awareness. I asked him, “Have you lost your freaking mind?” He looked at me, stunned. “What?” I said, “Dude, you’re vaping in front of me!” Cooper was like, “Oh, shit!” A shit-eating grin crossed his face. For those who knew Cooper, you know the smile I’m talking about.

It’s funny now, reflecting on this story, and we still laugh about it as a family. Anyway, the kids were pretty liquored up, and they wanted to go into the city. It was already 1 a.m. Jason and I were like, nope. Hell to the nope. Everything you need is right here. Slow your roll, go have fun.

Wrecked, seems appropriate to me these days. The word has the right texture for my life.

Wrecked at the Reef, Rocky Point, Mexico

Last week, I had the good fortune to attend the National Fire Academy for a week-long course in youth firesetting intervention and prevention. It was a great class, and I met a lot of good people.

After the first day of class, our group of 18 (hey, serendipity, interesting number) went to the Command Post Pub to meet and greet and figure out what fun things we wanted to do during the week. I ended up talking to two women, and at some point, I shared that I had lost my son, Cooper. It was Sunday, Father’s Day, and I was genuinely having a bit of a tough day. It felt good to share.

One of the women had not lost a child, but she had lost a brother. She shared that she could see her parents struggling but didn’t really know what to do or say. She asked me, what should I say? What do I do?

My answer to her was this: honor your brother by living a great life. Let your parents know that you are going to be okay, that you’re happy, and that you are going to suck the marrow out of this life and live it for all it’s worth. What your parents want more than anything is for you to be healthy, happy, safe, and successful in your own right.

As a parent, I have been wrecked. My wife, too. All of my friends in my The Compassionate Friends group, wrecked. Bereaved parents—wrecked. I’m not suggesting we don’t have joy and happiness; we do. But understand, a piece of our soul has been taken, and we don’t get it back. We’re not whole. Thump my chest, and you will feel the missing piece.

I so did not see this coming in my life.

I may be wrong, but I don’t see this wreckage for my children. I know they hurt, and they should, but a piece of their soul has not been taken.

I remember standing with one of my sons over Cooper’s body at the funeral home. We were both sobbing tears from a place deep beyond where the coins are. If God is the breath within the breath, then these were the tears within the tears. Our tears were crying.

I put my hand on Carse’s shoulder and told him, in truth, “This is the hardest thing you will ever do. Right here, right now.”

Imagine my kids, 28, 25, and 18, experiencing this—the valley of the shadow of death. Life laid our Party of Six low—knees to the ground, forehead to the ground, low.

Now they know. My kids know. Now they will bring compassion to others. They are seers and sensers.

What I want to say is: what will bring me the greatest joy in the years remaining in my life is to watch my children do well and live good lives. I don’t want them marinating in Cooper’s death for too long. I want them to grieve in a healthy manner, at their own pace, yes, but I do want them to find healing and peace and be able to move on. I am confident they will always find ways to honor their brother.

I will stay with the wrecked boat on the reef, but you kids need to go, live, and do well. Crush this motherf**ker called life.

Below is a text message I sent to my oldest sons back in January:

Hey, boys. I have been going through some of Cooper’s things this morning, trying to close a few things out. I went back and read his journal, looking at a few things. In light of that, I wanted to share a few things with both of you. The first thing that stands out to me is that Cooper was doing really well in life, but he didn’t see that in himself. He was really hard on himself, held himself to unrealistic expectations. Back when I used to fight fire, there’s a saying about standing in the center of the fire. You have to be able to stand in the heat, smoke, and flames and know that even though it doesn’t seem like it, you are winning the fire fight. Both of you are doing exceptionally well in life, and I want you to see it, to know it, and to embrace it. You are. You’re doing great. Know that. Just keep standing in the center of the fire and have confidence—you are going to win the fire fight. Also, don’t be hard on yourselves. Love yourself. Offer yourself kindness, good thoughts, and nice words toward yourself. Don’t hold yourself up to unrealistic expectations. Smile. Don’t take yourself too seriously. Cooper was too hard on himself and didn’t realize how well he was doing. He became unsettled standing in the center of the fire and lost his nerve. Keep your feet on the ground, stay grounded, and keep doing what you’re doing. It’s working. Love you both, Dad.

Losing a child wrecks you. It should. On all levels, wrecked—physical, emotional, social, spiritual, mental.

But healing does take place. I believe this. It is happening.

I imagine my life as something like Moses. I’m not going to enter the Promised Land. How could I enter the Promised Land without Cooper?

What I hope, though, is to be able to stand on Mount Nebo and watch my sons and daughter living good lives in their Promised Lands. I see smiles on their faces, love in their hearts, and kids scattered everywhere. They know. They are seers and sensers and lovers. They know, but they are living. They live and engage this world with compassionate hearts.

In my heart of hearts, I know and believe I will see my son again. Zero doubt about this. I live today to see my kids do well and to help others. In 2013, I was in Israel and spent time with Zaka Search and Rescue. A rescuer said to me, “If you save one life, it’s as if you have saved the whole world.” I believe this.

I’m slowly walking toward Mount Nebo, this last third (quarter) of my life. I aim to save one life, maybe many, and then stand on the mountaintop and gaze out at my kids and smile. Then I am going to go see my boy. I can’t wait to hug him again.

Wrecked.