There’s an excellent book in educational circles titled An Ethic of Excellence: Building a Culture of Craftsmanship with Students¹ by Ron Berger. It’s one of my favorites. The premise of the book, as I understand and remember it, is that children need good models at the start of learning to see and know what excellence looks like.

If you show me a good model, a perfect vision for the future, an ideal end-state, then when I begin my own learning, I will know the direction in which I am heading.

This aligns with my experiences in the fire department in training and learning environments. As instructors and educators, we want to show firefighters at the beginning of training what “right looks like.”² Once they see the model, they will know what to aim for.

With these thoughts in mind, I want to share an experience I had recently with a mother that provides an exceptional model of excellence in talking to a parent who has lost a child.

I was recently at a public safety event for parents of children aged 0-3. There were several vendor tables set up by different organizations sharing safety messages. One table had a woman discussing the dangers of screen time, social media, and technology for children.

I firmly believe technology and social media played a role in Cooper’s death. It’s one layer of the suicide onion, at least.

I walked over to the table and began asking questions about her organization, and their findings and message. The conversation unfolded organically, and as time went on, there came an appropriate moment to share openly about my son, Cooper, and his death. I shared that I firmly believed technology played a part in his death.

This woman expressed that she was sorry. She acknowledged that she could not even begin to know what I was experiencing.

This is common language when I meet someone, and my son’s death comes up. Usually, it arises when someone in good faith asks me how many children I have. I tell them four, but one of them is no longer with us.

But this woman did something very different. She asked me, over these last many months of grieving, “What have you found most helpful in the grieving process?”

• I told her that breathing, writing, and talking to others about Cooper have been the most helpful.

• Taking time off work was also important for me.

• Joining the local The Compassionate Friends group and meeting other bereaved parents has been helpful.

• Reading a few books on grief and child loss has been helpful.

• Listening to my “Thinking of You, Cooper” soundtrack on long nature walks has been helpful.

• Drinking craft beer at local pubs has been helpful.

• Going back to work has been helpful.

• Having family and friends check in has been helpful.

• Spending time with my dogs has been helpful.

• Going to my little non-programmed Quaker church has been helpful.

• Seeing nature in new and unexpected ways has been helpful.

• Having a daily routine to honor Cooper has been helpful—keeping his candle lit, a light on at night, and opening the window for him in the morning and evening.

After I answered, she then asked me, “What have you found the least helpful?”

What has not been helpful to me are:

• People I thought would really step up but instead stepped away. It seems death is particularly uncomfortable for many people.

• I don’t have time for trivial things these days. It used to be I could tolerate ambiguous people and not be bothered by those who were not in my camp or on my side. Today, I don’t have time for these folks. If you’re not with me or you’re against me, we’re done. I have far less tolerance for pretending. I don’t mean this in a rude or disrespectful way.

I shared some of these things with the woman I was speaking with.

But she continued.

She then asked me, “What’s your son’s name?” Not in the past tense, but the present tense. “What’s his name?” I shared with her, “Cooper.”

Then she asked,

“Tell me about Cooper. What was he like?”

A smile spread across my face. Not one person I have met who has learned about my son has ever asked me this question.

So I shared:

Cooper was kind, gentle, and intelligent. He had a wry sense of humor—witty, and you had to be paying attention, or you would miss it. Cooper was a good friend, a soccer player, a budding pilot, and an aerospace engineer. Cooper loved dogs, hedgehogs, and most animals. He smiled gently from the corner of his mouth on the left side. He was introverted and socially shy (awkward).

I shared these thoughts about Cooper with this kind woman.

I can’t pretend to speak for all bereaved parents; that wouldn’t be fair or appropriate. Yet, this woman modeled excellence in my book.

What is your son’s name? Tell me about him.

This is what emotional—and spiritual—intelligence looks and sounds like in real time.

“Blessed are the merciful,  

for they will be shown mercy.  

Blessed are the pure in heart,  

for they will see God.”

1. Berger, Ron. An Ethic of Excellence: Building a Culture of Craftsmanship with Students. Heinemann, 2003. ↩︎
2. Crandall, Brian. Montana Fire Service Training School. Montana State University ↩︎