We lost our four-year old son, Jonathan, in the year of 2000.
He was born a twenty-five week preemie, suffered numerous complications at birth, and during his four short years underwent forty eight surgeries.
Having been a nurse for the past eighteen years did not prepare me for the obstacles of watching my son suffer, or for his death.
The year after he passed, I found myself beginning to drown in a sea of self pity.
Before Jonathan came along I was used to a routine.
I went to my full time job, came home and fulfilled my wifely duties to my husband, and motherly duties to my other two sons, Jeremy and Matt.
I felt so blessed.
After Jonathan passed, I thought why can't I get back to stable ground? When I began to reflect back over the past four years, I realized what had changed.
I had spent every waking minute taking care of him.
Jonathan was confined to a wheelchair and could only stand for one-half hour with the assist of a standing frame.
I stretched his muscles faithfully so his muscles wouldn't become contracted due to Cerebral Palsy.
And even though he could only crawl three feet, and sit for a minimum of fifteen minutes, he was the happiest child I have ever met completely independent of materialistic things.
So, when he died, a part of me climbed into the clod of earth that day and died with him.
One day while I was cleaning his room, I picked up one of his braces that he wore on his legs off the dresser and sat down in the middle of his bedroom floor, tears leaking down my cheeks.
My dog, Lexy, came into the room and sat down beside me, wagging her tail.
She put her nose into my face and began licking my tears.
At that moment, I felt like a child who needed to be cuddled and assured that somewhere at the end of the grief there would be a rainbow.
I folded my hands to pray and asked God to send me another child like Jonathan.
I also began to realize that I was so emerged in my own grief that I had not noticed that everyone in my family was grieving silently.
That evening after supper, I called a family meeting to order.
I told my family that I started a memory book and that they could find it on top of my grandmother's trunk.
I encouraged them to think of the moment's we shared with Jonathan that were happy and to write them down.
By the end of the hour long conversation, my family embraced and vouched never to grieve silently alone.
A week later, the phone rang.
Ralph from Children Services called and asked if we would consider fostering a premature infant who was born at twenty-five weeks gestation, weighed one-pound thirteen ounces at birth, born with grade three bleeds in the ventricles of his brain and that no one could promise the outcome of this child.
While Ralph continued to explain his situation, a smile erupted on my face when I said thank you.
'You don't need to thank me,' Ralph replied.
My prayer had been answered.
When I hung up the phone, I asked God to help my family understand my quest, and to ward off any problems that inviting baby Dalaquan into our home may invite.
While we were gathered around the supper table that evening, I explained the situation to my family.
My husband, Kurt, who had encouraged me to go back into nursing said it would be nice for me to be able to offer my motherly instincts and nursing services to this baby.
Matthew missed his baby brother and was excited to add another addition to our family.
Jeremy was apprehensive at first because he feared if this child died too, or if he went back home to the biological parents that our family would no doubt suffer more heartache and pain.
When we brought Dalaquan home, my family immediately fell in love with him.
My boys have told me on more than one occasion that our family couldn't take much more heartache and pain, we needed a blessing.
Seven years have passed, and even though they told us that Dalaquan might never walk, talk, or do things that other children can do, after much therapy, he walks with a brace and a limp, and he says the funniest things.
One day while we were at the Jonathan's graveside Dalaquan looked to me and said, 'When I go to heaven, I'm asking Jesus for a parachute so I can come back.
' We laughed.
Dalaquan's smile radiates a kind of magic when he is in the room, and his chocolate chip eyes light up when he grins.
One day while I was cleaning the upstairs, I pulled the happy memory book that I was sure my family had forgotten about.
Jeremy wrote, 'Dear Jonathan: I remember when we played with Mr.
Monkey.
You giggled all the time.
We were like peas and carrots.
Weren't we? I miss you, buddy.
Mama took a baby named, Dalaquan, and at first I only said I wanted to take him to make mom happy, but mama knew best.
God sent us Dalaquan when we were sinking and needed a life raft, and he reminds me of you.
' Matt wrote: 'Dear Jonathan: After you died, I felt bad for making the statement, 'I got my mommy back.
' When our family took this little baby, similar to you, at first I was jealous, but then, I began to see that mommy loves everybody.
Thanks for teaching us unconditional love.
And I'm sure God has told you by now that in the past year, I've undergone ten surgeries, and mama's been at my bedside for every one of them.
Tell God thanks for sending us special angels.
' I clutched the book to my chest, and tears scalded my eyes.
I was so proud of my family.
Jonathan taught us love, compassion, empathy, and that love is plentiful.
And every day that passes, when we look at Dalaquan, we feel special as a family knowing that God gave us a very special path to walk in life.