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It was the week before Thanksgiving, and as I ran errands in the car with my three sons-Benjamin, six; John, two; and Ethan, four months-I tuned into a broadcast of Dr. James Dobson's "Focus on the Family" radio program. That day, the guest was talking about her child's death, so I flipped the radio off, not wanting to even think about the topic. But my thoughts seemed to have a life of their own. What would I do if it happened to me?
I pondered halfheartedly. As I mentally prepared my grocery list, the answer came in the voice I've grown to recognize as my heavenly Father's: Jonna, you'd get down on your knees and thank me for every moment you were given with your child.
That's strange, I thought, tucking the thought away in a corner of my mind and driving on into the happy clutter of my life.
One week later, my husband, Patrick, our three boys, and I gathered to celebrate Thanksgiving at Patrick's parents' house three hours away. While a football game buzzed in the background, numerous siblings and their burgeoning families arrived laden with hugs and special dishes.
How blessed we are, I thought, relishing the warmth of the fireplace, the delicious aromas filling the air, and the joy of seeing Patrick's grandmother holding baby Ethan for the first time. Ethan smiled and burbled as family members snapped his picture and oohed-and-aahed over him.
Eventually, I whisked Ethan away from the hubbub of last-minute meal preparations and laid him down on his stomach for his nap on my in-laws' bed. I adjusted the covers, settling him quickly and quietly without so much as a backward glance.
After we thanked the Lord and enjoyed our feast, I went to the bedroom to check on Ethan. Instead of finding him napping, he was face-down and motionless. My heart skipped a beat as I snatched him from the bed.
"Ethan!" I screamed, jostling him to awaken him. But when he didn't respond, I raced into the kitchen, holding his limp body. Screaming for Patrick, I yelled, "Dial 911! Ethan's not breathing!" My mother-in-law cried out in disbelief as family members familiar with CPR took him from me and began resuscitation attempts.
By the time the paramedics arrived, I was utterly beside myself. While they worked over his little form, I began begging God for Ethan's life. Within minutes, a Med-Flight helicopter landed in the street outside to take Ethan away to a nearby hospital, while Patrick and I raced there by car.
During that car ride, my begging ended. I still clung to the hope that Ethan would revive, but as I prayed in the backseat with my sister-in-law, I remembered my thoughts from the week before when I listened to the Dobson program. My heart breaking, I thanked God for every day we had been given with Ethan, and prayed for God's will to be done.
Once at the hospital, we learned that the team of doctors and nurses tried their best to bring him back, but to no avail. Ethan had died of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome—SIDS&151;well before the helicopter had taken him away. Twenty minutes after our arrival, Ethan's I.V. was removed and life-support machines were turned off.
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