On Mother’s Day evening, May 14, 2000, we rushed our only son, Bobby, to the emergency room with a high fever. Though we knew something was wrong, we both expected to be home in a few hours to tuck Bobby into his bed and wake up the next morning to keep living our normal, blessed life.

But we didn’t come home until the next evening, and we did so without our son. Bobby died from an infection caused by bacterial meningitis at just three years old. Soon after Bobby’s death, we searched for comfort and direction. We desperately needed help. Although our world seemed to have stopped, the world that we lived in had continued to orbit at a much faster pace. Mark was expected to get back to work soon after Bobby’s death; Christi was supposed to care for our other children in the very home that Bobby used to run around and play in – his room now empty, his laundry not dirty, his toys lying in the same spot.

We started by attending a hospital support group. And while we desperately needed those monthly meetings, they just weren’t enough.