And now comes the part of our story where Jackson's death leads us to Faith. Granted it took a lot longer than it will seem when you read this. In actuality, 15 months passed between the time we lost our son and the day we found our daughter. 15 months that changed our lives... that helped us grow. That made us who we are today.

I think before experiencing the death of my own child I would have believed that the death itself would be the hardest part of the whole experience. But it wasn't... at least not for me. I don't really know about Jenna, she still doesn't talk much about any of it, and that's okay, we all grieve differently. I've learned a lot about that.

For me though, Jackson's death was the easiest part. If you can all it 'easy'. Which you can't really, but I don't know how else to put it. The least difficult part perhaps? Maybe that's a better way to put it. I mean, we'd watched our son for days, knowing he was only alive because of the machines that were breathing for him and keeping his body functioning. I think our logical brains knew from the beginning of those four days that our son was gone, even though our hearts wanted us to believe otherwise. So looking back I can say that during those days, it's pretty much like death had already happened and in a way Jackson's body was just waiting for our hearts to accept the fact.

His actual death though, meaning the moment his heart stopped beating and we knew he was really physically gone. Well, it was beautiful... in it's own way. As beautiful as any death can be. Before that happened though, we held him in our arms and for the first time in his entire life we got to experience our son without tubes and wires. We got to feel his heart beating and cuddle in the warmth of his tiny body for twenty-two of both the longest and shortest minutes of our lives.

And they were amazing minutes... every single one of the them. And then as we felt his heartrate slowly stop beating we got to kiss him and hold him and tell him we loved him and that it was okay to go... that we'd see him again someday. And that was beautiful too. Beautiful and painful, but worth every single second.

No... the hardest part wasn't the death. The hardest part was walking away when all was said and done.

The hardest part was leaving the hospital that night knowing we would never return. Leaving our son's body laying on that cold bed, wrapped up in a blanket to be carried to the morgue by someone we'd never even met. And that thought for me, was the hardest. That my son's body would be all alone that night in a strange new place, surrounded by death. And that would have been enough. But then we had to walk through the halls of the hospital, all of our son's belongings swaddled in our arms with no baby to show for the journey we'd been through.

We carried all of the stuffed animals and toys, the blankets, clothes and photos we'd collected for his isolette over the 6 weeks our son had lived and walked carefully out to our car with them. Jenna climbed in the front passenger seat and shut the door, looking straight ahead as if she could block out the rest of the world around her. I opened the back seat to shove in the rest of Jackson's things and there I saw his infant seat... or what should have been his infant seat. He never got the chance to use it. I remembered all of the research Jenna had done in the months prior to Jackson's birth, hoping to find the very safest and best car seat out there. And I remembered the day, just a week before when I'd sat in the back seat with the manual, confused as hell until finally I'd been able to carefully install it. And now here it sat, just waiting for our son to be buckled in snuggly and brought home.

Yet another milestone that would never occur.

I shook my head as I shut the door and climbed into the driver's seat beside my wife. I focused my eyes on the road ahead of me as we headed home in silence.

The drive from Nashville to home seemed even longer than usual that day and after a little while Jenna reached up and flicked on the radio. She tuned the dial until she found her favorite station - K-Love. If you know much about me then you know I've never been a huge fan of Christian music. I mean, before I married Jenna the only Christian music I owned was Brian's CD and I liked it okay... but since marrying my wife I'd had to get used to a constant background noise of christian rock. And I didn't really mind it anymore... except for today. Today I really wanted to change the station. There's just something about losing your child that makes you lose at least a little of your faith. There's something about losing your child that makes you want to stand up in front of God and ask him, "What the hell was that for?"

"But God lost his own son..." Jenna reminded me of this just this morning with tears in her eyes... "He knows."

Not that it helps me understand any better why my own son had to die... but I think the thought helps Jenna at least a little and I guess that's okay.

Jenna left the station on and when a new song started playing she turned it up, leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes.

I listened to the words as we drove along and couldn't help but notice the tears quickly forming in my eyes. If nothing else, music could make you feel... and even though I'd rather not feel at all then feel the pain of losing my son, I had to admit that this was a beautiful song, and sometimes tears weren't such a bad thing.

I fought the tears that stung my eyes harder still as they tried their best to fall. I glanced over at Jenna and saw that she was crying harder than I was. I reached out my hand and found hers, silently I brushed my fingers along her wrist, feeling the hospital bracelet that had been there since the day our son was born. This made the tears fall even faster, knowing we had been waiting so anxiously to take our bracelets off together so that we could put them in Jackson's baby book. A treasured memory... but not this way.

I tried to remember the words that Jenna had told me what seemed like a hundred time in the past few months. "We have to have faith Nick."

And then again over the past few days she repeatedly told me, "Nick, we can't lose faith."

I'd tried so hard... but look where it had gotten me.

Pulling into the driveway 45 minutes later didn't help. I immediately noticed the sign on the front door that proudly announced, "IT'S A BOY!" I heard Jenna sigh beside me, wiping more tears as quickly as she could. I went around to her side of the car and took her hand and together we walked into our home.

Inside, Jackson's swing and bassinet sat in the corner of the living room. His stroller was folded up beside the front door. A laundry basket full of onsies and sleepers and blankets lay on the sofa waiting to be taken up to the nursery and put away. A stack of birth announcements sat upon the coffee table where Jenna had been addressing them the night before we got the phonecall that changed everything. It woud be weeks before we would finally tuck them carefully into the closet inside Jackson's keepsake box where they still remain to this day.

Our home was the picture of the home of a couple expecting a baby and we were the picture of a couple who'd just lost one. I stood in the middle of the room and shook my head at the irony of it all as Jenna moved the laundry basket to the floor before curling up on the couch with a blanket from the top of the pile. She touched it softly to her cheek and breathed in it's scent before discarding it back in the basket.

"Nothing here smells like him," she sobbed as she closed her eyes and buried her face into the pillows.

I curled up beside her, taking her in my arms and holding her close as her sobs gently slowed and once again she breathed a deep sigh. We lay together on that couch for a long time, Jenna resting her head on my chest, her hand gently placed over my heart. I wondered what she was thinking then... but I never asked. After a while she finally stood and said she wanted to shower. I asked if she wanted me to come with her but she said she just wanted to be alone. I watched her walk from the room, her shoulders low, her head down and I wondered if we'd ever be okay again.

I stood and walked into my office across the room. I sat down in front of my computer and flicked it on, staring for a moment at the photo of Jackson I'd already framed and had sitting on my desk. It was taken two weeks before, the first time I'd gotten to hold him kangaroo style. It's strange how your body can ache so bad for something you can never have ever again and something you never had for that long to begin with. My arms ached to be holding my son again. I longed for the warmth of his tiny body on my chest and the comfort of knowing he was safe with me.

I closed my eyes and looked away from the photo. It was almost too much to bare.

I popped up Twitter on my computer wondering if for even a minute I could escape the madness and just go back to being the goofy Nick Carter everyone knew and loved. But of course when I clicked on our Backstreet Boys account to see if anyone had updated our fans on what was going on, they had;

"Our prayers are with Nick and Jenna today. We love you guys."

I knew the guys had said so little in order to respect our privacy, but it felt good that they had said anything at all. And of course the message was followed by the messages of thousands of fans asking if everything was okay and sending their prayers and positive thoughts our way. It had been announced shortly after Jackson's birth that our son had been born premature, but of course as far as fans knew everything was going well. In fact, my last message on August 9th had been a positive one which said simply;

"Can't wait to bring the J-man home in a few days and introduce him to all of our fans! You guys are incredible! Thank you for all the wonderful wishes."

My eyes filled with tears once more when I think of how long ago that message seemed... and yet, not long ago at all. A lifetime ago it had been though. Jackson's lifetime.

I clicked on my own account and was overwhelmed by the thousands of messages. I fought back the tears as I struggled with what to type... in the end, I went with this;

"I really have no words to offer... 41 days was not long enough. Sleep peacefully JTC. Daddy loves you."

I stared at the computer screen for several more moments before finally clicking send... for some reason it felt like clicking send and letting the world know made it more real than it already was. Even though I knew it couldn't really get more real than my child's death.

It was only moments later when my cell phone buzzed - a text message from Brian.

"I love you bro. Call if you need anything at all."

I shook my head, wiping yet more tears. I knew even with as painful as all of this was that with the amount of love we had in our lives we would be able to make it through.

"Thanks man," I responded... "love you too."

As I was sitting on my computer that night I clicked on a folder I'd created shortly after Jackson's birth and started going through links and deleting them one by one. There were links for Down Syndrome foundations and organizations, information sites and various online groups. In my mind I didn't need them anymore. In my mind I would never need them again.

Just as I was preparing to throw in the towel and delete the entire folder without clicking on another link I came across a site called "Reece's Rainbow." I hadn't recalled adding the link, but then again, it sounded somewhat familiar. I clicked on the link and immediately remembered the sweet email I'd received from a kind stranger just days after our doctors had confirmed Jackson's Down Syndrome diagnosis. At a point in my life when I'd reached out anonymously (of course), but honestly, pouring my heart out in an online forum to other parents who had found themselves in my exact shoes at some point in their lives, the support I'd found had been overwhelmingly loving, encouraging and just as honest in return.

The woman, Anna, who had sent the email shared with me her experience. How she'd found out her daughter had Down Syndrome at birth and how she'd felt that she had failed her child in some way. That the diagnosis somehow had to be her fault. That it couldn't simply just be the way life was.

She spoke of the devastation she'd felt at first, knowing that her baby girl would never be 'normal'. The nightmares she'd had about trying to raise her in a society that often doesn't accept people who are different. But then she went on to share pictures of her 10-year-old daughter Lilly, who was beautiful and smiling and looked so incredibly happy. She raved about all that she had accomplished in her life, many things they'd been told she would never be able to do. She spoke of how much she loved her daughter and how it wasn't long after her birth that she fell madly in love, to the point that she knew she would die for her. To the point that she knew she would do whatever it took to make her life worthwhile and amazing. She talked about how incredible a gift what she'd thought was a curse had turned out to be... and how she wished she could turn back time and tell herself in the beginning how enriched her life would become because of Lilly, not in spite of her.

I remember wanting to save the email because of all the letters I'd received so far this one had touched my heart the most. But before I could hit the save button I had noticed the signature at the bottom of the screen. It read simply;

Anna B.

Mother to Lilly Marie -- Born 12/10/2002, Trisomy 21

*Anxiously waiting on our two X-tra Special Angels*

And below the signature was a link to the website I'd found again today -- 'Reece's Rainbow" -- with two photos, one of a 4-year-old named Mattias and the other of a 1-year-old named Maryanna. Both looked pitiful and frail and the photos brought tears to my eyes when I read the descriptions. Mattias and Maryanna both had Down Syndrome, just like Lilly. Just like my newborn son.

And they were both going to be adopted by Lilly's family.

I had clicked on the link that day, curious what it would lead to and was immediately awed by the number of children listed. You see, Reece's Rainbow is a site that helps pair orphaned children in other countries who have been diagnosed with Down Syndrome with adoptive families here in the United States. They had funds set up for every child to help offset the cost of adoption which I was shocked to see for many families totaled as much as $25,000. After searching the site for a while I finally found the links for Mattias and Maryanna's funds and easily found myself filling out the donation slip with $1000 for each. Afterall, their mother had helped me find hope in my newborn son... I could surely offer her some hope in bringing home these two beautiful children.

And this is where the story of Faith begins. Without Jackson there would have been no email. With no email there had been no link and without Jackson's death I would not have clicked on the Reece's Rainbow site on that painful day in August 2012 and decided to save it when I so easily could have deleted it along with all the others. Something in my heart told me to save the link that day. Even in my pain. Even when I couldn't stand the thought of looking at the children on those pages, knowing that they had hope when Jackson didn't.

Little did I know that 15 months later I would come upon that link again in a time when I needed it most. And little did I know that Jenna had somehow stumbled upon the same link at some point in that year. And little did either of us know that this would lead us on a journey together...

The journey to Faith.