In memory of our Joel

It's not just a headstone. It tells his story.

It tells of a baby who was named after a great biblical prophet (Joel = "Yahweh is his God") and his own father (Nathan = "gift from God")—two incredible men who have committed their lives to following Christ.

It tells of a mighty little man—a bold, courageous warrior—who fought hard against Hydrops for 30 weeks and was more influential in his short life than most old men ever are.

It tells of a little boy who was born on Valentine's Day, a day when most in our country celebrate love. To us, it was God's divine way of smiling on us in this grander story, reminding us how much he loves us and Joel.

It tells of a little boy who died one day after he was born, but that he LIVED. We met him. He met us. We held him close and loved him and sealed a bond face-to-face, skin-to-skin that will never be replaced.

It tells of our prayers and the foundation for his life and story—that those who see Joel 2:32 etched into the stone will know they, too, can call on the name of the Lord, be saved, and spend an eternity with Jesus.

It tells of a family who has lost someone so very special—a daddy and mama who lost a son, and a big sister who lost her little brother. We're not a family of 3. We're a family of 4. It's just that one of us has gone home to be with Jesus sooner than the others.

We'll never forget him. There will always be a hole in our hearts and family where he was meant to be. But we trust Jesus to fill that hole until we see him again one day.

If you're reading this and don't know Jesus but would like to ask questions and know more, we'd love to talk with you—plainly, candidly, honestly.

We put our full weight on what we believe, even in the wake of the greatest tragedy of our lives. God has been gracious through it. We'd like to share how you can also have unexplainable hope and peace and healing, how you can walk with a God who knows you and loves you deeply, and how you can spend eternity in heaven with him.

Real grief is scary

Grief can manifest itself in all sorts of unusual ways: screaming fits so fierce that you think you might lose your mind, hysterical crying so consuming that it leaves you gasping for breath, exhaustion so heavy that sleep can't even fix it, physical ailments so wacky that you think you may be dying too, sadness so deep that you feel like your heart is literally breaking in two. Just to name a few.

I've participated in all the above. I hear this is completely normal (thank goodness).

But people in our culture aren't OK with this kind of grief. The very mention of it makes them start to twitch and shift awkwardly in their seats.

It should be private, right? No.
It should be neat and dignified, right? No.
It should end after an appropriate amount of time, right? No.

It's messy and ugly and sloppy and chaotic and unprocessed and unscripted.

It's taking your kid on a playdate with other friends and crumpling down on the kitchen floor of a mere acquaintance into the fetal position because your heart hurts too bad to stand and talk about your dead son.

It's taking 10 minutes to hide and weep in between the bread and chip aisle at the grocery store because you just ran into someone who asked how you're doing and you feel like your insides may tumble out for everyone to see.

It's arriving five minutes late to church, sitting on the back row in the balcony, and leaving five minutes early—for weeks and weeks and weeks—because you're afraid the smallest interaction with someone may lead to an embarrassing meltdown in front of a crowd.

It's going to a restaurant with your husband and not making it five feet in the doors before you frantically turn and run back to the car because you walked into a time machine, remembering the last time you were here you carried that sweet baby boy inside you.

I'm learning who in my life can handle my ugly cries and who I need to rein it in for. I'm learning what I can handle and what I can't. I try to spare most people, but real grief can be scary and disturbing.

Don't you feel uncomfortable even now as you read this? I sort of feel uncomfortable writing about it. But gut-wrenching, sackcloth-and-ashes, emotionally-charged grief is very real. The emotions are raw and unrefined. The reality of it is weighty. And dare I say it? It should be freely expressed.

The Bible actually talks about those who grieved this way over and over.

"A cry is heard in Ramah—deep anguish and bitter weeping. Rachel weeps for her children, refusing to be comforted—for her children are gone." —Jeremiah 31:15

Jeremiah prophesied it. Later, Herod fulfilled it. He murdered all baby boys, who were 2 years old and under, in Bethlehem (Matthew 2:17-18).

Can you imagine the mothers and fathers who mourned their children and cried out to God over the insanity of the nut job sitting on the throne? Deep anguish. Bitter weeping. That's exactly how we've felt.

"Have mercy on me, Lord, for I am in distress. Tears blur my eyes. My body and soul are withering away. I am dying from grief; my years are shortened by sadness..." —Psalm 31:9-10

There it is. From King David's own mouth. He was grieving over the many distresses in his life, including the deaths of others and his own narrow escapes from death.

Distress. Tears. A physical wasting away. That's exactly how we've felt.

"I wear burlap to show my grief. My pride lies in the dust. My eyes are red with weeping. Dark shadows circle my eyes." —Job 16:15-16

Job lost it all—home, children, health, wealth, etc. He had good reason to grieve. Over and over again he asked for relief from his sorrow, even by way of death.

He wept—and he looked the part. That's exactly how we've felt.

"We were crushed and overwhelmed beyond our ability to endure, and we thought we would never live through it." —2 Corinthians 1:8

Paul suffered with depression and anguish. He grieved so deeply that he didn't think he'd live through it. That's exactly how we've felt.

"'Father, if you are willing, please take this cup of suffering away from me. Yet I want your will to be done, not mine.' ... He prayed more fervently, and he was in such agony of spirit that his sweat fell to the ground like great drops of blood." —Luke 22:42-44

Thank God we're not alone! The Bible says Jesus was a "man of sorrows, acquainted with deepest grief" (Isaiah 53:3). Christ suffered beyond what we can even imagine. He knows exactly how we've felt.

Even though culture shakes its head in pity and turns a blind eye to this kind of primitive, unlovely grief, we, here in the Preuss household, have embraced it.  We've mourned as much as we want, for as long as we want, exactly as we should. It's been the pathway to honest, whole healing. And we're not done.

Thanks to a handful of our closest family and friends, we've been given a safe place and permission to grieve this way. They've sat and wept with us. They've comforted with and without words. They've let us be sad. They've willingly jumped into the trenches with us, refusing to leave until we've ready.

Romans 12:15 says, "Be happy with those who are happy, and weep with those who weep."

Real grief can be scary. If you know someone who is grieving, reach out and embrace them in it. You don't need to say the right words. In fact, trash the condolences and pleasantries. Just be there and give them the green light to express their true emotions. It may be transforming for both of you.