To you, it’s Valentine’s Day—the one day celebrated worldwide when your sweetie gives you flowers and chocolates, when your kids trade greeting cards and candy at school, when you dress up and enjoy a candlelight dinner with the one you love.
To me, it’s no longer just Valentine’s Day. No, this day of love will forever primarily be celebrated by our family as the day I gave birth to our precious baby boy, Joel Nathan Preuss.
On this day last year, Nathan and I fell madly in love with another little human being all over again—the mightiest little man, who looked so much like his sister, who fought with everything until his last breath. It was also the one day in both our lives when we’ve never hoped or prayed more.
Here we sit, one year out, and it’s the perfect time to reflect. At this major milestone, I think I was expecting fireworks or a parting of clouds or a loud voice from heaven or something similarly dramatic. In all honesty, my anxious heart has felt a little Y2K up until this point.
But what we got was a big sigh of relief. Phew. We made it. One year. We’re still breathing. We didn’t completely fall apart. When we woke up this morning, we felt peace and joy alongside sadness and sorrow—and the Holy Spirit hovering over us.
A lot has happened in one year—and it’s happened fast. We buried that precious baby boy, got pregnant again (oh yeah, you heard me right), had another loss by miscarriage at 13 weeks, left our son buried in a foreign city, moved to a new city, started a new job, and bought our first home together.
But healing? Oh, that’s a different story. There’s nothing fast about it. It’s been a slllllooooowwwww, drawn-out process.
February–May
Those first months were THE worst. I’m ashamed to tell you what some of my thoughts were. I was angry at God. No, I’m just going to say it—I WAS ROYALLY PISSED. We both were. I was also equally heartbroken, bewildered, depressed, ashamed, regretful, etc.
It was a roller coaster of emotions that moved so fast I didn’t know when I was up or down. I just know I felt like I was living in a dark, black hole. I didn’t think I’d ever come out.
June
Finally, things were marginally better. We could breathe a bit easier. We started seeing an amazing counselor who walked us through all the crazy emotions and told us we weren’t (crazy, that is).
Just when we saw some progress in our journey toward healing, I got pregnant again.
The long and the short of it is that we were definitely NOT planning to get pregnant. It just happened very unexpectedly despite all our efforts to delay it. Needless to say, if you know me at all, you know I get violently ill with morning sickness in those first months, so that was fun.
July–September
So there I was, puking and rallying. There was no time to grieve. All of a sudden, there was a new baby on the way that I had to think about. It was too much to handle all the emotions, so I had to put my grief and incessant thoughts of Joel on the back burner.
But let me be completely transparent in this moment: I felt guilty every single day of my pregnancy with Baby #4 because I didn’t want a new baby. I did, but I didn’t, you know what I mean? Yes, I 100% valued this baby’s life and was thankful for this gift, but I had a hard time grasping the reality of it.
All I could think about was that I wanted my Baby Joel back. I wanted a miracle. I wanted him to rise from the dead. I wanted him back in my arms. I wanted him healed and whole. But death is so final and non-refundable. The reality of it hits and hurts like a fist to the gut.
Needless to say, when we went in for an ultrasound at 13 weeks and 4 days, that sweet baby’s heart had stopped—which ushered in even more guilt. Nathan and I literally didn’t know which way to turn. How do we grieve two babies? Who do we grieve first? How could this happen? Why did this happen?
Let me stop because I have to insert this here (Isaiah 55:8-9):
“My thoughts are nothing like your thoughts,” says the Lord. “And my ways are far beyond anything you could imagine. For just as the heavens are higher than the earth, so my ways are higher than your ways and my thoughts higher than your thoughts.”
That one verse is the first thing that came to mind. And it stayed there—rolling around and around and around for weeks.
I don’t know why God allowed us to get pregnant again so soon—only to take that baby too. But He did. After everything, our weary hearts had to surrender once again and say, “OK. We don’t understand it, but OK. We trust You again and again.”
(Full disclosure. This might be too much information for some, but I’m going to share it anyway. I had to have a D&C with Baby #4. I don’t remember a lick of it as I was under anesthesia, but I’m told that when I was coming out of it, I said to my mom and Nathan, “Is Joel OK? Is he still sick? Will he be OK? Where is he?” Guys. At seven months after his death, my heart was still so broken, raw, and vulnerable. It just goes to show what was in my subconscious.)
Thank God for our counselor. He assured me I wasn’t a horrible person. The body and heart and mind can only handle so much emotional intensity. I had compartmentalized. After this last miscarriage, I was able to once again turn on the grief over Joel and get on with it.
October
Thanks to Nathan’s compassionate boss, who got wind of our situation and wanted to show us mercy as quickly as possible, we got moved to a new job and city. I spent the month frantically packing, cleaning, and downsizing. We wanted—no needed—to get the heck out of Dodge.
We needed a fresh start, a change of scenery.
In those last weeks in Mississippi, I visited Joel’s grave as much as possible. It had became a sacred place for me to reflect and heal and remember him.
In late October, with cars loaded, we drove away from Columbus and stopped by Joels' grave for a final time. No one panicked. There was no uncontrollable sobbing. Just peace that passes all understanding. Jesus was near.
November–December
Finally, a new chapter.
Finally, we both could look behind us and see progress in our healing.
Finally, I could open my Bible and spend time with Jesus without throwing it against the wall.
Finally, I could talk to him without getting angry.
Finally, I didn’t cry every single day—just every other day.
Finally, we both could look behind us and see progress in our healing.
Finally, I could open my Bible and spend time with Jesus without throwing it against the wall.
Finally, I could talk to him without getting angry.
Finally, I didn’t cry every single day—just every other day.
Of course, the excitement of a new place, being back home in Texas, and being closer to family helped tremendously.
Our counselor had warned us of the upcoming holidays and the onslaught of emotions they would bring. Friends, I actually scoffed at him. I said, “No, no, no. I’m doing much better. Don’t you see? That won’t happen to me. I’ll be fine.”
Ron the Counselor was, oh, so right—and God’s timing was, oh, so perfect.
The day before Thanksgiving, I lost it—completely. And thank God we weren’t in Mississippi when it happened, where I was reminded of our loss at every turn. By the grace of Christ, He removed us from those memories just in time. He delivered us to a safe place where we could deal.
For a while there, throughout the holidays, I slid downhill fast. But my wise husband reminded me that it was this time last year when we found out Joel was sick and started seeing specialists every week. It all made perfect sense and I tried to view grief through those lenses.
It didn't mean I still wouldn't spend an entire church worship service in a bathroom stall, weeping uncontrollably, trying to recover.
It didn't mean I still wouldn't escape to a restroom, my car, or a dark corner on numerous occasions while out in public—especially if I ran into another mom holding a brand-new baby.
It didn't mean I still wouldn't completely lose it with Nathan at the end of an evening for weeks on end because I could no longer keep it together and smile through it.
Grief is what it is—and sadness is needed to do the work of processing through it.
It didn't mean I still wouldn't spend an entire church worship service in a bathroom stall, weeping uncontrollably, trying to recover.
It didn't mean I still wouldn't escape to a restroom, my car, or a dark corner on numerous occasions while out in public—especially if I ran into another mom holding a brand-new baby.
It didn't mean I still wouldn't completely lose it with Nathan at the end of an evening for weeks on end because I could no longer keep it together and smile through it.
Grief is what it is—and sadness is needed to do the work of processing through it.
2018
There’s no flowery ending to this. I wish I could tell you we were "all better" (as Madelyn likes to say) or that we'd gained a measure of genius because of it. But to put it plainly, it’s been a crappy year. We’re still in the thick of it.
But today, unlike last February, is filled with both joy and grief, peace and sorrow, healing and heartache. It’s not all sackcloth and ashes. Jesus has pared these unlikely friends and used them in our family to bring about healing and restoration.
I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again. It’s no coincidence that God allowed our son to be born on February 14. It will always be a reminder to us of His unending, immeasurable, deep, abiding love. On Valentine’s Day 2017, He gave us one of the greatest gifts of our lives in the form of that baby boy and said, “This is how much I love you.”
Despite everything—the tears, questions, sadness, loss—we still mean what we said one year ago when we first told you Joel’s story. He’s good. He’s faithful. He’s for us.
We’re certainly not healed—that will be a lifelong process—but at least there’s some clarity now. As his parents, we're proud to continue sharing the legacy of his life. Joel’s story, which is a part of our story, is all part of God’s grander story to know Him and make Him known.
Everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved.
—Joel 2:32
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