Before he was born he was already "Joshua Lucas".  I loved both names and I loved the way they went together.  He was a beautiful baby, and although it may sound bias, I don't think he had a day in his life that he wasn't adorable.  Strangers used to stop us to tell us how cute he was.   He was an easy child.  Always happy.  Always smiling and laughing.  Always the peacemaker.  Always out for the underdog.  I think that came from being born with a club foot.  He had several surgeries and was in a cast until he was 5.  He learned to crawl and walk (and run) in it.  He spent a lot of time at Children's Mercy Hospital and Shriner's Hospital, and he seemed to realize, early on, that he was much more fortunate than most of the other kids he met there.  His "defect" would be corrected, but many of theirs never would be.  He became compassionate and generous. 
As a teenager and young adult he was still always happy, smiling, laughing and watching out for the underdog.  He opened his home to many who needed a place to stay.  He forgave those that took advantage of him.  He was a loyal friend.  He was a great father.  His siblings, all of them, loved him dearly, and looked up to him (and eventually down, as he was shorter than all of them!)  But I don't think Josh ever realized how very much he was loved.  He and I struggled.  We were often at odds with each other, but  I adored him.  I just wanted so much more for him.  He was, and is, my first pride and joy. 
He loved motorcycles, big trucks, boats, fast cars - fast anything!  He loved the water - always did.  Any water.  The pool, the lake, the ocean.  And sports.  He did them all.  Soccer, football, basketball, baseball, wrestling.  He was good at anything he did.  He was always the smallest, - but almost always the fastest, never letting the fact that one foot and leg were smaller than the other slow him down.  Wrestling won him over in high school.  It was an "individual" sport.  He excelled in it.  But baseball was his mainstay - that's where his heart was.  He played from the time he was little on into his adulthood.  He was strong, and built like a bull.  Always.  A family member used to say he was the only 4 year old they'd ever seen with muscle cuts and cleavage.  He had a great personality from day one.  He could win you over.  Charm you.  Adults loved him, and many commented on how it was amazing that as a kid, he would initiate and hold a conversation with them.  His teachers were all very fond of him, parents loved him.  He was in no particular "click" in school.  He was a jock, but was not constrained by it.  He didn't care who you were.  What you were.  If he liked you, he liked you.  Didn't matter.  He had many, many friends.  And he was ornery.  Ornery as hell.  Loved to joke.  Loved to tease.  Loved to "get ya' going".  He had a wonderful smile and an infectious laugh. 
As a young adult, he had children.  Two boys and a girl.  Austin, Zac and Shelby.  They adored him.  Daddy's boys and Daddy's girl.  He was their hero...still is.  He loved them more than anything.  He was proud of them.  I think he was in awe that he had anything to do with bringing such beautiful, wonderful beings into the world.  One of his favorite songs, "With Arms Wide Open" , by Creed, was his ode to his children.  I'll never forget the day he came over and told me, "Mom, you've got to hear this song!".  We sat outside in his truck and he played it for me and told me that's how he felt about having his kids.  He wanted so much more for them.  More than he had.  More than he felt he could give. 
He LIVED life.  No fear.  That motto described him completely.  He made mistakes.  He had accomplishments.  He enjoyed himself.  He rarely looked back.  He had plans.  Plans for change.  Plans for a different life, a better life.  He was at that point of "getting it",  but one last encounter with youth and taking chances took that from him.  One mistake.  One he couldn't correct.  One he could never take back.  February 11, 2004 we got the call --- the one every parent dreads. 
We spent nearly a week at the hospital.  His friends and family took over the very large, double waiting room.  It was always full.  They stayed.  They spent night after night, sleeping in chairs and on the floor, waiting.  Praying for a miracle.  Hoping against hope.  Our miracle never came.  February 16th, 2004.  It snowed that night.  The biggest, prettiest snowflakes I ever remember.  It was the last snow of the season.  He was 27.  The next day, it was as warm and sunny as spring. 
Josh continued his rally for the underdog even then.  He never told us, any of us, that he had signed up to be an organ donor.  And he didn't sign his license so that it would be immediately obvious.  He let us play with that decision for awhile.  I told you he was ornery.  We debated on what we wanted to do -- what HE would want us to do.  We were eventually told that the decision had been made for us.  He had registered.  We don't know when.  This sometimes irresponsible, "live-life-for-the-moment-and-worry-about-the-consequences-later" kid had made a decision that not one of the rest of us had made; to give life. The "joke" was on us.  And his decision set a precedent for organ donation by lifting the restrictions for those that donate organs after being removed from life support.   His organs should not have been able to have been used.  But, to the doctor's amazement, they were healthy enough to be donated.  He saved several lives, and improved others.  His heart valves were donated.  His kidneys.  His corneas.  Skin and tissue.  He had helped out "the underdogs" once again.  It is one of his legacies.  He was going out as Josh.  In typical Josh fashion.   He will live on. 
Over 1000 people came to Josh's visitation and funeral.  Friends, family, acquaintances, coaches, teachers and administrators - some from GRADE school.  People he played sports with - and against.  Bosses and people he had worked with.  Neighbors, past and present.  Kids he went to school with, and kids from other schools.  They just kept coming, and coming.  We couldn't fit them all in.  Two lines outside, wrapping around the building, for hours.  Some never were able to make it in.  It was overwhelming, amazing, unbelievable.  We were stunned, and we were moved.  It was a tribute to Josh, his relationships, his life.  It spoke to us of how loved he was, his impact on those that he met.  The importance of his life. 
I miss him.  There are no words in the English language to describe the emptiness in my heart.  The sadness.  The pain in knowing I will never see him again - not in this life.  I still can't wrap my brain around that. 
Joshua was one of a kind.  He will never be forgotten.  He will always be loved. 
Thank you to all of you that loved him.  To all that were there and carried us through that time.  To those of you that continue to remember.  And to those of you who visit this memorial.  Please feel free to leave messages, memories, photos, or just your name.  Your thoughts and continued memories and prayers are appreciated more than you could ever know.
And Joshua, my beautiful boy, I loved you then, and I love you now.  You will always be my first pride and joy. 
I hope you had the time of your life....
~ Mom~