‘Tis the season to be jolly.
I really do believe it’s the most wonderful time of the year. In a month that would otherwise be cold and dark, the Christmas season has the ability to bring light, joy, and maybe even a little bit of magic, regardless of one’s age.
And yet, for all of us, the holidays can bring a deep sense of sadness and longing. They’re pinpoints on the calendar reminding us of the pricks upon our wounded hearts.
My dad passed away on December 23rd.
What a terrible day for someone to pass away. The 23rd-26th is a roller coaster of emotions in our family. His passing on the 23rd followed by Christmas Eve, Christmas, and, my mom’s birthday on the 26th. Talk about a wild ride. To be sad? To not be sad? The absence of sadness can generate its own unique and special sadness called guilt, which is maybe even trickier to navigate than the actual sadness itself. All of that to say, it can be a lot.
And for the past now 8 years I’ve found myself wondering, why did it have to be the 23rd? I’ve found some solace in the fact that we were together on that day and, because of the proximity to the holidays, will more than likely continue to be. Though slightly comforting, this justification didn’t seem to hold enough weight given the magnitude of the timing and the event. I understand we aren’t owed any explanations for why things happen to us in this life. But at the same time, humans are notoriously bad at the mysterious.
But now I realize, we’re all missing someone at the table.
And that is why the 23rd will always be hard. It is a physical reminder of the loss and sadness that each of us feel leading up to Christmas day. It is the universal grief we all carry knowing that someone will be missing from the dinner table, or the breakfast table, on that glorious Christmas morn.
Some of us are missing the parent who passed, who left, or who we felt we never knew. There are spouses who are gone, who were either taken too soon and those who we chose to leave. We’re grieving the loss of a child we had and the child who still isn’t there to run down the stairs and wake us up too early. The child we keep praying for, only to hear for another year of Mary’s miraculous pregnancy and remind us of the difficulty of, or lack thereof, our own. We’re longing for the spouse or significant other we so desperately long for, looking around the table to see couples and families, the Christmas cards on the fridge, reminding us yet again of our singleness. We’re missing friends we wish we had, or still had, grandparents, cousins, exes, and more.
We might even be grieving ourselves. We’re missing the person we thought we would be this time next year- skinnier, more successful, smarter, happier. We find ourselves looking at the same person in the same chair at the same table, wondering if things will ever be different, longing for hope and change.
If you’re sad this Christmas, you’re not alone.
And I believe that is the gift of Christmas. Only when we fully enter into the grief and sadness of our longing can we uncover the true joy of Christmas- the gift of presence. The real, all encompassing, joy-filled gift of the presence of Christ among us. It is great suffering that leads to great love and that great love allows us to experience real presence. By missing my dad at the table I’m able to look around and see the incredible people who have taken his place. I can pause and sit in the presence of the moment, to understand that this one spectacular moment, will never happen again. I can hold space for both the deep sorry and the unspeakable joy of that present moment. I’m able to have genuine gratitude for the love I feel for him, the love I felt from him. While I still miss him deeply I understand that the longing I feel is also love, and that love comes from somewhere. It comes from within me, the people around me, Love itself.
The sadness we feel is the opportunity to reach out and experience presence with those around us, those who are just like us, and suffering from a longing we may never know. It is the chance to connect with something so much bigger than ourselves.
Our grief creates space. Only you can choose who and what fills it.
I believe that when grief enters in it creates space. I also believe that space is constantly expanding and what we put into that space continues to grow. We can choose for the self-generating space caused by our grief to create more Love and presence. Or we can allow it to create more distance, bitterness, and division.
It is the hardest choice to make, but I want to keep choosing Love in the midst of my sadness. Not just this Christmas day, but every day. May our hearts and tables grow with Love this holiday season.