Merry Christmas. For most of us, those words trip off the tongue at this time of year. But every year, some people have no Christmas jolly. They’re not decking their halls or preparing gifts. Since last Christmas they’ve lost a loved one or several. Their Ho Ho-s and Joy to the Worlds have swirled down the drain of grief, leaving a hollow sense of loss and loneliness.
I attended an annual service of memory one recent Sunday afternoon. Tall windows at the front of a local funeral chapel perfectly framed a view of towering evergreens and beyond that, the cemetery. A Christmas tree graced the front, along with a piano, a podium and a table holding several large candles.
I’d sat in that chapel many times before, saying good-bye to old and precious friends, some who left far too soon. I’d listened to my husband – my favourite Preacher – at that very podium, offering words of faith and comfort and hope. I’d even played the piano for some of those funerals.
But this was different. I sat with others that Sunday afternoon. People softened by loss, some no doubt unprepared to embrace the “Merry” in Christmas. People grateful for this annual gift to the families who have used that funeral home’s services in the twelve months. My mother died in another province about a year ago, but as I knew they would, the funeral directors made me welcome too.
A lady minister shared her own grief – the loss of her husband barely seven months ago. Family members lit the candles, and each family left with an ornament bearing a photo of their loved one.
Loss tends to bind people together, I’ve observed. No matter where, no matter who, it opens something up inside us; something that, when around another grieving person, loosens our tongues and connects our hearts.
During the service, I cuddled our youngest grandbean, four and a half months. We sat beside a large modern painting, featuring bars of vibrant colour. It captivated his interest – until the pianist began singing. Then he grew restless. Twisted his body around. Whimpered. Until he spied her – his mother, at the piano. Seeing her face calmed him immediately.
The lady minister spoke of recognizing that though the loss of her husband eclipsed the “merry” in Christmas, she could still embrace God. She spoke of finally understanding that he didn’t expect her to be Ho Ho –ing her way through the season, and of the peace that brought as she simply rested in his love. “It’s okay not to be merry at Christmas when you’re grieving,” she said. A collective sigh seemed to rise from those around me.
If grief has stolen your usual merry this Christmas, I pray that in your restlessness, you will find peace as you, too turn your eyes to Jesus, our heavenly parent. Our solace. And our eternal hope.
