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Walking Through Grief During the Holidays

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Christmas 2013 was our family’s first without our son Matthew. I could barely breathe. I stayed away from the grocery store and the mall, fearing I couldn’t hold it together in either. The Internet became my friend as I shopped late at night, without sentimental mall music stirring up memories of Christmases past—when all three of my children were alive.


But every day, the Christmas cards arrived.


When I opened the first batch of cards, shock washed over me. Photos of beautiful, happy, intact families cascaded onto my kitchen table. Most were accompanied by a greeting wishing me a joyous Christmas. Some had a signature and the message, “Hope you have a great Christmas.” Others included a standard family newsletter, listing the accomplishments, vacations, and delightful family moments that had filled their year. I grew astonished, then angry, as I realized that none of the cards mentioned that our precious Matthew had died violently six months earlier, leaving us definitely not having a joyous Christmas.


Eventually I left the card-opening to Rick. The cards remained unopened in the traditional iron sleigh that has held our cards through the years until after Christmas Day had passed. Weeks later, I tore through them, angry tears pouring down my cheeks as I separated them into three piles: ones that didn’t mention our grief, ones that did so with a short, “Praying for you,” and ones that included soothing, loving, and thoughtful words of compassion and empathy. The third stack was the smallest.


That second Christmas, I opened the first Christmas card of this season. I wondered if perhaps I had been oversensitive the previous December—so immersed in our family’s loss at the time that every expression of happiness was like scraping an open wound. I hoped that I’d feel differently this holiday season. When I opened the card—an artfully designed print on heavy paper stock, printed with a signature from a pastor I don’t even know—I threw it away.


After that, I wrote about the experience on Facebook. I asked readers to consider sending a plain card to grieving families (instead of an obligatory “happy family” photo). “Tell them in a few words that you are aware of how painful Christmas can be and that you are praying for them,” I wrote. “Yes, it’s inconvenient—it will take more time than your rushed signature, and it will require entering into someone else’s loss, mourning, grief, and anger.”


I ended the post on behalf of grieving parents everywhere: “If you aren’t willing to modify your way of sending cards for a while, please do us a favor and take us off your list.” Hundreds of folks resonated with my words and spoke of similar experiences. Others were deeply offended and let me know.


Piercing Reminder


I’m slowly learning that grief is both universal and yet as individual as each person who mourns. Psychologists note that most grief journeys include shock, denial, anger, resignation, and acceptance. But it’s not linear, as though it was a clearly marked path for everyone. The feelings come and go. Some days you think you’re doing well until something triggers a wave of emotions that make you wonder if you’ll feel like yourself again. There are better days, even good days. And then, after a couple good days, a tidal wave of sadness can knock you to the ground.


For me, grief has meant screaming and wailing and weeping and moaning and writhing. Grief is crying so hard that snot runs from my nose into my mouth. Grief is sobbing so hard that I throw up. It’s lying spent on the couch, too weary to lift my limbs up the stairs to bed.


I’m thankful there are biblical models for such raw outpourings. It was customary for God’s people to tear their clothes, cover themselves in sackcloth and ashes, and cry so loud that all could hear. Matthew 2:17–18 (NIV) tells us that the Israelite mothers whose baby boys had been killed by King Herod were in “mourning and great weeping, Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted, because her children are no more.” Throughout the Psalms, King David freely records his anguish, anger, confusion, and sadness. Paul said his depression was so deep, he despaired of life. And Jesus grieved so heavily in the Garden of Gethsemane that he sweated drops of blood.


By and large, Americans are uncomfortable with such raw emotions, perhaps especially coming from a pastor and his family. As a pastor’s kid (and now wife), I have learned about the “walk on water” syndrome—that pastors and their families are expected to keep doubt, struggle, grief, and anger to themselves, lest anyone think they are less than perfect. May I gently point out that we are not superhuman or above pain, as none of the biblical heroes of the faith were, either.


In traditional cultures throughout the world, the louder the mourning, the greater the love shown for the deceased. You might counter that that’s not the way Westerners handle grief. You are right, of course. But acknowledging this leaves me wondering: What are we supposed to do with our feelings when the people we love end their lives violently? How are we to feel when someone we love is murdered? When those dearest to us are ripped from our arms through an accident or illness? Are we comfortable with hard grieving at first, but less so when the grief doesn’t stop after a few weeks or months or years?


Some are hardened by grief. They lose their ability to share in other’s happiness. That’s not where I am headed. I am doing my best to “rejoice with those who rejoice and mourn with those who mourn” (Rom. 12:15). Since Matthew’s death, I’ve attended the weddings of friends, baby showers, graduation parties, birthday parties (well, most of them), because life goes on and it’s not all about me. At the same time, it’s been four years since our son took his life. There are still moments when the happiness of others is a piercing reminder of what we have lost and will never have again.


One Foot at a Time


Meanwhile, I am grateful for family and friends who keep walking with us on the path of grief. There are those who enter fully into our tears when we need to cry, who make us laugh at ourselves and at life, who gently inspire us to keep seeking beauty from these ashes, and who point us—with their lives more than their words—to our eternal hope and home. It may seem counterintuitive, but it is possible to be in deep grief and yet experience the joy of the Lord. In fact, it is the Lord's joy that enables me to keep choosing to engage life and ministry even as I live with a broken heart.


I’m praying for all who mourn today for any cause. May we find in the Advent of our Lord Jesus Christ the fulfillment of the words that Zechariah prophesied long ago:

Through the heartfelt mercies of our God, God's Sunrise will break in upon us, Shining on those in the darkness, those sitting in the shadow of death, Then showing us the way, one foot at a time, down the path of peace.

Luke 1:78-79 (MSG)

For additional resources on grief, please visit kaywarren.com/grief.

Posted by Kay Warren with
in Grief


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Christmas - with its treasure-trove of family memories - is challenging for those of us who have lost a loved one. For those who have lost a child, the emphasis on children and Santa and toys, etc. brings excruciating reminders that some of the magic of Christmas as we're used to experiencing it is gone. This is our 4th Christmas without Matthew and here's what I'm learning about grief: when you CAN, you WILL.


The first Christmas without him, I reluctantly put out a few Christmas decorations because the entire family always gathers at our house on Christmas Day. I felt that everyone had lost so much already and to lose Christmas as well would only add more layers of sadness. So I decorated the tree, joylessly. The only way I could get through hanging all his childhood ornaments was to treat it as task to be accomplished, not a sweet memory to recall. No music, no lingering over decisions as to where to place the ornaments. "Just do it. Get it done!" I said to myself through gritted teeth and heavy tears.


The second and third Christmases without him were not much better. Decorating the tree was still only a task to be endured, a box to check on my to-do list. But this year, I decided to test out my theory about myself - the one that is learning that when I CAN do something, I WILL. I wondered if it was possible to add a tiny bit of joy back to the tree decorating - a way to start to allow "life" and pleasure to be incorporated into the sadness and desperate missing of my youngest child.


I decided that I would put a Christmas movie on the TV as background noise and accompaniment to my decorating. I grabbed the TV remote and scrolled through the offerings. Then I saw it: ELF- one of Matthew and Josh's favorite Christmas movies. I've always hated it - sorry all of you who adore ELF - but I dislike slapstick, predictable humor and corny jokes that you can smell a mile away. But last Sunday, it seemed almost like a gift from God - a movie that my sweet boy loved - a movie that made him laugh loudly year after year. If I was going to watch a movie, this was the one. I started watching in between unwrapping ornaments, untangling beaded garland and searching for the perfect spot to display the ornaments that speak so loudly of our family life. I have to admit - I smiled a lot, giggled a few times, and even laughed aloud once or twice - finally understanding all of the silly lines from the movie my boys loved to quote.


The movie ended before I finished decorating the tree, and I was tempted to extend my experiment by watching the movie that followed ELF (National Lampoon's Christmas) but decided that might be pushing it, But here's what happened: a dreaded, horrible, painful task had some happy moments this time. Not only were my spirits lightened by the goofy humor, but I also thought of funny memories of Matthew and Josh enjoying time together bonding over ELF. A task that became 100% negative in 2013 became slightly positive in 2016. The first three Christmases I couldn't do it - so I didn't. This year, I COULD, and I DID.


I guess what I'm trying to say is: don't be afraid to challenge yourself even in deep sorrow. Take a moment to consider the possibility that even though you haven't been able to do XYZ during Christmas before, maybe this is the Christmas you'll be able to do it. You'll never know until you step out in faith. No one else can push you to try, or force you to try - it has to be your decision. If you try and find it's still too soon, don't feel bad - don't feel guilty - don't beat yourself up about it. Maybe next Christmas. When you can, you will.


Sending love, big hugs and hope to all of you missing a beloved one tonight.....

Posted by Kay Warren with