The hole in the middle of Christmas

For my friends who are grieving.

I see you. At least I imagine I do.

I see you walking around, looking so fine and doing Christmas. But I wonder, is there a hole in the middle of you, too?

I thought of her a lot as Christmas approached. She was here last year. Not here, not in my home. But still, here, with brief sightings now and then as the year, and her life, wound down.

It shocks me to realize she hasn’t been gone a year yet. And remembering she is that close, I cling all the more to the memory of her. I carry my hollowness invisibly, and cry when no one is looking.

Like you.

I tiptoed out early last Saturday, buckets in hand, while my family slept. The wind and rain whipped at my hair, and I crammed my hat on more tightly, bending into the wind as I approached a grave fresh enough that grass had not yet covered it.

To keep my greens from blowing away, I brought just one bucket at a time, holding my foam supports down with my boot and pinning them to the ground with barbecue skewers.

A wreath, I thought. A wreath would bring honor to them. A wreath big enough to cover both graves at once.

The idea felt decadent, comforting—a gift to them, and for me the gift of indulging in their memory. So I snipped and stuck and sniffled and sobbed, working the circle again and again, poking greens into the stiff foam. And remembering. Reliving last year.

It was early Christmas morning. I sat next to the Christmas tree, asking God for permission to bring her to my home despite the pandemic rules. “May I? It’s just the two of us here, and we’ve both had Covid….” I just wanted to spend the day with my Mom. Dad was absent and resting beneath the soil. My house would be quiet that day.

The phone interrupted my prayer.

“She’s awake, but not responding,” they said. And so, wish granted, we spent Christmas together, in the hospital. That day she couldn’t speak, but she clung to me with her eyes. I talked to her, hoping the sound of my voice was familiar, comforting.

I snipped, I dripped, I poked and primped, walking laps around and around the huge wreath. It slowly began to close in with greenery, reminding me of the way my parents’ beautiful lives had flourished.

“Blessed is the one who trusts in the Lord,

whose confidence is in him.

They will be like a tree planted by the water

that sends out its roots by the stream.

It does not fear when heat comes;

its leaves are always green.

It has no worries in a year of drought

and never fails to bear fruit.”

Jeremiah 17:7-8, NIV

Their lives were beautifully evergreen. But a year ago one was missing, the other fading. And as I worked I rehearsed the treasured details of God-ordained mercies in the weeks following Christmas—the way her smile returned, how Covid kept her children nearby. I recalled the beauty of the snow on the day of her second stroke, and how, days later, her eyes miraculously opened and held onto mine. I thought of the way my heart soared when we brought her home, to finish her days with family.

It felt good to taste each memory, to recall the feel of her, and the way joy, like a red ribbon, wound its way in and around and through our sorrow. And how when she quietly exhaled for the last time, the beautiful circle of her life closed, complete.

My memories held her here for a delicious moment, alive and evergreen. And then dissolved like mist.

I peeled off my wet gloves and poked a ribbon into my wreath with numb fingers. With each remembrance my heart both soared and ached. My memories held her here for a delicious moment, alive and evergreen. And then dissolved like mist, leaving an aching hole in the middle of me.

The work, the memories, the wreath brought beauty and comfort. But my eyes kept wandering to the bare, raw dirt in the center of the wreath. It irritated me—the contrast of lush green with that barren hole.

Not unlike the discord of holding loss and ache in the middle of the beautiful season of Christmas. You know what I’m talking about if there’s a person-shaped hole in the middle of you, too.

So, what do we do with the hole--that ache in our heart that feels like a scar on Christmas? We rush to fix it, erase it, deny it, fill it in, get our Christmas back, the way it was supposed to be.

Isn’t the hole, in a way, the point?

But isn’t the hole, in a way, the point? It’s the gift of them--like a footprint, the evidence that they were here. My Mom mattered. Your loved one mattered. Like a gingerbread man cut out of the dough, their absence marks something so beautiful and meaningful and so foundational to who we are, that the hole itself is treasured.

The hole is holy ground. In fact, the hole is what Christmas is for.

Listen to these words; you’ve heard them before, but maybe they will mean more in this Christmas, the one with the hole in the middle:

The people walking in darkness

have seen a great light;

on those living in the land of the shadow of death,

a light has dawned.

...For unto us a child is born,

unto us a son is given,

and the government will be upon His shoulders.

And He will be called

Wonderful Counselor,

Mighty God,

Everlasting Father,

Prince of Peace.

Isaiah 9:2 & 6, BSB

The baby’s birth was the crack of dawn in a dark world, the beginning of comfort and joy.

Surely he has borne our grief and carried our sorrows.

Christ was born for this.

Maybe we don’t choose between joy and sorrow, beauty and barrenness this Christmas. Maybe the two can hold hands peaceably, their bold contrast bringing deeper meaning to each. Maybe the hole is just fine where it is.

So we dare to live fully and embrace with welcome both things: the astounding beauty of Christmas, AND the aching absence of the person missing this year.

You know, it’s not a wreath if it doesn’t have a hole in the middle.

Warm Christmas greetings, my friends! I am praying for each of you as I write.

Kathy