(adapted from a piece I wrote for our church newsletter)
Earlier this month, my family and I went to a local Christmas tree farm to get our pictures taken. I felt a swirl of emotions. In my experience, trauma (in my case, cancer and its ongoing treatment) and grief (in my case, over the loss of my dad) make it difficult to approach the holidays with the straightforward, pure celebration we tend to associate with the season. Going to get family photos, I felt fragile. I don’t look the way I looked in previous Christmas pictures. I don’t feel the way I used to feel, either.
As we drove up, our photographer was just finishing with another family. They looked so handsome and happy in their coordinated outfits, the two younger children laughing and running ahead of the parents and older brother. Watching them, I felt wistful. My mind and heart pitched backwards into my own family’s younger years, before we had sustained so much trauma and loss. I envied the seeming innocence of that young family.
On our way towards the photographer, the four of us walked by the five of them, and the mother and I briefly made eye contact. She was beautiful, and I was surprised to see something soft and almost vulnerable in her eyes. A few minutes later, as my family and I walked through the trees, our photographer talked about the sweet family she had just been working with. She told me that several years ago, they had lost a son, and that they had brought a photo of him to be in the pictures with them. She mentioned the little boy’s first name, and I suddenly realized who the family was. I’ve never met them, but they have good friends in our church. Our congregation prayed for their little boy for months after he was diagnosed with cancer; he died almost six years ago, at the age of two-and-a-half.
Watching them from a distance, not realizing who they were or what they’d been through, all I could see was their beauty, their happiness, their seeming innocence, the liveliness of their children. I didn’t see that they were moving towards the holidays with a child-sized hole in their hearts and in their family. I didn’t see that they had sustained a shattering, life-altering loss. I didn’t see how that loss had changed them, and how it hurts them still.
Most of the time, we have no idea what other people are carrying or how hard they may be struggling just to cope. Even when we have some idea of what another person is going through, we don’t often truly understand the extent of another person’s sadness or stress or anxiety or exhaustion. We only know each other from the outside in, and the outside is only ever a small part of reality. If we truly saw and understood each other’s pain, would we treat others with more gentleness and compassion? Knowing that we don’t fully see and understand each other’s pain, can we just decide to treat others with gentleness and compassion?
Could we extend that same gentleness and compassion towards ourselves? Some of you are grieving fresh and staggering losses. Some of you have grief that may not be fresh but may be provoked in fresh ways by the holidays. Some of you are carrying nearly unbearable stress or anxiety. Some of you have burdens the rest of us know nothing about. The relentless pressure at this time of year, to be upbeat and optimistic, can amplify our burdens and the feeling of isolation. But the gifts of this season – hope, wonder, peace, love – do not depend on our cheerfulness or our ability to manufacture the “Christmas spirit.” The gifts of Christmas come to us wrapped in baby flesh – is there anything more vulnerable, more helpless? The gifts of Christmas are especially for those who know their neediness, for those who feel fragile, for those who are ready to receive.
‘Tis the season to be jolly? Well, sure, if that’s how you feel. But more importantly, ‘tis the season to be kind and tender towards ourselves and others, to see each other and ourselves with soft eyes and gentle hearts, to recognize that our weakness and pain connects us rather than separates us, and to make ourselves ready to receive the gifts of God, who, in the form of powerlessness, will be born among us.
Good Evening,
I just received a phone call, where my father began to speak and then broke down into tears. He called because he wanted to share this post with me. My father’s cousin is a member of your congregation. It is very humbling to read something like this, then realize the author is writing about your family. My father is a strong man and full of wisdom, yet brought to tears. He was very touched by your post.
Mary also told your story. She explained how she was so happy to be photographing your family again, that she wasn’t sure if she’d ever be blessed with the opportunity again. Knowing you were walking passed me on your way in I thought about how courageous and strong you must be. How you must also walk around with deep worries and grief. How your thoughts are similar, yet so different than mine.
Thank you for sharing your story of this early December day. My faith was shocked when our son was diagnosed and it completely tilted when he passed. My family was not devout church goers, yet they still believed that Jesus died for our sins. We didn’t pray at mealtimes or spread the word of God with our friends, but I’ve always believed. In high school I chose to deepen my faith alongside my father’s parents. My relationship with my grandparents was rock solid and I have many fond memories of my grandmother scolding my grandfather and I in church for laughing and giggling. Grandpa’s response was the same each time, “Mary Ann, do not scold me for having fun in my father’s house!” My grandma would smile and point her finger at him and that would be the end of our fun.
The last six years have been a journey of ups and downs; more downs than ups. My husband and I have been blessed with the most amazing family, friends, coworkers, and community; yet that didn’t even help us understand the “why” of everything. He and I are currently on the complete opposite spectrum of belief and I pray for him every day. I pray in silence, mostly at night and often with tears. The “why” will not be answered until it is my time to stand before God and even then I’m not sure I’ll know.
Our little man precancer was silly, joyful, smart, publicly shy, stubborn, and strong. God made him that way for a reason; I’m sure of it. He knew the battle he faced and Mason faced it with strength and a smile. I can count the times he cried on my two hands and he will forever be my inspiration and hero. That young soul did more in his two and half years of life than most do in a complete lifetime.
Back to your post…I’m humbled that you saw innocence, beauty, and happiness. You are exactly right…you never know what people are walking around with. I’d like to think we are talented at hiding our pain. Our oldest, now 11, was only 5 when he lost his best friend. He hears me say your same words all the time. Zachary continues to to see the good in everyone and always first to help someone out. He has experienced more death in 11 years than most experience in a lifetime. It breaks my heart to know this and I often wonder what he walks around with in his heart. He is a good boy and has an amazingly huge heart. As an educator I make sure to share this message of kindness, compassion, and generosity with my students, even before I teach them to multiply double digit numbers. If I can teach them anything; I pray I teach them this.
Thank you for sharing our story and thank you for all the prayers. Our Mason made an impact. I truly believe he was here for a reason and I thank God every night for allowing me to be his Momma. I wish you and your family a very Merry Christmas. 💚
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Oh, Sarah, I’m so touched to hear from you and so moved by what you’ve written. Thank you so much! Mason made such a profound impact on so many people, including those of us who never got to know him in person but followed his story. He was such a light! I’m thinking of you and your family and continuing to hold you in my heart and in my prayers.
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This story of grief is well told. There is a void in your heart that lasts forever. We only continue on with faith and hope. The void get’s smaller with time, however it is always there. May God Bless you during this Christmas season. Again this year our family suffered profound loss, my Father in Law and Sister in Law within months of each other. Growing up, my spiritual life was rooted in the First Baptist congregation of Ann Arbor. My mind goes back in time to the wonderful sermons, and biblical lessons I learned. And the wonderful memorial of my father. Prayers for you, and your family not only during this holiday season, but forever moving forward.
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