Grief At Christmas – A Man’s journey Through Grief, continued, #27

During the four Sundays before Christmas, our church lights one of the advent candles. A week ago, it was the joy candle. Appropriately, the hymns chosen focused on the joy of Jesus’ birth. I started off with enthusiasm because the first hymn was one of my absolute favourites, Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee. I had hardly sung one verse before my eyes began to leak tears.

That shouldn’t be unusual for someone in grief. I read read recently about a pastor who lost a son and wept through every song service. So, I can understand that my reaction is not unique. But it has been ten months since God called Mary Helen home. Surely, that should be enough time to process the loss.

But no, so many hymns about joy was overwhelming. Now, tidings of great joy are so appropriate for Christmas. Why then had I become such a weeping wreck? Perhaps because Mary Helen had always been beside me when we celebrated Jesus’ birth, the wonder of the shepherds, and the adoration of the wise men. She helped me put up the decorations. She loved Christmas. I do too. We owe our salvation to his coming.

Still, the tears continued. I eyed a nearby door from the sanctuary. Could I handle any more? No. I quickly fled leaving friends beside me with no explanation. I found a quiet room where I tried to process my feelings. Fortunately, there was Kleenex nearby but nothing helped. I couldn’t face answering anyone about how I was doing.

I left church to find a local Tim Hortons where I hoped a coffee and an apple fritter would help me get my frayed emotions under control. That was happening when the man I had passed coming in stopped by my table. I hadn’t recognized him in his work clothes. With one of the first snows of the season, he had been spreading salt on the pathway as part of his contract with many businesses. He asked how I was and I completely broke down. He listened and assured me that a friend had the same experience with grief and not to worry about expressing emotions. Then he put his hand on my shoulder and prayed with me. I think God sent him my way.

The fake fireplace at Tim Horton’s coffee shop

My challenge hadn’t been only about going to church on Sunday. This whole period seems fraught. Christmas cards are starting to arrive. I appreciate Christmas cards, but most of them mention Mary Helen. I love their thoughts about her and their prayers, but she’s not here. I miss her. I’m left with all that goes with a family Christmas. There was a Christmas letter to write, which after many drafts I completed. There were cards to send, which I’ve spent the day doing. I need a box of tissues nearby.

Now there are gifts to buy. Fudge to make. She knew what to do. I’m struggling. It seems impossible that she is not here.

If, like me, you are grieving a loss, join me in heeding people who warn us about the difficult time we will have with holidays, anniversaries and birthdays. They say, the first year is the hardest.