Ghosts of Christmases past

The December holiday season can be one filled with joy and youthful anticipation, but for many individuals who have lost loved ones close to them, it can be a month-long reminder of that loss.

As I have written about before, I lost my mom on December 28, 2009, when my son was just three months old. My Christmases—indeed, all of my days—since then have been shaded by her absence.

Of course I feel immense pride and happiness when I see my son sharing gifts with his family and talking with Santa. And I do enjoy my shopping excursions and home decorating, the general jolliness that pervades my community. But I feel a pit in my stomach when I look across the room to see his cousins cuddling with their grandparents, knowing my son doesn’t have any grandparents left. And I mourn the loss of the many, many laughs and moments of connection he would have shared with my mom.

I miss her for me. I miss her even more so for him.

There is no remedy for our grief. As has been reiterated to me through experiences over the years, my grief is evidence of the great love I shared with her.

While there is no remedy, though, there is a balm to the grieving soul, and that is story sharing.

“There is no grief like the grief that does not speak.”
—Henry Wordsworth

Speaking their names, honoring their lives

I recently listened to an episode of the Real Connections Podcast, where host Cami Moss spoke from her heart about having lost her dad when she was just nine years old. She shares how during the time period immediately following her father’s death, people generously shared their memories of him. Shortly after the funeral, though, that heartfelt conversation subsided (something I can relate to all too well).

She remembers vividly, and with overwhelming gratitude, the most beautiful gift of support she received during that time: “My mom’s best friend was such an angel in our lives, because she didn’t shy away at all from totally being there for us as kids.”

Most importantly? “She’d talk to us about him, and tell us about him,” Moss recalls. “She still does that. She’ll still talk to me about ‘Oh, your dad loved that,’ or “oh, I see that that trait is just like your dad.’ Or just letting me talk about him, or asking me about him. Even now, I love it.”

I had, and continue to have, the same experience. “When I feel like there are no words, those are the words I want to say,” Moss asserts—meaning: “Tell me about your dad. What was he like? What do you miss about him?” She wants to speak to those questions, to be set free to remember out loud, to delve into her memories and visit with her father in the present tense.

Like Moss, I yearn for an invitation to talk about my lost loved one. I yearn to know that another person valued my mom and cares that she is missing, and cares how I am doing without her.

Giving the gift of space—and questions

I was profoundly changed by my mom’s death. And I am ever more cognizant of just how valuable being there for someone who has suffered a major loss is. These are small things, but I go to services—wakes and funerals and shiva calls, celebrations of life and ten-year remembrances; and I share memories—small stories, big ones, in person, and in handwritten letters.

I purposefully ask friends how they are doing months and years after a loved one’s loss. I ask questions on holidays about what the departed would have loved (or hated) about the day, what they might have cooked or gifted or thought.

I do these things because they are the things that meant—and mean—the most to me, and because I have heard from others how valued they are.

I do these things because, through my work, I witness how profound sharing stories can be. How healing and cathartic. How unexpectedly lightening.

I do these things because I know in my heart that visiting with loved ones in our memories can be a joy-filled communion, even when tears of sadness are released.

I hope that you may do the same for someone in your life this holiday season. Ask them about a relative who has passed—then listen generously, and engage with their stories. Share a memory—or two or three—about someone you loved with another person in their life. Pick up the phone to share an unexpected story, or craft a thoughtful Facebook post with an old photo of a mutual loved one.

The most cherished gifts I have ever received are stories of my mom since she has passed. Cari Moss and I can’t be alone in this most simple of wishes, can we?

This post, originally published on December 9, 2019, was updated on December 1, 2022.