My heart is heavy today for those who grieve at Christmas.
Not just those who are grieving the loss of loved ones and planning funerals instead of parties — I’ve officiated five such services in the past two weeks, and they are tough — but people with all manner of grief past, present and future.
We think most often of the Ghost of Christmas Past when considering holiday grief — people who grieve the losses that make the present not as happy as the past. These are serious matters that deserve our attention, and they play out in different ways for different people. Some linger five years, some linger 20 years, some never heal.
Mark Wingfield
But there’s also the Ghost of Christmas Present as people are living right now through hell we may not know. I am grieving for friends who are divorcing but are waiting until after Christmas to tell their children. I am grieving for friends who have received medical diagnoses others do not yet know. I am grieving for those who are not welcome at their family tables this Christmas — or not welcome at the family tables of their partners or spouses — simply because of who they are and who they love.
And then there’s the Ghost of Christmas Future, which is anticipatory grief. I am grieving for friends and family who know this will be their last Christmas together. Short of an unexpected miracle, everyone knows there never will be another Christmas like this one — due to a terminal illness, due to retirement, due to financial catastrophe, due to dementia.
I do not know how to make any of this better. Today, I wept as I walked away from a brief conversation with a friend who falls in one of these categories. There was nothing I could do other than say, “I am thinking of you every day.”
That felt like handing out a nicely wrapped Christmas box full of nothing.
Those of us who are bent toward helping others get frustrated when there’s nothing tangible we can do. When baking cookies, making a casserole or even giving money won’t make anything better. It’s frustrating because we want somehow to feel like we’ve helped, but also because the pain of friends and family remains real and unrequited.
Nobody likes a Debby Downer at Christmas dinner, and surely there are glimmers of hope to be found for even the most despondent among us. But the overzealously happy among us must set aside some of our Christmas cheer to give space for those who are in other seasons of life.
It doesn’t seem like enough, and it’s not going to make anyone feel better, but sometimes the best gift we can give the grieving this time of year is to say, “I see you. I love you. I’m praying for you. I’m here when you need to talk — or not.”
Not all gifts come neatly wrapped at Christmastime, and some need to sit in silence.
Mark Wingfield serves as executive director and publisher of Baptist News Global. He is the author of the new book Honestly: Telling the Truth About the Bible and Ourselves.