Mark Liebenow - Grief (formerly Widowers Grief)
The idea of going HOME for the holidays fills us with warm images, of sleigh bells and dreidels, of lattes and latkes, of Hallmark moments complete with snow, ice skating, and houses with glowing lights. If we live in a warmer climate, Santa might wear shorts, and holiday lights are strung in palm trees instead of spruce.
But for those who lost loved ones this year, it will be a blue Christmas, a blue Hannukah.
I stand in my backyard lost in the mystery of trees. Two squirrels chase each other through the snow and gathering shadows. I listen to trees creak in the breeze, and hear the soft click-click-click of empty sunflower shells landing on each other, dropped by wrens and finches at the feeder. The magenta of sunset flares across the sky then shifts to rose and deepens to the radiant night blue of the cosmos.
Life has become hectic again. There is too much that we have to do, and so much that we want to do, and the holidays have added on more activities. We want to step away from the tasks and deadlines for a moment and just breathe.
The Light and Darkness of Holidays
If we lost someone this year, the holidays are going to be traumatic. We won’t want to celebrate anything, and all the happiness being thrown around like confetti will only push us further into our dark rooms. What we want is for the holidays to be over, and we will try to ignore them as best as we can.
Holidays used to be regarded as Holy Days (Old English – halig daeg), a time of centering and remembering. They offered people a chance to pause in their rushing about, look at their lives, figure out what they didn’t like about them, listen for spiritual guidance to make desired changes, and head off energized with a fresh wind in their sails.
We come to the table to nourish one another. We have had our fill of struggle and despair. We share what we have with each other, and pass faith from hand to hand. In holy giving and receiving, we bear witness to the communion of sacrifice and grace.
We come to the table to say to each other that in the midst of despair there is hope. That where we are broken, there is mending. That where we are angry, there is reconciliation. We come in compassion to bring courage to each other for the challenges that lie ahead, and to learn how to live in community together.
Mark Liebenow, Christmas 2021
When the year’s shadows are heaviest, when nights become long and cold, and feelings of self-doubt, despair, and death draw close, we light candles to push back the darkness that surrounds us. The flickering flames invite us to slow our busyness, set aside our fears, and open to everything that exists in this moment.
The twinkling of the stars, the bonfires in the backyard, and the strands of holiday lights on houses in our neighborhood remind us of people we loved who’ve died, dreams we tenaciously hang on to, and mentors whose wise guidance continues to help us find our way through life. The lights call us to reclaim the passions that stir our hearts with visions and imbue our lives with hope.
Thanksgiving is next week. If you have lost someone close, you may not feel thankful for much of anything. The year that my Evelyn died, Thanksgiving was a dirge, and although I gathered with her family and shared a meal together, I couldn’t wait to get home and not talk about how empty and devastated life felt.
As the seasons change and many of our activities move indoors, if there is nothing else, we can give thanks for this slower time, for longer talks with friends, and for trees that remind us that our lives are rooted in something strong, fertile, and enduring.
In the next week, if you notice something that you can do to help someone, even something small, like holding the door open, or sharing a plate of cookies, do so. It can make their day bearable. We often don’t know how hard life is for others because we don’t like to burden others with our suffering.
I continue to be thankful for the fellowship and encouragement that goes on in grief communities and other communities of support. Something that Jahana wrote inspired me to write this:
We come to the table where every broken heart has a place. We pass love from hand to hand, share our stories of being shattered, lost, and lifted up by the compassion of others. We talk of the stillness of our days and the dissolution of dreams in the long drift of nights.
We come to the table to nourish one another and feast on love. We have had our fill of death. Body of life broken. Blood of life spilled. The joy we once celebrated gone. We share what we have with each other, yet we weep by the rivers of Babylon because we remember the terrible, sad, beauty of love. In holy giving and receiving, we bear witness to the communion of all who grieve.
We come to the table to say to each other that in the midst of despair there is hope. We come to affirm that as we share where we are broken, grace is present and mends our wounds. We come to give each other courage for the hard journey and the wonders that lie ahead.
We are not alone.
Mark
This is my story of shoo fly pie. May it spur you to remember one of your own.
On Thanksgiving we gather at many tables, some with family, some with friends. The holiday can be brutal on those who are grieving because it insists that we be thankful, and on the first Thanksgiving after a death, all we may be able to feel is sorrow for the person who died.
The traditional things we celebrate on Thanksgiving are food, family, and home. If we haven’t recovered our interest in food, and we don’t have the energy to make our traditional holiday dishes, this option is out. Family means the people we usually gather with, but if they are tired of hearing about our grief, then we have to remain silent and sit on the side of their conversations. If we always spent Thanksgiving at home with the one who died, then anything we do on this day is likely to be a dirge.
