Missing a loved one during the holidays is hard. Looking at an empty chair, literally or figuratively, quickly brings up memories. And not all of them are comforting. I know I often wish I had been more patient and more giving with my time. I cringe when I remember how frequently I said, “not right now.” “I’m just so busy.” “We’ll do that next time we’re together.”
Still, the days leading up to a holiday are typically ruled by a long to-do list: shopping, cooking, cleaning, figuring out sleeping arrangements and table settings. There are often special church services, pageants, and children’s choirs to attend. And the holiday itself (especially Christmas) a whirlwind of opening presents, serving meals, sometimes rotating within several houses and family groups in the same day.
We are usually at our older daughter’s home in Jacksonville for big holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas. There’s extended family nearby. And her dining room table can accommodate twice as many people as ours can. It’s much easier for my husband and me to make the two-hour drive and stay there for a couple of nights than to try to figure out the logistics of hosting 16-20 people in our rural area.
The eating, visiting, doing multiple rounds of dishes, playing games, telling jokes, reminiscing, avoiding politics . . . All of these things fill up the air and there’s not much room for quiet contemplation.
When it’s time to leave, yes, there may be a few tears and lots of tight hugs. Most of us are seasoned enough to know that “see ya later” isn’t guaranteed. The first hour of our drive home is often spent gossiping about certain relatives (sorry, but it’s the truth) and marveling over how much the grands have grown. The second half of the trek is usually filled with silent reverie, interrupted with the occasional “are you too tired to drive?”.
Once we’re home, the quiet house and peaceful porch bring out sighs of contentment. We watch the beautiful winter sunset over the river. And it’s not long before I am looking forward to the comfort of our own bed.
I’m an early riser and almost always up before my husband. That hour or so is my “me time.” I read my devotional, catch up on news, and do the NYT games on my phone. Only this morning – the first day back – I’m staring at the Christmas tree and quietly sobbing. Because it’s a normal day. A day like most days. Not a holiday. Not a rushed, loud, celebratory day. Just another day in a world that doesn’t have my younger daughter and so many other people I loved in it. A day that can’t drown out the silence of never hearing their voices again. Another day further away from the story they were building with their lives.
So, I pour another cup of coffee, wipe my eyes, and sit down at my keyboard.
And hope I can keep their stories alive.
Laura
A Light for My Path 
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