by Danetta Kellar @DanettaKellar
The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. (Psalm 34:18)
Everyone said to make a different plan for the holiday.
To go somewhere new, to occupy my mind with a new tradition. So I could forget about the one who was absent from our table this year. The passing of my father-in-law, he who was a father to me, was fresh and recent. The holidays loomed like dread.
We scattered like little flocks of birds, each to his own nest. I invited friends to gather and bought new table settings. I walked in the woods with my little daughter and collected pine boughs and cones for our table’s centerpiece. Breathing deeply, I slowly took in the vibrant colors of leaves fading from life to death. I struggled to gentle my soul, to forget.
In the beauty of the crisp air and the startling blue of sky, I thought of him and wondered what colors he is seeing now in heaven.
Does earth seem dull in comparison, as though dressed in mourning clothes?
In the sound of the leaves crunching under my feet, I thought of his pristine Johnson and Murphy oxfords, which he always wore even on rare walks through crisp fallen leaves.
Those same oxfords now sat lined up as if waiting, right beside my husband’s side of the bed. Waiting for my husband to try them on, wondering if he could fill the shoes of his father.
Guests arrived and we tried new traditions this year. The house was filled with children’s laughter, the fragrant aroma of my first ever turkey, and the warm conversation of friends who are like family. It was a good day. I wondered how we had made it.
After the dishes were washed and guests were hugged goodbye, the house sat silent as I walked into my kitchen. The silver still needed to be dried and put away.
I stood unable to move, paralyzed as I looked at the lovely array of utensils.
Every holiday, after stomachs were full of delicious food and hearts were overflowing with fellowship, he and I took to the very particular task of washing, drying, and putting away the beautiful silverware carefully in its cedar chest.
The sorrow started in my stomach, and rose like a geyser to my heart, bursting forth in silent sobs.
How can the absence of someone hurt so much? How can he really be gone? Is he really gone? Of course he is. And we must go on. The silver must be dried and put away in the special cedar box.
Grief is a quiet companion in my life this holiday season.
It must be taken, for me to heal. If I refuse, the sadness builds up like illness and makes me toxic to myself and others. Crying, leaning on Grief when she comes cleanses my soul.
I took my time as I carefully dried the silver this year. I allowed the pain to enter my heart and split it open, one more time. And then I bowed my head as my Savior filled the broken spaces with the hope of heaven.
There's hope when #grief is your holiday guest. (Click to Tweet)