A different kind of Christmas list

By Jennifer Fulwiler

It’s the Wednesday before Christmas, and crunch-time is upon us. In general it’s been a pretty smooth December over here (all that overanalysis about how to keep things in perspective during Advent actually paid off!) but this week I find myself racing around to tie up a few loose ends that slipped through the cracks earlier this month. It’s a little overwhelming to think that before Sunday, I need to send out the last of the Christmas cards, mail gifts to people out of town, make that favorite biscotti recipe for my 98-year-old grandfather, and wrap every single one of the mountain of presents that has taken over half of my closet.

As we scramble around to get everything taken care of, it’s easy to overlook people in our lives who made need extra comfort this season. For those who have lost loved ones through death or divorce, this may be the hardest part of their entire year. In particular, I’ve heard many folks who have had tragedy strike early in the year say that Christmas is almost as hard as when the event first transpired: It’s their first Christmas without their loved-ones, yet they don’t have that same outpouring of support that they did at the time of the loss. “I felt enveloped with love and support after my sister died in February,” an acquaintance once explained, “but when Christmas rolled around, it seemed that everyone had forgotten about my loss. I felt so alone.”

I mentioned this on my personal blog last week, and was pointed to a powerful post by a mother who lost a son a couple of years ago. She wrote:

I have, as a consequence of my son’s death, received what I think must be some of the most extraordinary missives ever written. Emails, cards, letters—the form of transmission doesn’t matter. The words do. Some are about my son, some about those of us left behind, some about God. There is apparently something about magnitude of loss that drives ordinary people to eloquence.

I literally carry some of this writing around with me. There are moments, many of them, when I think that I will not make it to the next one, and then I read what people have sent me. I read them as prayers, regardless of how they were intended. I look for what God might be saying, in a phrase or a paragraph, and sometimes I see them, small clues to the mystery that binds us together, whether the people who articulated them knew what they were doing or not.

If you have a friend who is longing for someone else this Advent, especially someone who died in the last year or two, sit down this week-end and write a note, or send an email. It might be the most important thing you do this month.

Another mother, who lost a daughter named Erin to cancer, echoed the author’s thoughts in the comments, saying:

I, too, carried many of the letters and cards I received with me. They helped me move to the next moments of time as well. They came when Erin was initially diagnosed…they came when she relapsed and they flooded my mailbox and inbox when she passed away two years ago.

Over the last few days, I have again received some extraordinary pieces. Some are from my contemporaries, and others from young women who were friends of Erin. I read and reread them and I’m carrying the recent ones with me now as I work hard to breathe my way through the heartbreaking memories.

I hope many of your readers follow through with the advice in your last paragraph. If they all only knew how much it means to those of us on “this” side.

Inspired by these words of wisdom, I’m going to write a list of the contact information of people I know who may be aching for lost loved ones, and bring it with me to my Christmas celebrations. And in the midst of the hustle and bustle of Christmas day, I’ll carve out time to send an email or make a quick phone call to let them know I’m thinking of them, and that they’re in my prayers. Will you join me? It’s a little gesture, but hopefully one that will bring some small measure of comfort to those who are struggling this Christmas.