I know what it’s like to grieve during the holidays.
My mom died during this week in December, though many years ago. My girls, now college age, were in early grade school at the time. That fact alone held some of the sorrow at bay: I had a lot to do to make sure they got to visit Santa and participate in the season despite the fact that I was feeling bereft in a very painful moment. And despite the fact that I was absolutely convinced she’d actually run off to be part of a very big birthday celebration in a different realm.
It is a sorrow that has blessed me for 15 years, because I am more mindful in December that this is not a universally happy time of year, despite all the ads one sees that would indicate otherwise.
There are among us widows and widowers, orphans of all ages, siblings and friends that dearly miss someone.
Many people really are joyous now. But the lonely live here, too, along with the anxious and the sad. Some worry about their finances and whether their company will last another year, while others have received a medical diagnosis that terrifies them.
All of that puts political differences and rude drivers and tricky work relationships into a different kind of perspective that’s easier to see this time of year. They’re pesky, but they will pass — albeit, perhaps, with horns blaring nastily.
This month, I’ve been reading and sometimes writing about hope and charity and faith and love, about giving and unselfishness and trying to do better in the future, starting now.
December is like that, a chance to ponder big messages and seek deeper meaning as we gift those we love with both presents and presence. Regardless of one’s faith — and I have been blessed to possess a lot of that — this month brings friendship and family to the forefront. Religious or not, there’s something that draws people together this month: Both holy days and holidays have adherents and gatherings.
December is ... a chance to ponder big messages and seek deeper meaning as we gift those we love with both presents and presence.
My mother was a gatherer: She scooped up people who had no one else and drew them close. She was a hugger before science ever told us we need human touch and multiple hugs a day to thrive. And she was just nosy enough and gossipy enough to know who needed some extra cheer or an invitation to join the holiday chaos that was House of Collins, which was sometimes messy but always welcoming. Somehow, people kept coming back and it was a rare week that didn’t include drop-ins for dinner or a chat. She was a safe place to share burdens and fears or seek advice, no matter how personal.
I’ve been thinking about that a lot, because I’ve misplaced some of the lessons she modeled for the decades I had her example: I’ve lost Mom’s gift of hospitality, not only in my home, but in my heart. If my house isn’t perfect, I don’t want guests; let someone else host. I’m so busy now, what with work and TV and Facebook that it’s very hard to find the time to bake cookies to welcome a new neighbor, and no one wants a stranger on their doorstep anyway, right? In my neighborhood, we post pictures of strangers who ring our doorbell on Nextdoor and warn each other they’re probably thieves casing the joint.
I don’t always pick up on the grieving or the lost or the worried; I feel like I used to do that better, but I too often let myself off the hook with the notion that “he wants his privacy” or “she probably doesn’t want it mentioned.” I don’t speak ill of the dead; I hardly speak of them at all, though science says people want to talk about their losses and their sorrows.
December gives us all permission to do better. To see others. To intrude a little and maybe find it’s welcome. To reach outside of ourselves and into other lives. To include and love and provide for others.
My mom, who was born blind, did that year-round. But then, she always saw better than I could.