Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s not a holiday. That’s why I’m writing about it now. The holidays have been so fraught with emotion for me that I’m not capable of effectively writing about them in the moment.
I grew up near the ocean. It was always there in the background, either lapping or roaring. That’s how grief is, too. Always there. In the background. An ocean of grief, either lapping or roaring. If grief comes in waves, then the holidays are most certainly rip currents. I remember being taught from a very early age what to do if I was ever caught in a rip current. A rip current is a swift, narrow flow of water moving perpendicular to and away from the beach. It can literally take you out to sea, away from the stability of the shore. You may suddenly find yourself slapped about by a tumult of waves, bobbing up and down, coming up for a gasp of air but just as quickly pulled back down. With eyes squenched shut and cheeks taut with breath held, you’re catching only glimpses of the shoreline with each bob and weave. Everyone’s first instinct is to try to swim back to land. Everyone’s first instinct is wrong. In so many cases, that decision is fatal. If you struggle, fight against it, you might die of exhaustion. The key is not to struggle. You can do one of two things. You can change direction and swim parallel to the shore until you are out of the current, or you can just let it carry you until it has lost its power so that you can calmly make your way back to the beach. I think it’s good practice for grieving through the holidays, too. Change direction, or ride it out. I also think there should be grief signal flags like maritime signal flags. The holidays: storm warnings ahead, dangerous conditions. My holiday ship would be flying the delta flag, a field of blue with a yellow belt above and below it, signaling, “Keep clear of me; I am maneuvering with difficulty.”
The first holiday that came up on the calendar after Paul died was Easter. As a Christian, there is no other holiday with greater meaning or comfort, and no greater reason for hope than this one, but at the time, I was numb to all of that. In fact, that first Easter Sunday after Paul died, I didn’t even go to church. I had been at the hospital all night with Paul’s family. His mother had a very mild, cardiac event and was hospitalized overnight. Likewise, I did not go to church on Easter Sunday this year either. Instead, I was just stepping off a plane from my Camino experience in Spain. So, Easter Sunday at church without Paul sitting beside me is still an unknown experience. Yay, there’s that to look forward to.
The next major holiday on the calendar was Thanksgiving. That one was blessedly normal. Honestly, I didn’t even give it a second thought. Why? I was anxiously anticipating our wedding anniversary and Christmas which nearly coincide with each other. I was already so focused on how I was going to manage those holidays that Thanksgiving was little more than a speed bump in the road. So, you might be thinking that I did well to get through Thanksgiving relatively unscathed, and it’s true. I did. But Thanksgiving, filled with family, quieter and less commercialized than Christmas, has always been my favorite holiday. So, while I did indeed get through it, I didn’t enjoy it, and that was hard, not enjoying my favorite holiday.
Paul and I were married 11 days before Christmas. It was a simple, lovely wedding. It was an unseasonably warm, 72 degrees, that day. The morning was overcast with a sprinkling of rain, but by the time I was walking down the aisle at two o’clock in the afternoon, the sun was out and it was a spectacular, late fall, Lowcountry day. I loved our Christmas time wedding. It’s such a festive time of year anyway. There is so much to celebrate. It’s when the church celebrates the birth of Christ, and the church’s celebratory mood is on full display, hung with greenery and garlands punctuated by the brilliant red of holly berries and poinsettias. We, in turn, were celebrating the birth of our marriage and were looking forward to building a life together with the same jubilance and excitement of children in anticipation of Christmas morning.
I knew our first anniversary without him was going to be difficult, and I really tried to get out of the rip current of emotion rushing toward me, threatening to sweep me away, by swimming in a different direction. I, in fact, went backward in order to go forward. I knew I had to go back to where we started. I knew I needed to move forward from a place of strength. In a way, I was revisiting our life, going on a tour of a place and time that created what we knew as us. Reflecting on it now, it turned out to be a critical, turning point in my healing process.
Paul and I met at a local, historic plantation. It’s where we got to know each other. We spent a lot of time there in the beginning of our relationship, walked the garden paths, talked about the flowers, trees, and history, smiled and laughed and shared ourselves, our stories.
So, I planned to take the day off from work and spend our anniversary there. Just me and Paul and our memories. However, it was not the spectacular late fall, Lowcountry day that our wedding day was. It was reasonably warm, but it was raining, a constant slow dripping all day long. I went anyway, umbrella in hand and rain boots on my feet. Amazingly, the plantation and gardens had been transformed by the rain. It made the whole experience other-worldly as if I had stepped through a portal in time and space.
In the rain soaked garden, the light looked different, the greens of the leaves and trees were clearer and sharper in contrast to the mossy grays and muted, tawny, December browns of the rushes and marsh grasses. There was no breeze. It was so quiet. The only movement was that of birds taking full advantage of the opportunity to bathe and preen, and dine on a smorgasbord of stranded insects.
Only the puddles registered my steps as I strode through pathways crowded with the heavy water logged limbs of blooming camellias. The light coating of water like slip glaze on pottery had given the flowers a pearl-ized, translucent quality casting them in a sheen, a glow.
I didn’t see a single other visitor to the gardens that entire day. You might think that felt lonely, but it didn’t. I felt very close to Paul, and enveloped in His creation as I was, I felt very close to God, too. As I stepped out from a pathway to a point where I could see across the rice fields and river beyond, I was greeted with the hymn “There’s a Wideness in God’s Mercy”. I had not heard or thought about this hymn in years, but it was with me all day. God, in His mercy, was singing over me.
a wideness in God’s mercy,
like the wideness of the sea;
there’s a kindness in his justice
which is more than liberty.
There is no place where earth’s sorrows
are more keenly felt than heaven:
there is no place where earth’s failings
have such gracious judgement given.
There is plentiful redemption
through the blood that Christ has shed;
there is joy for all the members
in the sorrows of the head.
For the love of God is broader
than the measure of our mind;
and the heart of the eternal
is most wonderfully kind.
If our love were but more simple,
we should take him at his word;
and our lives would be illumined,
by the glory of the Lord.
(Frederick William Faber, 1862)
I had some of Paul’s ashes with me. I had no plans for when or where I might let them go. I just walked and remembered and waited for the moment because I knew it would come. And it did. I rounded a hedge row on to a rise that overlooked the river. The rain had slowed to a mist, and as I swept my arm and hand across my body to launch Paul’s ashes heavenward, a breeze caught him and carried him out over the marshes and river to be forever part of the landscape that he cherished and that shaped the early foundation of our relationship.
The next 11 days leading up to Christmas produced a lot of anxiety. For one thing, I had to do the Christmas shopping by myself. Paul and I always did this together. I spent a Saturday going from store to store with crying fits in the car in between. It was miserable. In contrast to my experience revisiting the place where we met, I didn’t feel close to Paul at all. In fact, I felt as far away from him as I could possibly be, but I was riding it out. For Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, I opted, again, to swim in a different direction. Good move.
I hosted family dinner at my house on Christmas Eve. This included Paul’s family and my family. It also, blessedly, turned out to include a friend from my work family. She was alone for the holidays. Her husband needed to be with his ailing parents, her grown children were splitting the holidays between their families and the families of their respective significant others and so she was by herself on Christmas Eve. I saw a little of myself in that situation and reached out to her to come join our family for Christmas Eve dinner and was so glad I did. It was wonderful to have her there. We got in the kitchen and cooked together and talked and laughed and smiled. She fit right in with our crazy, blended family, and it was good.
On Christmas Day, my son and I got up and opened presents. We visited with Paul’s parents. The morning was quiet and peaceful. The sadness was there, but I just looked it right in the face and accepted it. Then, we joined some other family members and friends to cook and serve Christmas dinner at our local Ronald McDonald House. Ronald McDonald House Charities provide lodging, resources, and support to families of sick children who are receiving treatment far from their homes. It’s a beautiful thing, and it provided me with both distraction from my own feelings and a necessary perspective on my grief and the grief of others.
This past Father’s Day was our second without Paul. It was tough. I don’t really remember the first one being that hard, and I thought that was strange. It seems like all of the firsts would be more difficult, but here’s why I think that’s not actually the reality of it. During that first year, a holiday was no different from any other day because they all sucked. Every day was a difficult day, holiday or not. But then, somewhere along the way, everything gradually starts getting better, and the bad days start to stand out from the other days more so than they did before. Suddenly, holidays become like land mines, like islands of grief in an otherwise relatively calm, navigable sea.
There is a lot of really good advice out there about how to survive the holidays when you are grieving. And you can certainly do just that. You can survive the holidays. But you can also use the holidays as an opportunity to grieve, grow, and heal. I think I did a little of both.
10 thoughts on “Happy Holidays!”
Thank you for another wonderful post Malia. I so agree with you about the holiday being landmines! John died on August 7…we are coming up on year 1 soon and I’m already getting stomach aches about it. 2 weeks after he died was my son’s 22 birthday, 2 weeks after that was John’s birthday..he would have been 65….2 weeks after that was our 25th wedding anniversary…then soon followed by Thanksgiving and Christmas. It seemed as soon as I could catch my breath…it was another date that we would ordinarily celebrate and that was the last thing I felt like doing! I went deeper and deeper into depression. As Christmas approached, I just couldn’t take being in this house for one more holiday so I made a quick plan for Zach and I to go to New York for 5 days. He had never been and it was the only place I could think of that might keep us from breaking down. It worked for the most part but Christmas Day was so weird! We went to a huge Catholic church…we are not Catholic, we’re Episcopalian but close enough…and then to a Christmas lunch at a fine restaurant. It was weird because all the stores were open like it was any other day and I couldn’t wrap my brain around that! I was like, “Don’t you people realize The Lord Our Saviour was born today?!?!…Can’t you close for just one freaking day??!!!” I think I was just having some anger issues that day and that didn’t set well with me.
I also resonated with your ocean analogy. I grew up on James Isl where the beach was second nature to us. It was the first place I wanted to go when I came out from under the ether of John’s death. A good friend invited me to stay at his house for a week and I spent every moment I could on the beach listening to the waves. In and out…in and out…I tried to match my breaths with the waves…breathing in Peace and breathing out the anger. It worked for the most part until at one point I decided that I didn’t want to live without John and I waded into the ocean so far that I was up to my neck. I begged God to overtake me with a wave and I promised not to fight it or try to survive…in short, I begged him to drown me. When I walked out there initially, the waves were rough and high…but once I got to my neck, the ocean calmed and looked like a lake…..ugh…it was him telling me it wasn’t my time and that he didn’t want me to die. I gave up and went back to my chair. I knew I had to make it for Zach and that was that.
You have a way with words Malia and I certainly don’t write as beautifully as you, but it is very healing for me to journal here and you often put into words what I’m feeling. For that, I thank you.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Loren, you are doing really well! You are sharing your heart, your truth. That is powerful! I am so very glad you are able to share freely in this space. You are safe with me so tell it like it is, girl! I am proud of you for being so open and transparent. That’s where the healing begins! Stomach aches, depression, anger, anxiety. All, totally the grief experience for sure. Take care of yourself and stay in touch. I am with you, and you are with me ♥️
Thank you girl! I always look forward to seeing an email from you! When things calm down a bit at work, I’d love to meet up for that glass of wine. July is crazy busy bit it slows down mid August. Look forward to meeting you!
LikeLiked by 1 person
I am so incredibly proud of you. You are helping others through your writing,
and your writing is beautiful.
I am on my own crazy journey in life. I may never experience anything the same way you have, but you have truly touched my heart.
God be with you always.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you for your kind words! I don’t think any of us experience anything the same way, but I am a firm believer that sharing those experiences with others makes all of us better! I am thankful that we have connected!
Thanks for the “heads up” as I approach the death anniversary and then onto the second holidays without my love.
Hope you are enjoying some leisure this summer. Hope you will find lots of fulfillment in the new school year.
Sent from my iPhone
LikeLiked by 1 person
Praying for you as you move through those transitions. One day at a time!
This is wonderful. You have found a way of putting into words the stuff I just haven’t manage to do. It really helps with my thought process. Thank you.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks so much for your encouragement and support!