The holidays often stir up a flood of memories, especially for those who have experienced the profound loss of a loved one. For me, they bring back vivid recollections of that last Christmas Eve when our family was still complete. I can picture it so clearly—our home filled with warmth, laughter, and love, with no idea that it would be the final holiday we would share together. That night was the last time my late husband, Nick, spent in our home, and though the memory is bittersweet, I am beyond grateful for the precious moments we created that evening.
I had everything prepared for a Christmas feast the next day. The kitchen was brimming with ingredients, ready to create the kind of meal that brings everyone together around the table. But instead of gathering to break bread as planned, we found ourselves spending Christmas Day and most of the evening at the hospital. Nick’s pain had become unbearable, and our focus shifted to simply easing his suffering.
I’ll never forget the hours we spent there, the weight of worry and exhaustion settling in. At one point, our son, Aaron—just 16 years old at the time—and I stepped out to grab a quick bite. As we sat there, I was overwhelmed by a deep, aching guilt. No parent wants their child to endure the pain of losing a parent so young, and it broke my heart to know that he had to walk this painful road.
Yet in that shared pain, there was also a bond—a connection that only those who have grieved together can truly understand. It was a pain that would bind us tightly, but also break us into pieces. Sometimes, we carried the weight of our loss together, leaning on each other when the grief felt too heavy to bear alone. In those moments, we found a fragile but unbreakable strength in the love we shared—a bond forged in pain yet rooted in the deepest care. But there were also times when we quietly hid our pain, each of us trying to shield the other from feeling the full burden of sorrow.
It was an unspoken dance of love and protection between a mother and her son, both of us aching but unwilling to add to the other’s grief. In trying to spare each other, we sometimes carried more than we could handle alone. Yet even in that, there was a tenderness, a silent understanding that we were doing our best to protect what little pieces of each other we had left.
The holidays are a reminder of both the beauty of those last moments and the profound heartache of letting go, and learning to live again. Through it all, I hold onto gratitude—gratitude for the bond Aaron and I shared during that time, for the memories that remain, the new memories we make, and for the strength that continues to sustain us. Even in loss, there is light, and you learn to cherish it, one memory at a time.
I am reminded of the verse from Romans 8:28 joy comes not from the trial itself but from the knowledge of what it produces: a deeper relationship with God, greater faith,and spiritual maturity. All of which I have personally witnessed in my own life. Knowing that God is working all things for good is a promise I will always cling to.
