This Christmas we had presents under the tree, we gathered with family, and ate good food. But there was no celebrating. There were no photos in matching pajamas for my family. Christmas eve, there was one extra stocking. Not really one extra stocking, but rather one stocking which belonged to a child who is no longer here. One stocking my wife can never fill for Everett again. Ever.

Christmas morning our 2 remaining kids are still buzzing with excitement. I am so tired. To my shame, I have felt too rundown and overwhelmed to even wrap my wife’s gift and set it under the tree. Christmas morning, it didn’t take much convincing to get my gift-loving daughter to complete that task for me. Every year, like so many other families, we pause to read the Christmas story to remind ourselves of the reason for Christmas, before tearing into the presents. This year we did the same. This Christmas morning, the kids’ Bible I read from describes God being excited about Jesus’ birth “like a new daddy” is thrilled with the birth of his child. I break down. I know what it’s like to be a thrilled new Dad. But those words hit hard. My son that I was so thrilled with, so proud of, so happy with, who gave me so much joy – gone from this life. It seems no matter how much you love in life, death awakens an overwhelming depth of affection which can’t be discovered in life. My 7 year old offered to finish reading for me, as I tried to regain my composure. Her patience for waiting to tear into her gifts is redlining. 

I finish the reading, and we do the gifts. It’s hard for me and Amberley. One of our best Everett Christmas memories is when he was probably 2 or 3 and opening up his first present and excitedly proclaiming “You got me jammies for Christmas!” I think he would’ve been perfectly happy even if that was his only gift. He was so great at spreading joy, and he delighted in his siblings. This year isn’t the same. I think we might have purchased Everett hockey goalie equipment this year. He’d been wanting goalie equipment already last winter. We would’ve had so much fun this winter out on the ice. It’s a bitter mixture, thinking back at all the wonderful memories and noting all the things that would be so wonderful if Everett were still here with us. Everett’s grandparents don’t get to give him a gift this year. His cousins don’t get to play with him in the snow, play boardgames, or help them decipher their toy’s instructions. Looking out the window, I can picture him out there with them, bundled up in his blue winter coat. His uncles and aunts don’t get to try to convince our shy boy to chat with them. We all miss him.

Last night, the New Year snuck in like a thief. It feels a lot like the same thief that stole Everett from us. It’s another unwelcome file folder of information dropped in my brain that my heart tries to destroy. Now it’s 2023. We can no longer say Everett passed away this year. It’s last year. Like the memories of searching for Everett, having the police officer put his arm around me and say “come with me”, the memory of kissing my boy’s lifeless body on the floor of the diver’s boat, picking a burial plot, the visitation, the funeral, and the memory card still tacked up on our fridge – they’re all confirmations that none of these things are a horrible dream, or a hypothetical test. It’s real, and there’s no turning back of the calendar. We have no choice but to keep pressing forward.

We’re in pain, but the world around us appears to have it so good. And we’ve been there. We have enjoyed so many wonderful Christmases. But this year it feels so unfair. Of course, I know it can be great to celebrate and party, but I have been reminded that earth is not our forever home. Photos in matching pajama’s are fine, but for all of us, sooner or later death comes calling. Sooner or later, you can no longer take that photo. So enjoy the good seasons while they last, but don’t hold on too tightly. 

Maybe for you, you also didn’t feel like celebrating Christmas. Hearing words like “Merry Christmas”, “Happy New Year”, “Have a great day”, or “Have an amazing birthday” bring pain to your heart and you think “Impossible! You have no idea how badly I am hurting”. Know that you are not alone in your suffering. Life here is broken. It’s hard to not to put Heavenly expectations on our time on Earth, but it’s so important we remember that Earth and its sufferings and joys are only temporary. Heaven is forever. 

Christmas is for the broken. It isn’t about being pain free, overflowing joy, perfect gifts, candlelit feasting, wonderful family time, or charming traditions. Christmas is about hope. Hope for the broken. Hope for grown men who wake up in the middle of the night and sob into their pillows. Hope for grieving mothers who bravely pack one less school lunch then last year. Hope for traumatized kids who don’t have words for their feelings. Hope for those that are silently suffering in in secret. Hope for the hopeless. Hope for you and me. 

The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned. Isaiah 9:2 NIV

Perhaps, in the most painful of ways, this Christmas has been our most real Christmas ever. We are feeling the reality and weight of the darkness, and it is crushing. This Christmas all is not calm and bright. But Light has dawned. We are clinging to that Light. It feels like we’re barely holding on, but the Light is holding on to us. 

For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord. Romans 8:38-39 NIV

A light has dawned. One dark day, one painful moment at a time, let’s keep reaching for the Light. This is Christmas.