Christmas, the first one without him

I have been quiet on here, over Christmas.

Partly, we're discovering that while we do have wi-fi at RV places, it's not always the greatest. Even checking things like Facebook has been fraught with delays and malfunctions.For several days, I could not even post a reply to a private messages on Facebook.

In that atmosphere of frustration, I thought that trying to write and post something emotional would probably be a bad idea. Writing from my deep heart and having trouble posting it....that would have been a bit much.

Also, I was just being gentle with my heart, through this hard time.

So, how was the first Christmas-without?

Good.
Hard.
Good.

It really went about as well as such a Christmas could go, partly because we had some conversations ahead of time, so I knew what was feeling right for our family.

This Christmas had the potential to be horrifically painful.

Not only was it the first Christmas without our son and brother, but Christmas Eve was the six-month mark from the day he committed suicide, and Christmas Day was the six-month mark of the day we learned of his death. That is a lot of emotionally explosive potential to pack into forty-eight hours!

As we're living this vagabond life now, Michael's urn is traveling with us. At some point, maybe next summer, we will put his ashes to rest. The thought of that moment tears my heart out, which showed me that I need time with this last bit of his presence, before we reach that day.

There is a lot of symbolism to this urn, and to packing it around with us. It is large, and dark, and very heavy, with sharp corners. It pretty much looks and feels like the pain that sits in my heart.

I had thought about bringing it along to our daughter's house for Christmas, including him in the day. I sent a group text message to Lee and the kids, asking their thoughts. My own feelings about the idea were deeply mixed. The consensus from the family was not to bring the urn. Which I totally understand and respect.

This Christmas just has so much heavy, painful weight around it that we needed to ease it a bit.

It helped, going into the day knowing what my family needed.

Basically, the waters of our pain are so deep and dark and cold....we need to stay out of the deep places or we'll be pulled under.

The best possible way for us to survive this day was to let it just be an easy, pleasant day; to stay on the surface and glide past the danger points without looking too closely.

One thing that was agreed upon quickly and firmly was- no family pictures. In fact, no pictures, period. At other times, we have taken pictures, but we firmly avoid: the whole family...without Michael, Dad and the kids...without Michael, Mom and the kids...without Michael...just the kids...without Michael. This time, the idea of any pictures, at any moment was too sharp and too raw. Just...no. That helped. It helped so much that there was such agreement on what felt right and what would hurt too much.

Not that we did not think of him- he was so on my heart- or that there were not moments of tears- there were...times when one of us would just sort of stop moving and tear up. But that was okay. Whoever noticed the stillness would just go give a big hug, just get through the moment with a little quiet, loving togetherness. And then we'd take a breath and move on. Overall, it was honestly a nice time together.

We went to church on Sunday with one daughter and her husband, and to Christmas Eve service with our other daughter and her boyfriend and his family. Both were times of hope and comfort, speaking to our hearts.

We stepped lightly on our family traditions. We did the Christmas Eve dinner that we like the most- a sort of Smorgasbord of fingerfoods. It's easy and quick, so nobody is wearing themselves out in the kitchen. We watched the Great British Bake-off together.

We did not use the Christmas stockings that I sewed for our four kids. Three of them are in storage in Washington. The other one, I ran across unexpectedly among Michael's belongings.That tore a fresh hole in my heart, finding it suddenly like that- so painful. No, it was not a year for the deep symbolism of every-stocking-but-one...or of having them all there, but having one empty, or....no. None of us were in any place to be doing anything big and meaningful. Our hearts could not take it. It's too soon, for us.

Instead,  I took paper bags and created rugged little stockings for our three kids and our son-in-law. They were cute and fun, and helped make Christmas morning not tragic. :)

We cooked and baked lots of good food. Our family really loves food. :) We had a fun, happy time opening presents.

I know that people speak of our departed loved ones being with us or watching over us. I don't know whether that is true. Part of me hopes it isn't. I don't want Michael to witness the depth of suffering among those who  love him, seeing it but unable to do anything about it. But on Christmas afternoon, I suddenly hoped that he was getting to be there, somehow. He has spent the past four Christmases away from home, unable to get time off work to come home and join us. And now, when we finally managed a Christmas on this side of the state...which would have meant the absolute world to him.... he was not here to be part of it. Painful.

I hoped that somehow, God let him be there, or peek in on the day...that somehow he got to be a part of our time together. It would have meant so very much to him, to be there with us.

I did not share those thoughts on Christmas. We just needed it to not be a tragic day. I'm guessing I'm not the only one who thought of that, but I haven't asked. It's such a raw place in my heart that it's not easy to talk about.

The day after Christmas, all seven of us, Lee and I and our kids and our son-in-law and our other daughter's boyfriend (i.e. all five of our kids) :) went to see the new Mary Poppins movie together. It was so good! Our daughter had ordered our tickets ahead of time, so we had a whole row of super-cushy reclining seats. We are from a small town, where the theater, when it was still open, had seats that were probably much older than I am. To watch a movie in a theater, in such comfort, was a treat. It was such a fun movie. And there were some sad parts, and some parts that touched on the raw nerves of our grief.

Again, Michael was so on my heart. I wondered, again, if somehow God let him be a part of that special, happy time together. I pictured him hunkered down behind me, with his chin on the back of my seat, and his arm around me, hugging me close, or just sitting with his hand on my shoulder. It hurt and it helped. Oh, how I wished he was there with us!!!

So, that is how we survived this appallingly difficult Christmas- with simple, happy times together, avoiding the deep, cold waters, with time in God's presence and with prayer (lots of prayer), and by just loving on each other.

What was right for our family might not be what is right for others, but for us, this was what we needed. And we made it through. And we had a really lovely, loving time together.

Considering all the painful angles of this Christmas, I am deeply grateful for how it went. What could have been a time of falling into agony and despair became a time when we gave each other grace and loved each other gently; a time when we made sweet, special memories together. It became a blessing.

And for that, I am deeply grateful.