Tag: grief

Empty Chairs & Full Hearts

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If Charles Dickens and I had run into each other the other night, we might not have been on the best of terms.

I was thinking about his time-honored tale A Christmas Carol and something in it bothered me.

When Ebenezer Scrooge sees Tiny Tim’s empty chair, it’s just a dream. He can wake up and do something to keep the chair full.

It doesn’t always work that way in real life.

Thinking about yet another Christmas with yet another empty chair is hard. It’s hard even though I got to love the people who sat in those chairs and one of them is empty for an overall happy reason. I don’t claim to know what it’s like for those who have empty chairs that were suddenly made that way. 

But it still could make me not feel like getting out all the Christmas decorations. 

As I keep pondering, I’m realizing that the reality of the empty chair is one more reason to celebrate Christmas. Oh, maybe it doesn’t necessitate lots of decorations or festive flair, but it still calls for a celebration.

After all, Jesus came because of the sin-caused illness and death that rob chairs of their inhabitants. Jesus’ death-conquering life is what we celebrate at Christmas. Christmas reminds us that – for those who believe on the Lord Jesus (Acts 16:30) – someday there will be no more sickness or pain or death or tears (Revelation 21:4).

Illness won’t tear families apart. Pain won’t cause a grandparent-sized gap. Death won’t take little ones before those who love them get to hold them. Tears won’t fall – they will be wiped away by God Himself (Revelation 21:4).

And, in the meantime, Jesus is making our hearts full. 

It’s at Christmas that we may realize this the most, even if the chairs are empty. You see, each one of those empty chairs once held someone I got to love. And I got to be loved by them in sweet – and sometimes quirky – ways. Although their chairs are empty, my heart can be full. 

Even better, Jesus is in the business of filling our hearts up with His love – the only Love that lives up to all those I Corinthians 13 qualities, the only Love that lasts forever, the only Love that was made to meet all our needs and seep into all the cold corners of our hearts a little like hot cocoa seeps into us on chill winter nights.

No, the pain doesn’t all go away. That’s something for Someday. We still will (probably) need to keep Kleenex handy at times. There will still be empty chairs this Christmas. Maybe there will even be new vacancies the next.

But, by God grace, there can be full hearts. And maybe, as Jesus is making our hearts full, He will fill up those chairs, too, with new people to love. 

With all that in mind, perhaps  Charles Dickens and I – if we happened to meet – could actually wish each other a very “Merry Christmas!”

A Grief Novembered

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I’m discovering that grief goes through seasons. That makes sense since it’s intertwined into life, right?

And November is when the frills fade and grief settles down to overcast, bare realities. Note I didn’t say bad realities. The realities are just bare, stripped of the things that hide them or give them a rosy glow at other times of the year.

Today it has been nine months since Grandma passed away. So much has happened that I’d like to tell her about. If I could write her a letter, it would go something like this…

Dear Grandma,

I’ve been missing you more lately. I didn’t know that it would work like that – that I would miss you more later than at first. Maybe it’s because I’ve realized you won’t be here for Thanksgiving pie and I won’t be trying to figure out what to get you for Christmas. A lot of what I miss is getting to chat with you. Whether on the way to church or over our quiches and scones at that little coffee shop or here at home, we did a fair amount of chatting, didn’t we?

I’d like to be able to tell you about the changes in my life. Best of all is the new precious grandbaby. Tiny toes, always-moving hands, sleepy chirps, and kiss-me-please chubby cheeks! It really is true that babies grow so fast. Beyond that, you would love my new group of students. They’re exceptional, and I’m not just biased. I’m learning more about teaching and Spanish. Then there’s my writers’ group. I could probably make a book of stories about the different authors. You’d like reading some of their books. It would be a great way to find some you actually hadn’t read yet! Of course, I’d like to tell you about my own projects like how I’ve been tweaking that one last story I got to read to you and am also working on a new one. The new story involves pies…I guess that won’t surprise you. Then there are little things like how we repainted the bathroom. You might wonder about the combination of “watery” and “lei flower” paint, but, once you hear how it makes me think of the land of alohas and well-loved tales that take place there, you’ll laugh and decide it was a good – or at least ok – idea.

Speaking of laughing, I miss your clever ways of saying things. When you were alone, did you spend time just thinking up what to say to bring smiles to our faces? Some of your growing-up stories were pretty funny, too. You made life as one of seven kids in a pastor’s family sound pretty grand even with the hard times you faced. I’d like to hear those stories again and get to ask you more questions. There are things I never thought to ask you before that now I wish I knew.

It would be great to get your input on some of the decisions I’m working through. Like should we move to Norway and become reindeer ranchers or should we move to Ecuador and live in a house like Swiss Family Robinson? Ok, just kidding! The point is, our family tended to value your judgment on the big things, and I feel a little lost without it sometimes. I also miss asking you to pray for me, hearing you say you will and knowing I could count on it. Not that I don’t have other people who pray for me – it’s just not the same somehow…

That reminds me of something that came up at one of my writers’ meetings. In talking about our audiences, the thought popped up that generally young people today don’t have older mentors in their lives. I realized that that wasn’t true of me. How blessed I have been to have older people like you in my life. People with the time to listen, to laugh, to think and to pray. That’s definitely something to be thankful for, isn’t it?…

I guess that’s what happens when grief – and life – gets “Novembered”: we realize the things that really matter. With the extras blown away, we see, yes, what we’ve lost but also what we’ve been given and for what we can be truly thankful…even through the tears.