A word for the women.

Hers is the faith of How Great Thou Art. Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound of children laughing and singing and reading the Christmas story. Dust will gather on the tops of hymnals, the organ will fall out of tune, candles will melt into oblivion. But I have brushed up against the other side: the one without belief. The light does not shine there as it does in a wrinkled Kleenex, wet with tears. She showed me what it meant to believe, as she sat at the table, wiped her eyes again, and forced a laugh. Of course everything would fall apart at once. A hug and a knowing eye and a prayer. She showed me what it meant to believe against unbelief; sitting in that church, gripping the pew in front of her, knowing what she was going home to face, sobbing during the benediction, loving even though it hurt.

Women of my childhood, of my home church. Women I have met since I moved away. Women I can only hear about as I lay them to rest. Women who have shown me sacrifice along with hate and truth along with pain. I have seen their tears and I have heard their stories.

They are beautiful in a way only women can be; whispering, giggling, shushing well past the schoolgirl years. They carry burdens and harbor secrets, they bring casseroles and baked things and care for the children and do the housework. They smile and sing, ....oh do they sing. They write, they teach, they pray, they dance. Squared shoulders and powerful arms, gentle enough to rock even the newest of babies to sleep. Their words echo in my mind; words of wisdom, hope, empowerment.

We gather at the table (the one the women prepared), all from different places now; some strangers, all friends. A still, small voice breaks through the static, telling me to stop and listen instead of talk. To wait with the faith of Hannah and Elizabeth. To believe against unbelief. To take the things and ponder them in my heart.

I carry them with me; their smiles, their eyes. I hear their laughter and their broken voices. In many ways, I'm made up of what I've seen and heard, in other ways, I'm quite the opposite.

There are some songs we never seem to forget, some words that seem to spring forth before our eyes even get the chance to open in the morning, some recipes (especially Christmas ones) that will always lead us home. For these, and for the women who keep bringing them to me, I am grateful. I want to be this kind of woman.

This Holiday Thing

I swore I wouldn't do this. This holiday thing. This grief thing. But, today, after a weekend of holiday memorial services honoring those who have come through our funeral home this year, here I am.

It was an innocent chat. She asked me something about Thanksgiving. I said something about my grandparents. For a brief moment, I froze mentally as I tried to ignore the tear threatening to well up in my eye, I found myself thinking,

"I swore I wouldn't do this. This holiday thing. This grief thing. I swore." 

But here I am.

I'm not going to ignore the fact that my grandfather passed away this year. I'm also not going to ignore the fact that his loss means something for my family. It means many things, actually. It means that time keeps going. It means we'll have an empty seat at the table this Christmas--the one with the tennis balls on the chair legs put there so he could get in and out of it more easily. It means there will be stories and laughter and, knowing him, a housefly or two darting around just to remind us of so many good memories with him. Someone will have to sit on the couch all wrapped up in a blanket and ask me how my money's holding out because he won't be there to do it. His stocking will stay in the box. He won't slip me a $100 bill when nobody's looking. We'll keep missing him. And that's ok because he was a big part of our lives and I know we'll never forget him.

This is a special season for all of us. Let's not forget those who are grieving. I even hesitate to say, "those who are grieving," because in many ways, all of us are grieving someone.

Whether it's a recent loss or a not so recent loss--let's not forget. 

I challenge you to honor that empty spot at the table. Fill it with someone or something new and different. Just don't ignore it. Listen as stories are told and re-told. Lend a hand to someone you know is hurting. Don't fear silence, or tears, or even laughter.

If grief shows up this Christmas, don't be afraid of it. Honor it, remember it. And keep making memories.

I love you, Pop.