This is something that I shared during a church service. It was a service about grief where myself and three other members talked about our grief in the holidays and how it changes over time. It was in the middle of my 3rd year of grief.
Good morning.
[I hang up Finn’s stocking]
We have a second son named Finn and this is his stocking. He died before his first Christmas as his life only lasted from March through August 2010. He never saw his stocking or the Christmas lights which he would have loved.
How can I look at this stocking on Christmas morning and find joy?
Impossible. It will be a knee bending kick in the gut. I will be flattened. How does a family celebrate a child’s birth while missing their own baby?
This is my third holiday season since Finn’s death. This year there seems like less fog and I have enough space to at least start thinking about the holidays and what they mean to me and my family.
Do I invite Finn into my holidays or should I try to set my grief aside? This doesn’t take much thought. Generations of sad people before me have learned that burying grief is dangerous. I am permanently Finn’s dad and I think about him just as much as I think about his brother. I need Finn to have a stocking.
If I can’t remove grief from holidays, perhaps I can stop participating in them. Two days off of work at the end of November, then more vacation at the end of December through the beginning of January with no celebrations or obligations. Now this could bring joy. But, the appeal disappears when I think of my living son, when I think family and friends, and my community like here at church. I choose to live in a family. I choose to live in a community. You folks celebrate a lot of holidays between October and January.
So I am destined to painfully participate in holidays with Finn. Well, not exactly with Finn.... Grief gets so twisted.
Well, I do have some choices.
One choice seems obvious but takes some effort. I can recognize that I am grieving and be mindful of what grief brings to me: rapid and frequent mood swings, no energy, compromised mental and physical capacity, and heightened sensitivity, among other crud.
I can also choose to do things for myself. I can take slow quiet walks. I can sit still and breathe and meditate, or write, or read, or just stare out the window.
I can choose to spend more time with my wife and son and less time with life’s clutter.
I can choose to go to yoga or sweat heavily in a sauna.
I can choose to listen to music in the dark.
I can choose to accept the times where my destiny doesn’t lead me far from the couch with a bag of potato chips.
I can choose to go through the pain and work of finding gratitude despite the sorrow and desperation.
And when I do chose to do these activities, then I will be living and I will find some peace.
So how have my holidays changed though grief?
Well I remember soon after Finn’s death I was trying to hurry up and get through grief in time to enjoy the holidays. And I thought this was rock bottom.
But as the holidays rolled on that first year, I remember I felt very angry and in lots of physical pain. At times, I could hardly get out of bed.
Unfortunately year 2 was a lot harder for me than year 1, and I started to lose hope that things would get better.
Now that I am in the middle of holiday season year 3, I know that grief is permanent and the pain feels the same.
But, I have changed. I have adjusted. I have learned to acknowledge grief and respect it and to do my best to be patient.
Also, I am much more resilient. The kicks in the gut still hurt the same and I still get flattened, but I am quicker to get back on my feet.
Our family fills Finn’s stocking. We fill it with gifts like toys he should be playing with or clothes he should be wearing, and when we are ready, we donate them. There are too many families living in desperate need and a couple of kids will now get some clothes, toys, and food. This doesn’t bring joy or remove the pain, but it connects us to Finn and that brings some peace to the holidays.
