First, take a moment to consider the people in your life - and what they've been through this year.

How to Help This Holiday Season

It's a relatively happy week in my house.  There are homemade cookies on the counter, Christmas music thrumming in the background. 

Of course, we are also a household much like yours - one child is "so bored" and another is sniffling, but, on the balance, this feels like a steady year.

Especially compared to some past seasons - like last year, where Luke (my husband) was recovering from a second leg surgery.  And I'm grateful.

But, even as I sit down to type, I'm reminded that not everyone is having a stable, abundant Christmas.

A colleague's mother died this Sunday. 

A favorite college professor died over the weekend (his daughter is the same age as mine). 

My great-Aunt is in hospice care.

A friend is driving his children to Cincinatti Children's Hospital - heavy with uncertainty.

The gestures that matter
My daughter, Mercy Joan, died in February.  By the time we got to the first Christmas after her death, almost 10 months had passed.  Which is a long time and a short one, all at once.

We weren't magically back to some sort of normal - our hearts were limping into the holidays.  But my two small, living children still yearned for a happy Christmas.  

My mom and a friend drove down from Indianapolis - they brought a tree and lights and decorations - borrowed cheer in a hard and heavy year where joy felt far away.

Decorating for me in a year where I was decimated is just one gesture amongst many that helped me survive, stabilize, and thrive in the aftermath of a great sadness.

And many people forget the pain of medium-term loss, when so many of those early-supporters drop off.  

What can you do?
First, take a moment to consider the people in your life - and what they've been through this year.

Deep disappointment
Job loss
Divorce
Relationship transitions
The death of a much-loved pet
Infertility
Sickness
Funerals

Is there someone that comes to mind? Take a moment - send a text, mail a card, give them a call.

Here is some language to borrow.

• "I'm thinking of you - I know this year is hard."

• "I'm remembering ____________, she always (share a memory here)"

• "I'm holding a part of this sadness with you"

• "Gosh, I know this isn't the year you would have chosen - I see a lot of strength in you"

For each of these films, the arc is towards hope.  There is still time:  time to delight in the life you have, time to create the life you want.  And that is a good note to end on.

Maybe you are reading and thinking, that isn't me - I've had a pretty good year.

And, if that is the case, I'm happy with you!  What a grateful thing.

But this is your annual reminder - someone out there is having a hard year and your care matters.

This was the year of the break-up, the death, or the deep loneliness - and today is a reminder of the disruptive life events and the world that is not-how-you-want-it-to-be.

I hope you have some good people around you, ones that can look up from their own plans or chocolates to give you a hug, a coffee, or just a listening ear.

Maybe solstice is the invitation you need – if you don’t feel abundant or generous - if this year was hard and cold and only looks to be more of the same. 

The end of the year is a naturally reflective time where we set revenue goals and resolutions.  For forward-thinking companies, it is also a time both to celebrate and to mark loss.

Holidays can be hard: instead of being marked by Hallmark charm/glowing gratitude, they can be an aching reminder of pain.

Undoubtedly, you also have people at work, in your neighborhood, in your family, who will scrape against Mother’s Day. Who can you reach out to this week?  It doesn’t have to be fancy or perfect. 

“No, I think it is just as likely that this year, my marriage will fall apart, one of my children will get scabies and another will get sick and die of leukemia.”
 
I remember spitting those words out in late December, answering a well-meaning friend who asked me what I was hoping for in the coming year and if I really believed that God had good things in store for me.

It happens on the sidelines of lacrosse games or standing in line at the grocery:  a seemingly innocent conversation starter from a new friend, perfect stranger, or casual acquaintance.
 
“And how many children do you have?”
 
How to answer?  As a parent of a dead child, I teeter on the edge of my response. 

I was back in the bedroom when I heard the breaking:  ceramic crashed against the tile.  I knew in a moment:  it was one of the birds. 

In the grey and grinding months after our daughter, Mercy Joan, died, my mother gave me a set of seven ceramic birds.  “A reminder that you will always be a family of seven.”  I displayed them on our mantle…poignant, a little cheesy, and unfortunately vulnerable to the daily antics of Magnus.
 
I heaved myself into the hallway, emotion rising, and found a stunned Magnus, frozen in horror over the wreckage of the birds. 

I can remember the first Mother's Day after my daughter, Mercy Joan, died.  Everything inside of me felt out of step with the holiday.