Week 48: Overcoming Holiday Grief
This season is often one decorated with lots of pretty lights and lots of good CHEEEERRRR. And as it is dubbed "the MOST wonderful time of the year" for most, for some of us, it can be a dark one––heavy at that––where the lights, the family gatherings, and the warmth many feel inside seems more like an imagination or long lost experience.
The holidays remind some, even believers, of loss and it triggers the emotions of grief.
Here's some truth about my experience with loss during the holiday season:
It was Christmas Eve, 2011...
I woke up in my childhood bedroom from a bad dream. I opened my eyes slightly and from what I can recall the time on my cable box said 8:45 a.m. I don't remember any details of this bad dream, but what I do remember was that in the dream something was wrong with my dad.
Eventually, I went back to sleep.
Two hours later, my mom came into the room, telling my sister and I that we had to hurry up and get dressed because my dad was in the hospital, and it was bad.
Less than 24 hours before I was hugging my dad, as he was teasing me about how I was "too grown" to hang out with my old man and my little sister to go shopping for a gift for my mom, after opting to spend time with my high school friends home from college. And now less than 24 hours later, I was on my way to a hospital, filled with anxiety and apprehension of the unknown––no idea of what to expect and no understanding of what landed my father, my invincible father, in a hospital.
A stroke––an unexpected stroke––and by the time he'd arrived at the hospital, my dad was on life support and the doctors were already preparing us for the worst.
There was lots despair leaving the hospital later that night to get some sleep because I didn't want to leave my dad. Who ever wants to be alone on Christmas Eve, better yet who wants to leave their father––laying in a hospital bed fighting for his life––by himself?
The next day, family flooded my mom's for Christmas dinner and it all felt wrong––like we were in the wrong place at the wrong time––acting oblivious, because we were supposed to be in the hospital lobby waiting on my dad to wake up and walk out with us. I was angry at everyone, including myself, because here we were attempting to smile and "make the best of it." But in my opinion, we left him behind.
Three days later, my dad passed at 49...and to be honest, even almost seven years later, there are days where I feel like I'm the one left behind.
The holiday season is my favorite time of the year, but it's also the hardest time of the year for me.
Thanksgiving reminds me that my dad won't be coming over to my mom's house before he goes to my grandmother's house.
The weeks leading up to Christmas remind me that we won't go back and forth, playing phone tag, trying to figure out how we're going to top the year before with my mother's Christmas gift, and me trying to guess whether he was really okay with another pair of fancy socks, an expensive tie and maybe even some high end cologne for the umpteenth year.
Christmas Eve reminds me that he won't be coming over just to hang out, or maybe him watching the Polar Express with my sister and me at his apartment.
Christmas Day reminds me that he's not coming over for dinner.
And December 27th...reminds me that my dad never came home from the hospital.
It reminds me of doctors telling me that if he lived, he wouldn't have been "my dad"––he would've needed 24-hour assistance, he wouldn't be himself, he wouldn't be able to talk, he wouldn't be able to walk, hold my hand, embrace me, scold me like all dads do when their daughters start dating seriously...he wouldn't have been my dad. They said he'd be in a "vegetative."
And that's not who my dad ever was.
Today is one of the hard days––where grief has decided today would be a good one to choose me to take a jab at.
Today, my love for my dad is looking for a destination and it is just wandering for its intended recipient––my dad––but he's not here in the way I want him to be.
And it's hard to depend on anyone or anything when you feel your heart crumbling all over again inside of you. It's hard to stand tall when you feel small. It's hard to keep a straight face when you feel the muscles in your face trembling from tears forming in your eyes. It's hard to want to do anything. It's all just hard––even breathing.
Quite frankly, speaking about this is even perplexing to admit because it rushes the reality of what grief really is––a life long journey of you continuing to live without someone you love and moving on without their physical presence, still attempting to love them, and feel their love even in their absence.
As a Christian, it's easy to quote scriptures when you're not knee deep in something. But with grief––that sometimes comes in an unexpected tidal wave that crashes over you in the most inconvenient times––there is no warning. And trying to encourage yourself––even as a believer––seems more like a chore than a habit.
So...as a believer, what I've learned is to not excuse the human experience nor the reality of how hard and heavy grief is. I never try to pray grief away and I refuse to see GOD as a genie, wishing for Him to remove the sting of how complex this grief journey really is.
Why?
Because to remove the presence of grief means to remove the presence of the love that always was and always will be, even in the existence of physical loss.
There is no formula to overcoming the loss of a loved one.
There is no remedy to the severe reality that creeps up on you, especially during times like these.
There is no wish big enough.
There is no escape from this occurrence.
But there is peace.
There is hope...
And there is comfort––in Jesus.
The Bible reminds us that GOD is close to the brokenhearted and will comfort those who are troubled (Psalm 34:18), and that all things work together for our good (Romans 8:28).
When you're being overtaken by the sting of grief, it's hard to believe that anyone could ever understand or reason with you––let alone feel like there could be any good to come out of it...but there is.
One of the characteristics that I love about GOD is His compassion for us––when we are hurting, He hurts with us, when we mourn, He is there, when we cry, He hears us, when we're unsure, He leads, when we need Him, He is there. He never promises that life won't get hard, but He always promises to be there––He will never leave us (Hebrews 13:5).
Taking GOD's compassion for us even further, His reasoning with us and empathy for us is also because He, too, has endured grief––the fall of man and the consistent fall of creation even on into current day, and the death of His Son. GOD's compassion and empathy for our grief has a lot to do with His own experience with such. It goes to show you that with the relativity of our grief journeys to GOD's, just like He did with Jesus, our Heavenly Father can and will work it all out for our good––even using our grief to bless us and others.
And even when His plan doesn't make sense––when we don't understand why––a curiosity often associated with the loss of a loved one––GOD reminds us that He'll give us His peace to guard our hearts and minds that surpasses the need for complete understanding (Philippians 4:7).
The reality is grief will strike––there is no hiding place, there is no way around it. And throughout our lifetime, grief will take many forms and even evolve; it is a life long journey that never ends. Like I said earlier, grief is you having love for someone or something that is no longer here in the physical and that love searching in frustration for its physical destination––but keep loving.
Just because your destination is no longer in the form you're used to doesn't mean its existence is no more. Your physical loss can still live on and grow within you.
My dad may not be here physically, but he continues to live in me and our relationship continues to grow and even heal through my willingness to choose to keep loving him through the spirit.
Is it ideal?
Absolutely not...but it sustains me and allows me to empathize with other young people searching for answers and understanding in the loss of their parents––and that is a part GOD working out my grief for my good––fulling my passion and my purpose to help others.
And isn't that the goal of overcoming?
The overcoming is not easy, but you can do this family. I'm praying with you this holiday season.
xo, Nic.
The holidays remind some, even believers, of loss and it triggers the emotions of grief.
Here's some truth about my experience with loss during the holiday season:
It was Christmas Eve, 2011...
I woke up in my childhood bedroom from a bad dream. I opened my eyes slightly and from what I can recall the time on my cable box said 8:45 a.m. I don't remember any details of this bad dream, but what I do remember was that in the dream something was wrong with my dad.
Eventually, I went back to sleep.
Two hours later, my mom came into the room, telling my sister and I that we had to hurry up and get dressed because my dad was in the hospital, and it was bad.
Less than 24 hours before I was hugging my dad, as he was teasing me about how I was "too grown" to hang out with my old man and my little sister to go shopping for a gift for my mom, after opting to spend time with my high school friends home from college. And now less than 24 hours later, I was on my way to a hospital, filled with anxiety and apprehension of the unknown––no idea of what to expect and no understanding of what landed my father, my invincible father, in a hospital.
A stroke––an unexpected stroke––and by the time he'd arrived at the hospital, my dad was on life support and the doctors were already preparing us for the worst.
There was lots despair leaving the hospital later that night to get some sleep because I didn't want to leave my dad. Who ever wants to be alone on Christmas Eve, better yet who wants to leave their father––laying in a hospital bed fighting for his life––by himself?
The next day, family flooded my mom's for Christmas dinner and it all felt wrong––like we were in the wrong place at the wrong time––acting oblivious, because we were supposed to be in the hospital lobby waiting on my dad to wake up and walk out with us. I was angry at everyone, including myself, because here we were attempting to smile and "make the best of it." But in my opinion, we left him behind.
Three days later, my dad passed at 49...and to be honest, even almost seven years later, there are days where I feel like I'm the one left behind.
The holiday season is my favorite time of the year, but it's also the hardest time of the year for me.
Thanksgiving reminds me that my dad won't be coming over to my mom's house before he goes to my grandmother's house.
The weeks leading up to Christmas remind me that we won't go back and forth, playing phone tag, trying to figure out how we're going to top the year before with my mother's Christmas gift, and me trying to guess whether he was really okay with another pair of fancy socks, an expensive tie and maybe even some high end cologne for the umpteenth year.
Christmas Eve reminds me that he won't be coming over just to hang out, or maybe him watching the Polar Express with my sister and me at his apartment.
Christmas Day reminds me that he's not coming over for dinner.
And December 27th...reminds me that my dad never came home from the hospital.
It reminds me of doctors telling me that if he lived, he wouldn't have been "my dad"––he would've needed 24-hour assistance, he wouldn't be himself, he wouldn't be able to talk, he wouldn't be able to walk, hold my hand, embrace me, scold me like all dads do when their daughters start dating seriously...he wouldn't have been my dad. They said he'd be in a "vegetative."
And that's not who my dad ever was.
Today is one of the hard days––where grief has decided today would be a good one to choose me to take a jab at.
Today, my love for my dad is looking for a destination and it is just wandering for its intended recipient––my dad––but he's not here in the way I want him to be.
And it's hard to depend on anyone or anything when you feel your heart crumbling all over again inside of you. It's hard to stand tall when you feel small. It's hard to keep a straight face when you feel the muscles in your face trembling from tears forming in your eyes. It's hard to want to do anything. It's all just hard––even breathing.
Quite frankly, speaking about this is even perplexing to admit because it rushes the reality of what grief really is––a life long journey of you continuing to live without someone you love and moving on without their physical presence, still attempting to love them, and feel their love even in their absence.
As a Christian, it's easy to quote scriptures when you're not knee deep in something. But with grief––that sometimes comes in an unexpected tidal wave that crashes over you in the most inconvenient times––there is no warning. And trying to encourage yourself––even as a believer––seems more like a chore than a habit.
So...as a believer, what I've learned is to not excuse the human experience nor the reality of how hard and heavy grief is. I never try to pray grief away and I refuse to see GOD as a genie, wishing for Him to remove the sting of how complex this grief journey really is.
Why?
Because to remove the presence of grief means to remove the presence of the love that always was and always will be, even in the existence of physical loss.
There is no formula to overcoming the loss of a loved one.
There is no remedy to the severe reality that creeps up on you, especially during times like these.
There is no wish big enough.
There is no escape from this occurrence.
But there is peace.
There is hope...
And there is comfort––in Jesus.
The Bible reminds us that GOD is close to the brokenhearted and will comfort those who are troubled (Psalm 34:18), and that all things work together for our good (Romans 8:28).
When you're being overtaken by the sting of grief, it's hard to believe that anyone could ever understand or reason with you––let alone feel like there could be any good to come out of it...but there is.
One of the characteristics that I love about GOD is His compassion for us––when we are hurting, He hurts with us, when we mourn, He is there, when we cry, He hears us, when we're unsure, He leads, when we need Him, He is there. He never promises that life won't get hard, but He always promises to be there––He will never leave us (Hebrews 13:5).
Taking GOD's compassion for us even further, His reasoning with us and empathy for us is also because He, too, has endured grief––the fall of man and the consistent fall of creation even on into current day, and the death of His Son. GOD's compassion and empathy for our grief has a lot to do with His own experience with such. It goes to show you that with the relativity of our grief journeys to GOD's, just like He did with Jesus, our Heavenly Father can and will work it all out for our good––even using our grief to bless us and others.
And even when His plan doesn't make sense––when we don't understand why––a curiosity often associated with the loss of a loved one––GOD reminds us that He'll give us His peace to guard our hearts and minds that surpasses the need for complete understanding (Philippians 4:7).
The reality is grief will strike––there is no hiding place, there is no way around it. And throughout our lifetime, grief will take many forms and even evolve; it is a life long journey that never ends. Like I said earlier, grief is you having love for someone or something that is no longer here in the physical and that love searching in frustration for its physical destination––but keep loving.
Just because your destination is no longer in the form you're used to doesn't mean its existence is no more. Your physical loss can still live on and grow within you.
My dad may not be here physically, but he continues to live in me and our relationship continues to grow and even heal through my willingness to choose to keep loving him through the spirit.
Is it ideal?
Absolutely not...but it sustains me and allows me to empathize with other young people searching for answers and understanding in the loss of their parents––and that is a part GOD working out my grief for my good––fulling my passion and my purpose to help others.
And isn't that the goal of overcoming?
The overcoming is not easy, but you can do this family. I'm praying with you this holiday season.
xo, Nic.
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