Jacquie and I are grateful for the cards, emails and other messages we have received in the past few weeks that acknowledge our ongoing grief.
One of the hard things about losing someone who is as much a part of you as your arms or legs — or more precisely, your heart — is that the rest of the world quickly goes on with its business. As it should. As it has to. We understand. We have done the same. However, we are comforted by those who remember that something important stopped for us this past summer.
In all honesty, our Christmas, on the surface, won’t be much different this year. Matt, and his family live(d) in Portland, OR, across the continent from us. He would call us on Christmas Day. We will miss that — that voice. (A church secretary once announced he was on the phone by saying, “it’s your son with the great voice.”) But, we won’t have the empty chair at the table like our daughter-in-law and grandchildren will. Just thinking of their table brings tears to our eyes.
I wondered if we would just try to skip Christmas this year.
However, as Advent progressed, it felt more and more like Christmas — not the way the bouncy Bing Crosby tune puts it. But, more like Christina Rossetti puts it:
“In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan.
Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter, long ago.
. . .
In the bleak midwinter a stable place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ.”
I am late to the Rachel Held Evans fan club, but this morning I came across something she wrote that resonates with me at a deep level:
“I know that Christians are Easter people. We are supposed to favor the story of the resurrection, which reminds us that death is never the end of God’s story. Yet, I have never found that story even half as compelling as the story of the Incarnation.
. . . the true miracle of the Incarnation— the core Christian conviction that God is with us, plain old ordinary us. God is with us in our fears and in our pain, in our morning sickness and in our ear infections, in our refugee crises and in our endurance of Empire, in smelly barns and unimpressive backwater towns, in the labor pains of a new mother and in the cries of a tiny infant. In all these things, God is with us—and God is for us.
Rachel Held Evans with Jeff Chu, Wholehearted Faith (New York: HarperOne, 2021) p. 5.
I hope that, when Easter comes around next April, some power beyond my own will have rolled away the stone in my heart. But, right now, I agree with Evans. I don’t know if I believe in an empty tomb right now. I do believe in a baby in a manger.
The one thing death does for us is enable us to see our loved ones whole. Whenever I think of Matt, I see him not just as the almost skeletal, cancer-ravaged remnant of himself who looked out at us the last time we Facetimed a few days before he died. I see him as the man who came to celebrate Father’s Day 2021 with me, bringing his own grown son with him. Both his mother and I were proud of what a good father Matt was.
At the same time, I see him as the young man I visited when he was working in Poland after college. I especially remember his ardent efforts, a decade before cell phones, to place a call to a young woman whom he had met in Geneva. I was not surprised when he married her.
I can see him in adolescence and in boyhood and as the baby his Mom and I brought home from the hospital, tiny enough to cradle in one arm, nursing like every baby ever born and sleeping like . . . well, like a baby who can sleep soundly in a bassinet or a feed trough.
I used to wrap the baby Jesus in metaphysical swaddling clothes. This year, for me, he is like every baby, including Matt. Therefore, he is the Incarnation of Life. As Matt was. As you and I and everyone we love are. He came into this world, whether he knew it or not, to live and to love, which means taking on all the risks of skinned knees, viral infections, broken hearts, cancer, and crucifixions. But also to delight in sunrises and sunsets, good food, friendship, skin contact, and new babies.
Matt loved every moment of Life. Incarnation was not wasted on him.
Easter may promise something after death, but, in this bleak midwinter, all I can believe in is Christmas and the life in this world that Christmas celebrates and calls us to live generously, gratefully, . . .fully.
The first poem I ever memorized — before I could read — were the last four lines of Rossetti’s poem. It was a “piece” I said at our church’s Christmas pageant, with my parents and grandparents of blessed memory looking on:
“What can I give him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd, I would give a lamb.
If I were a Wise Man, I would do my part.
What can I give him: give him my heart”.
“A Christmas Carol” by Christina Rossetti.
Seventy Christmases later, I finally understand those words. It is safer to give those other gifts: lambs, frankincense, Walmart gift cards. Giving your heart means to risk having it broken. Yet, to not give your heart would mean that you would miss Life — the real meaning of Christmas.
Roger this was heartbreakingly beautiful. Reminded me of my own first Christmases. And left me with nothing but prayers for you and Jacquie and all who loved Matt.
I’m sorry we are sharing grief this Christmas, and I wondered too, how I would walk through it. But Christmas came to me.
Cards and calls and staying busy have helped a lot.
I boxed up Jeff’s things for a local drive for the homeless. I bought toys for a refugee collection.
I still got a real tree- but it’s a little 4’ one from Whole Foods, with one string of lights, with my little nativity below it. And it’s still beautiful.
I decided to hang a string of white lights on my porch and asked a friend to hang just the highest part. Two nights later I saw 3 of my front trees were covered in 1,000 colorful lights! He had done it in the middle of the night…
I’ve been playing the music we loved and it filled the house with happiness.
I loved my Christmas Eve routine of going to dinner and then to church, so I invited my sister-in-law’s whole family out with me.
I decided my beloved house was too empty, so I found a Ukrainian church and offered to host a refugee family. Now I’m busy cleaning closets and clutter to make room for them in January.
And 4 days after Christmas we are expecting a new grandchild to be born.
I just opened the door and Christmas came in.
What a wonderful story Cathy! I hope others read it. You and Jeff have cultivated a wonderful attitude toward life. And, there is no joy as great as a new grandbaby!
Lost Roger this year but remember u and all my grandchildren who attended elyria methodist
Oh, Roger, my heart aches for you and Jacquie this Christmas, but this is a lovely tribute to your son.
I’ve been thinking of you this Advent, and this. You are generous to share your grief, your love, your son, and that other baby with us all.
No words, Roger. Just love from Janie and me.
Our hearts were broken as we read your beautiful words. May you be comforted by the blessing of Matt’s memory!
Very touching. Best wishes to you, Jaquie and the rest of your family.
Roger, you have found such a wonderful way to view the worst experiences. Your expressions of love and faith remind us that loving a lot can be painful and fulfilling. Your sermons touched both me and my mom. Know your words have brought solace to many a troubled heart. In this special time of year as we count our blessings and memories of all who have touched our souls so deeply, understanding none of us escape this reality. Thanks for opening our hearts.
Prayers for Matt, for his family including you and Jacquie, during this season of great hope. 🙏🏽⭐️⛪️✝️
Thank you, Jacquie. I got a very nice note from Brooke Buckley on FB about it. A remarkable young woman! You must be very proud of her.
Ever since our early days in ministry in neighboring communities I have envied your way with words. Now in the midst of your own deep and continuing grief you have captured what so many feel, and have felt, but have not been able to express it or feel comfortable sharing it.
Thank you for reminding us of the importance of giving voice to our grief and sharing our memories of loved ones. Our hearts ache that you have had to go through this most painful process, but so appreciate how you are willing to give voice to your grief and hopefully show others that it is okay and even necessary. Your occupation may be retired, but your ministry goes on as touching as ever. The loss of Matt is a crushing blow and our hearts ache for you and with you.
Thank you so much, Larry. This does take me back to those times when we were both expecting at the same time.
Thank you so much, Roger, for your Christmas & Matt thoughts, about the incarnation in all of us. Winter is definitely bleak when we miss our beloved ones. My dad died on Christmas morning in 2002, and I remember that day and many good thoughts about him, and still miss him. Your Christmas won’t be merry and bright, but that makes it even more real. We love you and Jacquie so much, and appreciate your grief-full sharing for us all.❤️🤟🏽😘