In Search of Thanksgiving

(part one in a Thanksgiving saga)

November in the south is a mix of summer and winter, the reason that so many southerners catch cold. We layer our clothing in the morning and peel it off in the afternoon. A cold front can blow in a dusting of snow atop freshly planted pansies that melts away by dinner. That first Thanksgiving without our daughter Jessi, November was stuck in that weird gear between autumn and winter. A gray mist hung in the neighborhood along with the rumors that continued to circulate about the fallen Twin Towers of New York.
Jared, our youngest, stood in the landing of our circular staircase, pensive, wanting me to come downstairs but unsure of how to say it. “Come see to Dad.” He said and ran downstairs.
My husband Randy was a tent maker, meaning that he was working odd jobs while starting a new church. He delivered fireworks, he measured houses for carpet, he watered plants at the home improvement store.
“Mom, Josh is carrying Dad in the house. He forgot to make our reservations.”
Jared’s voice sounded troubled. He was always the non-emotional child, so to hear worry tainting his matter-of-fact tone brought me to my feet.
“Why would Josh carry Dad?” I asked, following Jared down the circular staircase.
Josh burst through the front door, Randy’s arm around his neck. Josh’s arms were wrapped around his dad and he was hefting him along.
Randy was working a second job to make extra money; church planters call it “tent making” after the Apostle Paul. He was delivering fireworks to various vendors around town. He had pulled off the interstate on the side of the road overcome with grief. Disillusionment sucked all life out of him. By the time he pulled up in our driveway, his fingers were frozen to the steering wheel. Josh looked out and saw his dad sitting frozen in the driver’s seat of his truck. He ran out of the house and pried his fingers from the steering wheel before hoisting him out of the truck.
Randy’s face was haggard. His eyes were half-mast. He kept apologizing. “I didn’t make the reservations. I knew I was supposed to.” He kept saying, “ I’m sorry,” to the boys.
“We’ll do something else,” I said, as if I could think and plan.
I made a few phone calls to restaurants. The first three I called closed for Thanksgiving. It was no matter, I thought. Plenty of restaurants would offer a Thanksgiving buffet. I would call in the morning after some rest. I went to bed, racing the elephant of holiday grief to dreamland.
Josh awakened me the next morning. “I’ve called a dozen restaurants in Charlotte. None of them answered the phone.”
“The staffs are busy. It’s early,” I said. I threw on my robe and joined Josh, making calls on another line. We called until noon without reaching a single restaurant.
Thanksgiving is important to restaurants, I thought. We would have no trouble finding a place to eat. “It’s ridiculous to worry, Josh.”
It is considered in modern culture wrong to disappoint our children. We forget how disappointed pioneers often had to sit down with their children and tell them, “I didn’t get that bear today. It’s gopher meat again.” But by noon, the guilt that accompanied the disappointed look in both boys’ eyes moved in and sat down on me, squashing me like a too-small sofa.
As I crossed the threshold of that first Thanksgiving without my daughter, I learned the practice of counting the disappointments. I counted them at first as personal failures as a mother.
Josh hung up the phone again and said, “Not a single restaurant is open in the entire county.” Irritation was spilling out of him.
“We’ll go to the grocers. Let’s make a list,” I said.
The pain chafed against me as Josh and I bundled for the brisk gray day and went out into the city in search of an open store.
(To be continued. . .)

A Friend Through All Seasons

If you have a friend who is suffering the sorrow of loss through the holidays, you might be feeling a little outside the loop, not knowing what to do or say. That is a normal response, but a better response is that of being a proactive friend during the season that changes all seasons. Today's blog post, the third posting on this theme, is for you. If you don't have a friend experiencing sorrow through the holidays, chances are you will eventually. So printing off these thoughts and saving them for later may serve as a lifeline of comfort sooner or later. Feel free to post questions or ideas that have worked for you or if feel a little wobbly about helping your friend during his/her sacred season of loss. Here goes:

If Your Friend is Recovering From Loss:
• If your friend is grieving through the holidays, she probably won’t tell you what she needs because she is most likely in shock. It’s best to make specific appointments to drop by to clean up her kitchen or bathroom. Even if you tell her to call you if she needs anything, be assured that she won’t call and won’t ask. She's too numb and may assume you’re saying that to be polite.

• Remember that children often don’t know how to express loss. Asking them to draw a picture of their loved one or writing a letter will help them to begin to cope with the loss and to elicit happy memories of their loved one.

• Gender affects how people grieve. Men may tamp down worse than women—the bleaker pain resurfaces when tamped down. Husbands and wives or mothers and fathers should offer a generous amount of grace for those who grieve differently from them or seem to be taking longer to get through the stages of grief.

• Kindly refrain from telling a grieving person that they need closure. There’s no closure until we’re reunited with our loved ones in the afterlife. Instead of using meaningless “happy affirmations” or clichés, simply weep with them without commentary or being a “Job’s Friend.” Sharing tears is a sacred rite of true friendship. Knowing when to fall quiet and listen is a gift.

• If your friend is grieving through the holidays, a phone call or a note in the mail trumps a million Christmas gifts. But one day out of the blue, I received an unexpected express shipped package. In it was a container of Mac eye makeup. A friend had sent it along with a very sweet note and a Winans worship CD. She had taken me once for a Mac make-over and it was her way of remembering the afternoon we had shared. Gestures of love don’t have to cost a lot. It’s the time you take to do them that will mean the most to your friend.

• My dear writer friend Lawana Blackwell asked me Jessi’s birthday at the funeral. It was an odd question at the time. But she wrote it down. She calls me every year on Jessi’s birthday to check on me. Remembering an anniversary date—the birthday, the date of loss, marriage anniversary—is another sacred day you can do something meaningful for your friend.

I'm indebted to my friends who thought that what they were offering me wasn't enough, but it was exactly what I needed or what Randy needed. We live in a world of excess, so the simplicity of small gestures is lost in the noise. God's extravagant love is poured through us and out onto others like perfectly aged wine. A glass of it is all you need.

The Season that Changes All Seasons

After the sudden loss of our daughter, we were warned by other grieving parents of the “dreaded holiday season.” Our family had always enjoyed our Christmas fanaticism, the neighborhood lights competitions, and the many annual traditions we practiced. Having had loss thrust on us suddenly, we had to reconstruct Christmas. I attribute this one sane response to our family’s dependence on Christ since there is no other logical explanation for a season when all seems illogical. The old traditions were too painful so it became evident that we were going to have to create a new normalcy for the holidays. Because it had always been our tradition to hang the old handmade tree ornaments made by our children over the years, pulling those precious keepsakes out for me as a mom was devastating. We had several discussions with our sons and agreed that for at least a couple of years, we were going to keep the tree in temporary retirement.

Whether it is a tree or some other family heirloom that reminds you of the loved one you have lost, thinking of putting those types of triggers out of sight in advance of the holiday season could help to alleviate some of the stressors that may negatively affect your raw emotions.

However, that didn’t mean we were going to force our boys to sit around the house glum-faced. A friend passed along a timeshare that first Christmas so we visited an island in South Carolina, a new experience for us all that created a fresh memory. We were surprised at how a change of scenery lifted our hearts out of the doldrums. The condo came with a full kitchen and we all cooked something different and fun, but not laborious.

After several years, my holiday spirit did return, the ornaments were pulled out, and I was glad to return to our old Christmas traditions.

The best gift a grieving person can give to himself or herself is permission: permission to change traditions, to create new normals, to kindly say “no” to social settings that place high expectations on you. Another fact you might remember is that people who love you might be afraid of mentioning your loved ones name. Over time, whenever possible I gently dispel this myth to anyone who will listen. My daughter’s name is the sweetest sound to my ears. I carry her with me everywhere I go, so when I noticed everyone around me holding back from mentioning her name, it created an emotional deficit. So my husband and I agreed to mention her whenever we want and sometimes that is almost every day.

For the holidays, personal memorials aid your sense of loss like a healing balm. Holding a candle lighting service in honor of your loved one can be a comfort and allow you to reflect positively about the one you are missing. I wore one of Jessi’s blouses and my husband played one of her CD’s. I sprayed her favorite cologne into the air, closed my eyes, and danced in the aroma. Our youngest son and I collected miniature ornaments that we felt his sister would love. We found a miniature tree with battery operated lights. We decorated the little tree, took it to the cemetery, and gave it to our Jess for Christmas. We felt as though somehow she knew and was there with us. Just as we were leaving the cemetery, a soft winter rain let go and in the dim grayness, we could see Jess’s tree shining out. It was a reminder of the light of Christ that had always shown forth from her heart. That is the power of memory-on-purpose. Purposeful memories bring comfort.

The best thing you can do for yourself and your family is to be certain that you don’t fall into the denial patterns of trying to act like nothing has changed. Of course everything has changed from this time forth. By acknowledging that change you fill that empty space with new memories and reflections; you grieve freely and positively.

Tomorrow, other gentle suggestions for helping yourself or a grieving friend through the holidays.