‘What a terrible time for it to happen,’ we say of winter tragedies, as though those suffering would be able to bear their sorrows more easily, had they happened in March, or in July. And although tragedy pays no real heed to the calendar on the wall, it’s true that grief sits uncomfortably in December.
My son died on December 10, 2008. One day after he was baptised; three weeks after contracting meningitis; five weeks after being born. Christmas trees flanked us as we left the hospital, both too numb to speak. Carols played on the radio; gaudy tinsel brought each shop window into sharp relief; fairy lights taunted us with reminders of other people’s happiness.
The funeral was held a week later, in a church filled with nativity figures. Armfuls of greenery decorated each pew, and a ten-foot Christmas tree sparkled in the corner. The best funerals are a celebration of life; a chance to remember a life lived long and well. It is hard to celebrate a life not lived, and that day the church filled with stifled sobs; with knuckles white around fiercely clutched hymn books.
Outside the air was crisp and clean; the ground hard around the tiny grave. The pain was sharp, visceral, forcing the air from my lungs in a wail I couldn’t stop.
There are many of us for whom Christmas is bittersweet. Memories that filter through the present-buying and the tree-decorating, piercing our hearts with pure, raw pain. A school carol concert with one voice missing; an invisible stocking hung beside its siblings. The mince pies your mother always used to make, or the special decorations that remind you so much of someone long gone. One present fewer to buy; an empty place at the dinner table. We shuffle up to close the gap – we fill it, in time, with more family, more friends – but we will always see it.
Treasure those around you, and be gentle with those for whom the holidays bring as much sorrow as they do joy. I wish you happiness this Christmas, but above all I wish you peace. Peace of mind, and peace of heart. There is no better present.