A Melancholy Christmas

We’ve had sad Holidays before. I bet a lot of readers have too, as it seems like death comes around this time of year. It makes it hard yes, but there’s something special about it as well, with memories of grief and joy all mixed up together, full of meaning and poignancy, some tragic, some beautiful. Christmas makes us think of times and people long gone. Mourning, in a way, seems almost natural.

We lost Mark’s sister to cancer this week. She carried Jesus close, so it’s fitting for her to return to him during this time of celebration. Every year her family will remember the mourning, the staggering loss, all blended with the meaning of Christmas and the renewal that comes with a new year. Or that is my hope for them. 

Mona was a year and a half behind Mark. There was just the two of them, so they were close. Mona never took to the ranch, though, so their paths were different. While Mark followed cows around, she was all about homemaking and relationships. She liked nothing better than deep conversation. She and I could go there immediately whenever we were alone together or on the phone. We shared a family experience, a history of 30+ years. We had our children in tandem. And she was just catching up to me with her own grandchildren when she was taken. Two infants that will only know their Nonnie from photographs. Well, that’s not true. They’ll know her because of the rich garden she planted and nurtured every day in her own children - their parents.

She told me the babies looked deep into her eyes with knowingness. It seems plausible to me. The veil would be very thin to newborns and those facing death. There are so many unknowns, so many miracles we take for granted.

I’ve been trying to remember what Mona wanted. Most of all she wanted her death to mean something to the ones left behind. That we take extra good care of each other and really focus on our relationships. That we realize the gift of life and enjoy the small pleasures. To her it was these, a cup of chai, delicate hydrangeas, a heartfelt visit, that made a good life. We talked a lot about the value of being present every day in the small acts of living and how gratitude follows that practice. I'll keep working on that.   

And life, as they say, goes on. It's snowing big clumps as I write. The cows are home from the mountains. They’ve been sorted and vaccinated, the calves weighed, and now they're finding luscious grass under the snow.   

Our hope is that however this holiday finds you, you have peace, a thankful heart and a warm bed to retreat to on these long winter nights. We hope you find joy in a handshake, delight in a child’s giggle, someone to hold your hand, a chore that needs doing and the strength to do it. Happy Christmas. 

Lou and Grandpa

Emma's turn