Empty Places At the Table

 Today, December 19, is the tenth anniversary of my mother's death. Every year I grow depressed during the Christmas season, knowing there are empty places at our Christmas table: my father, my brother-in-law, and my mother. I suppose some think I should be beyond the grief, but grief has no timetable. Arbitrarily assigning an expiration date for grief is like comparing it to a can of green beans. That minimizes and invalidates emotions that were God-created as part of our existence. That ability to feel joy and sorrow is a reality we live with. 

I was with my mother when she took her last breath. And even though I knew she was seeing the face of her Savior and no longer suffering, I broke down in uncontrollable sobs. My mother was no longer there to mother me even as an adult. Her love, her wisdom, her experience, gone in an instant. I'm choking up as I write this.

We still gathered for Christmas dinner. I still went to the Christmas Eve service. I went through the expected motions, but inside my heart was broken and emotions were extremely difficult to maintain. But I was able to make it through, swallowing my pain as was required, only making the grief more intense. 

My mother wished to be cremated and was. But for some reason, her ashes were assigned to me for safekeeping until her memorial service and interment. I numbly accepted the container and kept it as carefully as possible. I felt the sting of tears every time I looked at it. I wrote the tribute from my brother and sister, and me that was read at the memorial service. A nephew read it. There was no way I could have. I don't know if I still have it. I'm doubly sorrowful if I don't have it saved somewhere. 

My mother was laid to rest with my father at Fort Leavenworth National Cemetery. Once a year I drive there to visit and leave red roses, my parents' favorite flower. I cannot hold back the tears as I look at their simple white marker. I don't even make the attempt not to and there is no shame attached to the tears there. It's been ten years, yet feels fresh all over again today. 

I genuinely pray no one truly thinks I should be over it by now, that I should move on, because that exposes a degree of hardheartedness and a lack of grace and mercy. But I know there likely are some who feel that way. My grief is what it is. I cannot shut it off on command. I don't know when I will mark this anniversary with only fond memories and no tears. I do not place that burden on me and hope my readers will follow suit. 

My greatest comfort comes from the knowledge God accepts my pain. Even though I know my mother is with him and has unending joy in his presence. Even though I have every confidence I will see her again and that is a cause for rejoicing, it is tempered by grief and may still be for a long time. I don't know. But I refuse to be ashamed of it because my Savior is not ashamed of me for struggling this time of year. I can kneel before the manger and know I am accepted just as I am. Emotions included. 

The empty places at the table will always remind me of my loss. But it is also a means by which I honor the memory of my loved ones no longer with me. They are not forgotten. They are honored. My tears are there, but that's okay. God granted permission when Jesus wept over the death of his good friend Lazarus. If my Savior cries, then I can, too. It's called grace.