Holidays Without You

The holidays are hard without you, Emmi.

This was your favorite time of year. You loved setting up the Christmas tree and playing with ornaments. You loved going to see sparkly Christmas lights, drinking hot chocolate, and watching Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. You spent hours playing with the little people nativity. You loved road trips to see family. You ripped open presents with all the expectant joy a four year old should have.

But now you aren’t here. The holidays are not as they should be anymore. You should be here to help me find the joy in this season.

When I put on my winter coat and slipped my hands in the pockets, I found my gloves, but also a pair for you and pair for Rose from our winter walks through the neighborhoods by Ronald McDonald last Christmas. How I wish I could hold your hand in mine. I wish I still needed two extra pairs of mittens in my pockets.

I’ve cried already this season, missing you in family photos, missing you at the Thanksgiving table, missing you opening ThanksChristmas presents. And I know more tears are ahead.

Rose has been talking about you. This morning over breakfast she asked to pray about you. When we asked what she wanted to pray about, she said, “Thank you for Emmi.” So we took a moment and we thanked God for the time that we did get to spend with you and for all of the memories we have with you.

We have cried as we put ornaments on the tree that you loved. We have cried as we touched your handprints on Christmas crafts. We are grieving. We ache because you should be here.

I want Rose to love Christmas, just like you did. She has seen me cry, and I don’t want to hide my pain from her. I want her to know that it’s okay to not be okay. But, I also want to be just as intentional with her holiday memories as I was with yours. I want her to remember more than my tears this season.

Since we will be self isolating this December due to the coronavirus pandemic, I’ve made a list of things to do while we’re home. Some of them are things we did with you, and a few are new traditions.

We will make gingerbread houses.

We will decorate cookies.

We will watch Christmas movies.

We will play with the Christmas train.

We will drive through a Christmas light display.

We will hide the Star from Afar and move the wise men to follow it each day.

We will eat a piece of candy each day after dinner counting down our wait to Christmas.

We will wrap gifts for those we love.

We will make Christmas crafts.

We will make bird seed ornaments for the trees.

We will celebrate Christmas this year in new, hard ways.

But I take comfort, Emmi, because you are in a forever Christmas.

In Heaven, you are in the presence of Christ himself. His name is Immanuel, God with us. I take such comfort in his name. He is with you in Heaven. He was born and walked with us on earth, experiencing all the pain and suffering we experience. He is familiar with grief. He is fully with us here in our sorrow, and fully with you in Heaven.

You are in the presence of the Light of the World. Our delight in the twinkly lights this time of year pales in comparison to the splendor of light you now see.

You hear the angels sing this Christmas. What does that sound like? Do you sing along?

“When can I come and appear before God? My tears have been my food day and night.” Psalm 42

When can I come and experience forever Christmas? I feel heavy as I reach towards Heaven, but my feet won’t leave the ground.

God, I long for the day I can come and appear before you. I want nothing more than to be done hurting. During this Advent season, I remember how long your people awaited your birth. Generations passed, longing and looking for you to come and deliver them. They waited, and waited. You came, and at precisely the right time.

Now I also wait. I wait for you to return. I wait for you to bring me home. But with tear filled eyes, though aching sobs, I will praise you in the waiting.