This year, Christmas comes wrapped in both joy and ache.
Just a few weeks ago, our family lost my mother-in-law so suddenly and unexpectedly that it still doesn’t feel real. Even though we lived in different cities and weren’t together all the time, her presence was a constant thread in our lives. She was the one who kept the family connected, checking in, planning the gatherings, making sure everyone was thought of and included. She’s the one with the cherished Hello Dolly recipe and the Christmas candy that appeared like clockwork each December. She was the one who made the lists, organized the schedules, and reminded us what really mattered.
Now, her absence feels like a quiet echo in all of our familiar plans. We’re facing Thanksgiving, her birthday, and Christmas without her, and there’s no pretending that it’s easy.
But I’m learning that grief doesn’t cancel out celebration. It just changes it.
The lights still sparkle. The music still plays. The cookies still bake. But underneath all of it, there’s a tenderness, a reminder that love leaves a mark deeper than loss. Every tradition, every memory, every recipe passed down feels like a gift she left behind. And while they bring tears at times, they also bring comfort.
I’ve realized that those pangs of sadness are just proof of how deeply she loved and how much she was loved in return. The memories that come when I catch myself hearing her laughter or picturing her focus on a Scrabble game aren’t painful reminders of what’s gone. They’re gentle evidence of the gift she was to all of us.
This December, I find myself doing things she once did. Reaching out to family to find out when we can gather. Making space at our table for dad, hoping to give him a change of scenery during the days he’ll miss her most. Pulling out her recipes, even though no one can quite make them the way she did. And somewhere in the middle of all of that, I can feel her influence, the legacy of a woman whose faith and love still shape our family, even now.
Christmas doesn’t drive away sadness, but it makes room for it, alongside hope, gratitude, and even joy. The story at the heart of this season, of God stepping into our world and light entering darkness, reminds me that grief and celebration can coexist. That love doesn’t end, and that faith continues to carry us forward.
So, as we hang ornaments and light candles, we’ll do so with full hearts, thankful for the years we had, the lessons she left us, and the chance to carry her spirit into the generations that follow.
Her touch is still here, just in new ways – in the laughter around our table, in the quiet prayers we whisper for one another, in the way we keep showing up for family, just like she taught us to.
