“Don’t forget the grievers”—these words SCREAM in my mind. I hear them over and over. I wonder what I am supposed to do with this truth.
Don’t forget the grievers during the holiday season, I get it. I try to console the voice inside my mind that won’t stop screaming this message, “but the grieving” … I hear it over and over.
As I write this, the clouds are dark outside, it’s cold, and it has been raining for hours. The weather finally matches the turmoil of my internal thoughts, “but the grievers” …
I think of all the churches filled with people and light. The church goers light the candles; they celebrate the light of the world coming—but the grievers? They are among them, being told to celebrate the light when all they can feel is darkness and desperation. The cold, dark rain suits them too. The darkness feels like it might just win this Christmas.
… but the light.
Will it be enough this year?
Those words, the idea of light winning, of hope rising, of Christ coming—will it be enough this year? Could the hope, light, and love of Christ be enough to lift us, to lift ME this holiday?
Then it hits me—the voice, the words being shouted into the canyon. It’s me. Those words are for ME. I am the one screaming. How did I not know? How could I forsake her for so long?
Last year, I needed to remember myself, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. And this year, those memories haunt me.
Last Year (2023)
Last year during the holidays, I did NOT honor the griever inside of me. I pushed on. I kept my plans, went to the happiest place on Earth, and smiled through the excruciating sadness. I whispered into Disney Santa’s ear, with tear-filled eyes, that all I wanted was a baby. A living baby.
The Most Sacred Title
You see, my baby was gone. It couldn’t make it. Just weeks earlier, I had carried hope in my womb. I finally had my most treasured possession; I was going to hold the most sacred title—“Mommy.”
My world was beginning to feel like, after all of the grieving and hardships of the last six years following the death of my first husband, Ryan, I was turning a corner. My life could be marked with hope and new life. I was SO excited. Decades of prayers, years of trying—it was finally MY turn.
Until it wasn’t. In a cold cabin, amidst celebration, I knew. The baby was gone. I just knew.
I was in shock, but I thought I was fine. I can still celebrate. I can still perform, with 200 eyes looking at me, while I smile through the loss. I’ve done it before.
My childhood friend holds space for me. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine. I have to be.” And I keep going. I perform.
The Reality Hits
Reality is fuzzy for a while. Doctor’s office, emergency room, procedures, more doctors, hope—just kidding. The baby is still dead.
But what about the hope? The holidays are coming, the light, the miracle baby. Maybe I can have a miracle baby too. Then reality hits.
Weeks later, as reality sets in, I realize I am NOT fine. I reach for my phone and tell my childhood friend, “I was numb when I said those words. I was NOT fine!” She knew.
Maybe all of this is a horrible nightmare. Wake up. Wake UP. WAKKKKKEEE UUUPPP… but I don’t.
This IS Real.
This is real. This is horrible. This is the worst pain I’ve ever experienced, and I thought losing a spouse was bad. But this time, this time it was my body that betrayed me. She betrayed me. And how can I ever look at her again? How can I ever care about her again? I can’t.
She took away the ONE thing I have wanted since I was 3 years old. The ONE thing.
(typing break to wipe the tears streaming down my face)
I begin to slowly tell people about our miscarriage. It still doesn’t feel real, and I so badly want it to not be true. So, I just tell a few. Then I realize I need support, so I tell more. Messages pour in from women who have miscarried. Their condolences, their support. And friends who have living children send their support too—but how can they understand? Have their bodies ever betrayed them like this? They are typing me messages as they clean spit-up off their shirts.
I FEEL SO ALONE
I don’t know how to be consoled. Well-meaning loved ones think their presence and fun experiences will help with the pain. So, I tag along. I make memories, I smile, I love… but the pain remains. People ask what I need, but I don’t know how to answer.
Then we get on an airplane to go to the next family outing. I sobbed the days leading up to it, pleading not to go. Pleading not to have to paint on a smile… but in the end, I went because I didn’t want to disappoint anyone. Maybe everyone else was right, and maybe “getting out of the house” and spending time with family was the RIGHT answer.
And THAT is where I failed myself. I let others dictate what was right for me, what was good for me. I so desperately wanted them to be right. I wanted to feel the warmth of their hug and let that be enough to warm my soul.
But I neglected THE VOICE. The voice inside myself that KNOWS what’s best for me. I knew what was best, but I let myself down. I didn’t listen to the truth living inside of me. I should have listened.
Now, a little over 365 days later, I am paying the price for silencing the voice. The holidays are back, and my BODY remembers. My mind has forgotten. Our brains protect us like that. My sweet brain threw a big blanket over all of my pain, but the blanket shifted this week as I prepare for the holidays.
The memories came flooding back, and with them, I heard the voice. I didn’t know they knew each other—a blanket and a voice. How could they be connected? But they are. The blanket slipped, and I saw it. All the pain, desperation, and darkness that my brain had been hiding. But my heart has always been stronger. My voice lives in my heart, and she was screaming at the top of her lungs. No matter how hard my brain tried to hold the blanket over the pain, my heart girl is always going to win.
This holiday I am going to honor my voice. I’m still working to forgive 2023 Megan for not honoring my voice and pushing through the pain, but not this year. This year, I rest. I recover.
So this Christmas, I BEG YOU, remember the grievers!
The adult children who lost their mommas in 2014, in 1993. The humans made widows and widowers too soon. Remember those whose babies don’t get a first Christmas ornament.
The siblings who stare longingly at their sibling’s stocking, knowing they will never open it again. Humans who find out on their lunch break that their college roommate is gone. Parents whose preteen daughter died unexpectedly in her sleep.
The list goes on. All of these examples are people I know. REAL people this holiday who have REAL grief!
And I am lucky to know that Christ’s light is with me, even in the darkness. Not all are able to feel that. Not all know, and not all want to hear it.
Many days, I wondered if Christ’s light could sustain me in my darkest hour. And I am so thankful for a God who walks this road with me. Who weeps with me. Because heaven knows we’ve been weeping a lot as of late.
So please, reach out to a griever.
Mail them a card, send them a text, bake them some cookies. I don’t know why the holidays feel the worst, but the grievers live and work and walk among you. We feel helpless. We are tired. And we honestly wonder if anyone cares. Because our ability to care is so small sometimes.
Find a griever and don’t let them go. Ask them to lunch. Show up over and over again.
They worry they are too much. Their darkness, too much for this season of light. Will you please hold a candle for them? Light the way because they can’t hold the candle themselves.
And if you consider yourself a Christian this holiday season, this is not a choice, this is your duty. Find the orphans and the widows among you and take care of them. The widows look like kids, only 28 years old. And the orphans, they are in their 60s with no momma or daddy to go home to.
If you are not a griever—
If you are one of the lucky ones this holiday season and you claim Christ as your own—it’s time you stop searching the pews and church halls for the empty manger and start looking at the hurting souls around you. And there, in the grievers, that’s where you will discover the true light of your Savior.