What Grief Taught Me About The Real Meaning Of Christmas

The magic seems to be everywhere, from that first pumpkin spice latte to the sound of I’ll Be Home for Christmas flowing through the house as candles softly flicker on the mantle.

But beneath the sparkle and the shimmer, many are quietly hurting. And somewhere tucked beneath the glamour, the glitter has turned to grief.

Sometimes the holidays just hurt.

One moment you’re toasting with friends, and the next you wake up sobbing because the changing leaves have triggered a memory that changed your forever. The garland wrapped in twinkling lights comes with an ache that feels impossible to untangle. The family table may have an empty seat that threatens to steal both your appetite and your joy. And for some, one more rendition of Silent Night feels like too much because the night feels anything but calm and bright, and the pain is drowning out the peace that song promises.

The garland wrapped in twinkling lights comes with an ache that feels impossible to untangle.

For me, the holidays changed forever in 2012.

I had just been on the phone with my best friend, chatting through last-minute broccoli salad recipes and heading home from the store. My husband was an avid cyclist and was getting ready to go on a long ride. It was the day before Thanksgiving. The sky was blue, the air was perfect. We kissed on his way out the door. He said, “I love you,” and I said it back. I prayed for him as I listened to the garage door close. After he left, I made the kids lunch, painted my daughter’s nails, chased my boys around the house, and finished cleaning up from decorating for Christmas the night before. Just when I took a deep breath and sat down to eat my lunch, the phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, so I sent it to voicemail…three times. I clicked to hear the message urging me to get to the hospital because my husband had been in an accident. As I sped down the highway with my kids, it was confirmed that he didn’t make it. My love had been killed in a tragic cycling accident. We were left standing in the ashes of shock and disbelief as I held the hands of our three young children who couldn’t understand how the world had suddenly crumbled beneath our feet. Overnight, I became a widow and a single mom with a broken heart and questions I couldn’t begin to answer. One day, life was full of laughter and festive plans for Thanksgiving, and the next it was thrown upside down and shattered.

The holidays that followed were a blur, but the world kept spinning. Christmas lights still blinked in windows, families still gathered around tables, and the air was still filled with joy. But in my home, the air was thick with grief. Every sight, sound, and scent of the season seemed to magnify the absence of my husband and best friend, and my kids’ daddy. The season that was supposed to be “The Most Wonderful Time of the Year” was anything but that. There were moments I couldn’t get out of bed, nights I sobbed on the kitchen floor, and tears that had become wordless prayers.

Maybe you’ve felt it too.

The holidays have a way of stirring up both the sweetest and the saddest parts of our stories.

The death of a parent, a miscarriage, a diagnosis, or an unwanted breakup that feels unbearable this time of year. The holidays have a way of stirring up both the sweetest and the saddest parts of our stories. They make us remember what used to be and remind us of what’s missing now. The reality is, grief doesn’t pause for the holidays. And while the world rushes toward celebration, many of us are still trying to breathe through the ache and find a sliver of hope. It’s easy to feel isolated or alone, but here’s what I’ve learned throughout the years: Each time I thought I couldn’t take another step, God’s hand lifted me, and His strength carried me. Every time I felt unseen, His presence surrounded me. Every time the ache came back, His peace met me there. That’s what makes this season sacred for me now. Not because the pain is gone, but because I’ve seen how God’s presence can meet us in the middle of it, and my hands can hold both joy and sorrow at the same time. I began to understand that God wasn’t asking me to move on—He was inviting me to move forward with Him, one gentle step at a time. And with each step I took, I discovered that hope doesn’t erase the pain; it illuminates the joy. My pain didn’t disqualify me from the joy. It only deepened it.

If you’re reading this with tears in your eyes, the same is true for you. You are not alone, and you don’t have to hold it all together. The middle of the mess is where God meets us, and often the very ingredients for a miracle. We don’t have to try and curate, pretend, clean up, or hold our breath until January…you can come to Jesus exactly as you are—tired, tear-streaked, and tender—and He will meet you with His gentleness and love.

So this season, to the woman staring at the empty chair…He sees you.
To the one praying for a baby…He hears you.
To the widow holding only a memory…He is holding you.
To the friend walking the garland-strung halls of the hospital…He walks with you.
To the one smiling on the outside but breaking on the inside…He knows.

We don’t have to pick sides: celebration or sorrow.

And we don’t have to pick sides: celebration or sorrow:

We can hang the stockings and still cry when we pull out the one that won’t be filled this year.
We can sing along to O Holy Night with tears streaming down our face.
We can laugh at the family gathering and still feel the ache of the empty chair.
We can pray and trust that God is near, even when the words are hard to find.
We can light a candle and honor the past and trust God with our future.

More than a decade later, the leaves turning and the bells ringing still come with an ache. But through each passing season, I’ve learned that grief and grace can fill the same space.

I can miss my husband and still love my new one.
I can cry over what’s gone and laugh with my children—all four of them now.
I can feel the ache of loss and the beauty of redemption—often in the same breath.

And can I whisper this to you? Hope is not denial; it’s defiance. It’s choosing to believe that the story isn’t over, even when it hurts. In all the uncertainties of life, one thing I’m certain of is this: Although the sparkle of day may fade, Jesus is enough to light up any life…and even in the fireside glow of the darkest night, hope still shines.