Small Holiday Miracles in the Midst of Grief
Novelist Emma Grey recounts how her community lifted her up during the first holiday season she spent without her husband
By Emma Grey
A few weeks ago, I met a reader of my debut novel, The Last Love Note, in the tiny town of Irvington, Virginia, who shared a story that gave me goosebumps. She was a pilot, and her father was dying. She was desperately trying to find a seat on a flight home in time to see him and say goodbye. Eventually, she was given a spare seat in the cockpit with the other pilots.
One of them said to her, “Tell me about your dad.” She started talking, and told them stories that lasted for the entire trip.
At the end of the flight, the other pilot, who had been surreptitiously taking notes throughout their conversation, handed the pages back to her and said, “Here’s the eulogy.” Her relief was immediate and overwhelming. I’ve written and delivered two eulogies—for my husband and my mum—and even as a writer it’s one of the most difficult assignments I’ve ever faced.
They say that grief rearranges our address books. Some friends are unable to handle our pain and slip out of our lives. Others come into our world with force, stepping in and stepping up in ways we’ll never forget.
The holiday season is particularly challenging for grieving people, with its endless stream of reminders of celebrations past, and of empty chairs at decorated tables. I remember the first Christmas after my husband died all too well. Our son was only five years old, and very much still expecting the excitement of a tinseled tree and Santa Claus. All the holiday songs and Hallmark movies I adored seemed to taunt me with all that we’d lost.
That year, we handmade our Christmas decorations for the tree using photos of all of Jeff’s favorite books and albums. It was a way to drag ourselves into the season and celebrate while honoring him. Behind the scenes, though, as a mum, I was exhausted by the expectation to make magic when life felt so dark.
Enter: a cast of random friends from multiple walks of life—preschool, work, my running group—who banded together through Facebook and set up a bogus pizza dinner at my sister’s place so that we would be out of the way while they dressed the outside of our house in Christmas lights. Driving into the unexpected “Santa stop here” sign beside the letterbox and the candy canes up the driveway, lights twinkling over the front door, I don’t think I’ve ever felt richer.
Meanwhile, two of my former work colleagues took over holiday shopping for my teenage daughters. They had a fabulous time in the mall, picking out perfumes and Harry Styles merchandise and putting together stocking-stuffers so that—just for this one Christmas—I wouldn’t have to think.
People want to help when a devastating loss occurs, and the right people will always come forth. They bring lasagnas and casseroles and keep families fed at a time when it’s all we can do to remember to drink enough water. My musician friend composed a beautiful piece of music that we played at Jeff’s funeral. Another friend, a whiz at administration, sat beside me and helped fill out the multitude of forms you face to close bank accounts and finalize someone’s affairs. We had people anonymously mowing our lawn, strangers dropping fuel vouchers into the letterbox, and friends who showed up and taught my son how to ride a bike.
The way my community rose to meet our sad occasion taught me there’s plenty of time and space in a family’s tragedy for all of us to find our moment. After those shocking, hectic first few weeks, when the early helpers returned to their daily lives—as they must—the real work of loss begins. It’s the part where it becomes clear that the person is never coming back.
It’s when the reshaping of life and carving out a new future begins. And it’s hard.
So whether it’s an offer to sit beside someone as they face the holiday pageant at elementary school, or help wrap gifts, or take someone as far away from the festivities as possible—or, indeed, write a eulogy for a stranger on a plane—there’s plenty of room for tiny miracles in the midst of grief.
At any given time, when we encounter tragedy, love will be waiting in the wings.
Emma Grey is an acclaimed Australian journalist and young adult fiction writer. Her writing has appeared in The Age, Canberra Times, and Herald Sun. The Last Love Note is her debut adult novel. She lives in Canberra, Australia, with her family.