My soul was lost

Advent can be a tough time for a lot of people. Surrounded by the sometimes frenetic gaiety, feverish activities, determined parties, mandatory indulgences—some of us feel like we’re drowning in all this festiveness, especially if we’re bleeding from the loss of a loved one. The first Christmas after the death of someone close can feel more like an ice axe to the sternum than an occasion for celebration of any kind.

My mother died at the beginning of December 1978. I was a senior in college, alternating overnight stints with her in the hospital for the last three weeks with driving out to Claremont to attend classes. On Saturday the 2^nd, I filed two research papers with the college library. She died on Sunday the 3^rd. On Monday I defended one paper in class, and on Tuesday I defended the other. The block of time from then until late February is lost to me. That’s what this kind of thing can do to you.

A friend of mine in the UK lost her stepfather on 19 November. (Well, the "step" is a technicality. Les came into her life in her teens, but was the only father she effectively knew.) As with my mom, his death wasn’t unexpected, but it’s still hard on those whose lives he enriched over his 91 years. His wife, children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren; extended family; friends. At his funeral last Tuesday, even his caregivers were there. That’s how beloved he was.

The Harris clan are strong; its members support one another, and that’s excellent. But I know from experience how difficult this first Christmas can be, especially when the death is so recent. Your ganglia are exposed, you pick up something and think, “Hey—he would like this. I’ll just… Oh.” Or you hear something that you just know will tickle her fancy, so you… Oh. Or something flashes into your mind that you meant to tell him… And the realization washes over you in icy waves and tears appear out of nowhere.

Christmas amplifies every one of these things. It’s like you’re constantly having the breath knocked out of you, and you struggle to get air back in so you can keep going. Because you have to keep going, right? It’s Christmas. Nobody wants a sad sack around at Christmas.

Well, sod that for a lark. Here’s something for Marcia and Lesley and their mum, and all their family, and all those who loved Les. And for everyone feeling a double dose of loss during this season. It won’t miraculously heal the bone-deep sorrow, but it may possibly bring some comfort.

There are a number of versions of “There’s Still my Joy”, including a fine one by Kathy Mattea and a really gorgeous one by Oleta Adams. But the one that speaks directly to my soul is by the Indigo Girls.