By Kelsey Scism 
I don’t remember much about my daughter’s first Christmas. I was 24, my daughter was nearly a year, and my little sister’s absence was less than three months old. I remember gifts under a small tree in my parents’ dining room. I remember being with my husband’s family, feeling a little out of place, like I should have been where the grieving was, back at my parents’ house. My in-laws knew and loved my sister, but secondhand grief is different. I remember feeling like someone was missing…because she was. I remember joy and heartache. Smiles and tears. Singing and mourning.
Grieving through the holidays is like running a marathon on a sprained ankle. Each step is painful, some worse than others. It feels like it lasts a really long time. There are moments when you wonder if you’ll be able to finish and moments when you just want it to be over.
I’ve never run a marathon. I’ve never even been to one. But my son ran cross-country in high school. During the last meet of his sophomore year, watching the girls’ race before his, girl after girl ran by in the last stretch to the finish line. Tears filled my eyes because I could see the pain and determination on their faces. Some were on the verge of collapsing, and yet, they continued to put one foot in front of the other.
I imagine that’s what a holiday griever might look like to the outside world. And so often, we don’t know what to do, we don’t know what to say. Well-meaning words fall from our mouths in an attempt to fill the space. God won’t give you more than you can handle. Your angel is celebrating Christmas in heaven. She’s in a better place. But those words can feel like salt on a wound, even if we don’t mean them that way.
So what are we to do with the grievers? With the ankle-sprained marathon runners as they pass by us this holiday season?
At cross-country meets, I often tried to speak or shout encouragement to the runners who passed in front of me. Whether it was someone in first place, the one who looked ready to collapse, or the last runner, barely making it through, I tried to tell them they were doing a good job and that they could make it to the finish line.
Maybe that’s what holiday grievers need too. They need people to show up and simply say, “I know this is hard. You’re doing a good job. You’re going to make it.”
They’re not looking for instantaneous healing because they realize this is a pain they’ll always carry. They’re not looking for someone with the perfect words; they need someone to walk beside them even as they limp along. They don’t need someone to fill the space their loss creates; they need someone to recognize the emptiness. And one day, they may need someone to help them along, to slide an arm around their waist and ease a little of the weight as they push toward the finish line.
If you’re a griever running a marathon on a sprained ankle this holiday season, I’m sorry. I know this is hard. You don’t have to do all the holiday things you did before this pain changed the way you live. Do what you’re able, and trust it’s enough this year. It won’t always feel this intense. Whether you cry your way through these days or march forward in determination or feel somewhere in between, you’re doing a good job. Keep putting one foot in front of the other; you’re going to make it.
Love,
A griever from the finish line
by Daphne Bach Greer 
by Her View From Home 
