The Empty Chair at the Table

      How many of you remember the good old days of using Mapquest directions or actual printed maps to navigate the country?  I vividly remember being around 23 years old and traveling to South Carolina to visit Tiffanie for the first time.  At the time it was the longest drive I had ever made.  There wasn't a GPS readily available so I printed off pages, yes pages of Mapquest directions.  I had them laying on my lap as I navigated the eight hours of roads.  I would look at my odometer and do the math on when I needed to get off an exit ramp.  Today I simply put the address in my and off I go on the greatest of adventures.  Maps are great at helping us navigate foreign places where there are no directions.  Grieving people also struggle during the holiday season because now they are trying to find their way through the holidays while missing their loved one.

    There is something picturesque about gathering around a table that makes the absence of someone we love feel especially noticeable.  For me it was the noticeable absence of someone.  People call it the empty chair, but we didn't have any empty chairs at our Thanksgiving table.  But for me personally it was worse than an empty chair.  Instead another family member, who I love dearly, was sitting beside me at the dinner table.  I'm thankful that they were there, but that wasn't their spot.  That spot belonged to someone else.  Or for other people it's the recipe that their loved one always prepared.  For our family it's my grandfather's stuffing recipe that draws our memories of him over thirty years later.  Or maybe it's the sound of laughter, but you notice that there is that one special laugh that you won't hear again.  Or, maybe the most striking of all, that no matter how full the house might be with people that it still feels empty.  The holidays have a way of bringing those memories to the surface.

      For many people, Thanksgiving is a time of family, traditions, familiar faces, and gratitude, and rightfully so.  But for someone experiencing grief, it can also be a reminder of everything that has changed.  The table may be full, but someone is missing.  Take that back.  Not someone.  Your someone.  That empty space feels louder than all the conversations happening around it.

      The holiday season is built around traditions.  We often think of traditions as something that brings comfort. They're the familiar things we look forward to each year. The meals, the decorations, the gatherings, and the little routines that make the holidays feel like the holidays.  It's the distinctives that are unique to your family.  It's the things that set you apart.  But after losing someone, those same traditions can become painful reminders of what we've lost.  Perhaps your spouse always prepared a particular dish. Maybe your father carved the turkey. Perhaps your mother was the one who brought everyone together. Maybe there was a particular place where your child always sat.  Now, all of a sudden, those traditions look different.  The things that used to bring you joy and excitement now stir up feelings of dread and gloom.  You might question whether you should continue doing things the way you've always done them or whether changing things would somehow mean leaving the person behind.  It's a razor's edge in those moments because if you keep the tradition it might hurt because they aren't there.  If you change the tradition it might hurt because it feels like you lost something.  There isn't necessarily a right or wrong answer in these situation.

      We often talk about how grief changes relationships, but we don't often talk about how grief changes our relationship with familiar things. Sometimes we find comfort in keeping traditions alive. Other times, we need permission to do something different.  Hear me out for a second, both of those things are okay.  You don't dishonor someone's memory by changing how you celebrate a holiday and you aren't refusing to move forward by wanting to keep things familiar.

      One of the men that I work with recently shared with me a worry that he's been harboring.  This is his first Thanksgiving without his wife.  He was worried that people at the table wouldn't want to talk about his wife because they would be afraid that it would hurt him or make him grieve even more deeply.  My heart broke for that sweet man.  Grief makes people uncomfortable.  To be fair with you it's probably one of the hardest emotions to break the ice of conversation.  Some family members worry that mentioning their name will make someone cry. Maybe friends don't know what to say. Or perhaps everyone is trying so hard to make the day enjoyable that they unintentionally create an environment where the person who is missing is never mentioned.  But why should remembering someone we love be something we avoid?  Their absence is already part of the gathering. It's probably already the white elephant in the room that no one is talking about. Pretending otherwise doesn't make it disappear.  Telling stories, laughing, looking at old pictures on your phone, saying their name, and even crying is perfectly fine.  For me personally I find that sometimes the most meaningful thing someone can do for a grieving person is acknowledge that the person they lost still matters.  You don't have to be 'Bob the Builder" and fix the 'grief problem.'  You don't need perfect words.  You just need to love that grieving person as best as you can and one of those ways is remembering that person too.

      I wrote about this extensively in the past, but I want to mention it again.  If you're approaching Thanksgiving or another holiday while grieving, I want to encourage you to give yourself some grace.  You don't have to do things the same way that you used to.  You don't have to show up to every gathering.  You need to give yourself permission to leave when you feel comfortable leaving and to NOT feel guilty.  And you certainly don't have to pretend you're having a wonderful time when you're struggling.  Maybe this year you decide to spend Thanksgiving with a smaller group of people. Maybe you take a quiet walk before dinner. Perhaps you prepare one of your loved one's favorite dishes. Or maybe you decide that this year needs to look completely different.  That.  Is.  Okay.  There is no universal roadmap on how to navigate the holidays after loss.

      My grandfather would always have a saying when we ate dessert.  He would say that the dessert would fill in the empty places.  That memory still makes me smile.  But grief creates empty spaces too.  When we talk about grief, it's easy to focus on the things we can see: the empty chair, the missing voice, the changed traditions, and the tears.  But what about the things we cannot see?  What about the loneliness that follows us into a crowded room? The prayers we struggle to put into words? The questions we still carry?  One of my primary verses that I shared with grieving people is Psalm 34:18, which says "The LORD is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit." This verse gives us some beautiful reminders.  It doesn't say that God is near to you when life makes sense, you are overflowing with joy, when your 'gas tank' of gratitude is on 'F' again, nor does it say that God is near to you when you have found happiness again.  It also doesn't say that God's presence is with you based off the performance of your heart or how you are handling your circumstances.  It just simply says that God is near to the broken hearted.  That means He is present in the middle of the difficult Thanksgiving. He is present when tears fall during a family meal. He is present when the memories become overwhelming and when we find ourselves wishing things could go back to the way they were.

      We may not understand why our lives have taken the turns they have. We may not have answers to the questions that keep us awake at night, and if you are reading this, you probably have multiple nights when grief keeps you awake.  But we can hold onto the promise that we are not abandoned in our sorrow.  God doesn't ask us to navigate grief alone.  He abides with us at all times.

     As you approach the holidays this year, I want you to remember something.  The absence of someone you love doesn't erase the significance of the life you shared with them.  Your memories, stories, and traditions still matter.  And the love you experienced doesn't suddenly become less meaningful because that person is no longer physically with you.  You may never look at Thanksgiving quite the same way again, and you need to give yourself permission to know that it's okay. Perhaps certain traditions will always bring a tear to your eye. Maybe there will always be a moment when you look across the table and wish someone were sitting there.  Tragically that is part of our story now, but that's not the end of the story, or at least we don't have to allow it to be the end of our story.  You can honor the person you lost while making room for the people who are still here.  For me personally it was important that I did this for my three children. You can remember the past while allowing yourself to experience the present. And you can acknowledge the pain of an empty chair without believing that every future holiday must be defined by that emptiness.

      This year, and for that matter, each passing you, don't feel pressured to make everything perfect.  Remember. Laugh when you can. Cry when you need to. Be present with the people around you.  And give yourself permission to experience the holiday exactly as it comes.  There is room for memories. There is room for tears. There is room for love.  And even in the middle of grief, there is still room for hope.

A Moment to Reflect

If you're facing a holiday without someone you love, consider these questions:

• What tradition or memory are you finding particularly difficult this year?

• Is there something you would like your family or friends to understand about your grief?

• Is there a meaningful way you could honor the person you lost this holiday season?

You don't have to have everything figured out. Give yourself permission to take the holiday one moment at a time.