Three days ago, I found myself at an unplanned December gathering; I was sitting in the funeral of a childhood friend, the husband of one of my dear chums from schooldays. The impact of Dave's unexpected death felt heavy on so many levels. It was overwhelming to hear the two beautiful, articulate daughters tell about their dad's unconditional love for them. I looked at Ang's face at the graveside, as she stood in front of the casket with eyes closed, worshipping God, and I thought, "no one writes their life script to be widowed at 53 years of age." It seemed there was so much life left unlived. And it's nearly Christmas, a time of comfort and joy. 

We arrived at the funeral early, since my brother-in-law was a pall bearer. In the typical, closely woven, Mennonite web, my sister's husband was Dave's first cousin. Growing up, the cousins' homes were across the field from each other, on Kinsley Drive. In early years we would drive that road sometimes, just for Linda to spot her future beau, Greg. Alas, on occasion it would be Dave out in his yard instead. Being much younger and immature, I would use those opportunities to loudly honk the car horn and then drop down in my passenger seat. Red faced Linda would keep driving by, while a bewildered Dave would give a half-hearty wave. Reminiscing is one way our systems absorb the shock of saying "good bye".

Linda and I had trouble deciding which pew to sit in at the funeral. We chose a nearly empty one behind some relatives. Linda said hello and introduced herself to the sole occupant of our pew, an older gentleman in a suit. Her proper Mennonite introduction, most importantly included our parents' names, since we had grown up in this community: "we are the daughters of Noah and Betty Hershberger." The old man's eyes widened with recognition. He was Maynard Miller, our deceased father's friend and accountant. For the next thirty minutes, until the service began, he told us stories about "Hersh". He said that he was quite the business man in our little hometown of Hartville; a mason contractor by trade, he was well respected, honest, with a strong personality, and a friend to all. 

Mr. Miller said that he was there, at Berlin Dam, fifty years ago, when they pulled our father's body from the icy waters. Hersh had organized an ice fishing trip for friends, on January 20, 1967. He and one of the guys were skimming across the ice on a snowmobile, scouting out fishing sites, when they abruptly came upon an unfrozen channel. Despite their efforts to turn the sled, they plummeted into the cold water. Their friends on shore saw them briefly emerge and shout for help, and then they were gone. The next morning, divers found the bodies. Mr. Miller said that he took my dad's fishing license from his wallet, purchased on January 19, 1967, at 2:20 pm. He carried it in his own wallet for many years, as a reminder of Hersh. 

This gentleman is 86 years old, and still practicing as a CPA. As tears coursed down his weathered cheeks, he told Linda and I that not a day goes by that he doesn't think of his long lost friend, our father. He said that two events left an indelible impact on his life: the first was the death of a young adult aquaintance, when he collided with another player in a softball game. And the second event was the death of his friend, Hersh. He said they were planning a big, western hunting trip for the summer of 1967. He said, "I was the novice hunter, but Hersh was the expert." He asked about us, and seemed genuinely happy to hear that we were okay, despite our childhood loss. Mr. Miller found us again in the lobby, after the funeral, and tearfully thanked us for the chance to meet and visit with Hersh's daughters. We told him that we were definitely the ones given the gift. 

A loss at Christmastime is especially sad. Twenty years ago, our mom passed away on December 25, 1996. She had lived with the residual from a stroke for many years and it felt like a blessing that she could go to heaven, where she is now healed and whole. The loss of one's mother is a milestone that nothing in life prepares you for. A mother has your best interest at heart and is usually your most ardent cheerleader. A mother's love is pure and self sacrificing. The world feels askew without your mom in it.  My heart  weeps for my sister-in-law, Sharon, who is celebrating her first Christmas without her mom. 

Orphaned. When I look up into the branches of my family tree, all I see is blue skies; there is no canopy left overhead. I know many of you understand what that feels like. With the Christmas anniversary of our mother's death, many years ago I started a tradition in her honor. Late each November, I buy paperwhite flower bulbs, and set them in a container of little stones covered with water. By Christmas, they have rooted, grown several feet tall, and produce the most fragrant, pure white flower clusters. My mom had an amazing green thumb and the flowers remind me of her, each year in December. 

We lost another family member this year: in April, Ricky went to be with the Lord, leaving behind my beautiful niece, Liz, his wife, and their four active kids.  I can only imagine the pain and gaping hole at this first family Christmas without him. Liz has been so courageous, writing out her anguish and pain, and trust in God through everything. Her blog is musingswiththemillers.blogspot.com These are her own descriptive words: "Thoughts and adventures with the Millers. Life after loss. Choosing to see beauty. Continuing to adventure. Resisting fear. Holding on to Jesus."

My sister, Trish, has joined that exclusive club, whose membership hauntingly floats around in the psyche of every parent: The Loss of a Child. Nearly eleven years ago, Trish and David's son, Peter, lost his life in Baghdad, two weeks before his nineteenth birthday, forever changing their family.

I love and admire my sister so much! She has walked a nightmarish path with such grace. Recently I asked her if the pain at Christmas is just as sharp, a decade later. She said if anything, the pain is deeper. The more time goes by, the more she is aware that she will never know the thirty year old Peter, or experience hugging his kids. She said that the inverse has happened as well, that her capacity for joy has deepened. She savors time with her grandchildren; the wonderment of Christmas through their eyes is a bright spot in December. 

The loss of her son is always with her, but the holidays are especially difficult. Christmas cards arrive on the mail with smiling, intact families. Others feel festive and warm, wrapped in love from friends and family. Who wants to talk about loss at such a time, throwing cold water on others' joy? The permanent hole remains. 

Trish said something profound: "Christmas is really about loss". Carols talk about baby Jesus without somewhere to lay His head. The night is silent and dark. She said that all her senses are heightened to those around her who might be suffering or lonely at this time. The shared pain is a heavy burden to carry. The Christmas coin has two sides: one reflects the gift we received when Jesus came to earth as a baby, and grew to be a man who died for our sins, to give us eternal life. The flip side, however, is that at Christmastime, God temporarily lost His son, Jesus, when He came to humanity, to change our world. Our Father God understands what it means to lose someone special. He knows our pain. May we all feel His arms around us this Christmas.