Grief isn’t seasonal.
It doesn’t get carted off with rotting pumpkins or brushed aside by the Advent wreath.
It lingers, dense and cloying, like last year’s fruitcake politely refused.
For me it began a decade ago with my father, gone at 4 AM on December 23rd.
By 8 AM I sat at the foot of the tree, eyeing a package tied in red ribbon.
I slid a weary finger beneath glossy tape. A burgundy bathrobe tumbled into my lap, smelling of pine and cedar. The receipt came out with it and I crumpled it in my hand.
The robe went to the Salvation Army.
My heart went to sleep.
No, grief isn’t seasonal.
But perhaps this is the season for grief.
Why? Because Mary felt it. Forty weeks of waiting. Forty weeks of wondering. Forty weeks of pondering in her heart the magnificence of it all.
A cross whose birth we prepare for this season, ever mindful of his sacrifice, ever humbled by her Fiat.
All mothers bear children born to die. But no, we pray. Not like that.
Yet Mary welcomed the joy. She embraced the grief. She let it be done to her, according to His word.
Who better to unite ourselves with, when we are grieving? Who better to wipe our tears, when the pain is too much to breathe?
No, grief isn’t seasonal. But we are in a season of grief.
Of grief tempered with promise.
Of grief rooted in hope.
Of grief conquered by love.
This is our gift.
This is our cross.
Let it be done to us according to His will.
Copyright 2016 Ginny Kochis