Christmas Wishes
On this unwanted path I'm feeling reflective about what Christmas really means and how it feels to be hopeful.
Last Christmas my husband gave me a card. But the very next day we knew he might die, so I chose not to open it. This year opening it didn’t save me from tears, but it did give me a special moment to connect with him.
How did he knew what to say? It's a complete mystery how he knew to say exactly what I needed to hear a year later, which makes me miss him even more. How did he know what I’d need now? I love that he’s still able to blow me away, even now from beyond the threshold.
By December 2024 I couldn’t imagine anything about 2025. I tried, but I literally could not conceive of a single wanted thing, which was achievably within reach. I suppose that might be the definition of hopelessness. Back then we were living without hope; an absence of wishes was safest, because we lived in fear of our dreams.
Hope
Feeling cynical, I asked Chat GTP why Christmas is commonly considered a time of hope. It replied, “Christmas is a message of hope because it tells of light entering darkness and love appearing in difficult, uncertain circumstances. It centres on the idea that suffering is not ignored, that the vulnerable matter, and that new beginnings can emerge even in hardship. At its heart, Christmas offers hope not by promising easy outcomes, but by affirming that we are not alone and that meaning and love endure.”
I'm willing to go with the intelligence of that answer. Especially having enjoyed a powerful performance of “A Christmas Carol” by Charles Dickens this week. The famous line from Scrooge, after being visited by ghosts, stuck with me.
“I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach” ~ Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol
Perhaps this is the gift of the dead. They don’t have to deal with the tangible specifics of everyday suffering. The spirits are no longer involved in real-world achievement. They need to only evoke a state of hope to give it to us.
My lovely dead husband needed only to embody the state of love, hope and generosity when he wrote to me, to give me exactly the gift I needed this year. For all I know, it may be how Chat GTP is also programmed.
Presence
The meme says, “Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, but today is a gift. That’s why it’s called the present." Or perhaps more relevant to this time of year, “Your presence is the present.” Essentially common wisdom says that being present is a gift. Can a person be present if they’re dead?
If you’d asked me a year ago I’d have said, “No, don't be silly.” Mark going was a terrifying prospect, too terrible for me to imagine. The idea of him leaving me still makes my heart actually shake. He is gone and I still find the idea of it worse than the reality. How odd.
My impending sense of abandonment and aloneness last year was petrifying. The season’s spirit helped me to see then that I wasn't alone. And everything we’ve been through has proven it to be true. Again and again our community, friends and family have shown up for us this year, in ways we didn’t know we needed. Thank you.
I have learned that every part of my *fragility* has meaning. The suffering, fear and uncertainty we were living in, when he was alive, were not the end of my story. And in that tenuous state I know I'm my bones that he is with me, still. And always. He never fails to show up for me when I need him. My heart screams in pain at his absence and yet I can still hear his voice guiding me.
You might think me mad, deluded or naive. You may be correct. But unless you’ve partnered in life with the dead, I’m uninterested in anyone else’s opinion, evidence, experience or ideology. It's been nearly a year and he's not wholly gone from me; I will not rationality or cynism finish him off.
I can tangibly point to a difference in the way my earthbound existence feels when he is spiritually “with me”, and when he isn’t. (I've no idea where he goes when he’s not “here”.) He shows up through death in the same ways he would affect me in life - with humour, imagination, care and loyalty. Our children feel it too, as do others who love him. Which means I'm beginning to believe a somewhat troubling truth. Yes, a person can be present when they’re dead. The issue is that being here energetically isn’t enough.
It’s his physical absence which is agonisingly insufficient. His non-spiritual presence is what makes grief so very painful. This month, and every other, are so very difficult because there's no hope of that changing.
Falling
If a year ago you’d extracted a forecast from me about how I might be living now, it would have included more despair than I actually feel. Perhaps it’s because I’m more resigned to how things are than I expected to be. Although I rarely feel entirely despondent, I could not call myself hopeful. To me that feels like the glimmer of a new beginning. That I have miraculously managed to persist through this hardship is by definition a state of hopefulness.
It's why I used the term “resigned”, rather than any form of the word “acceptance”. The former is the truth, the latter feels too ideological. I wish for such grace, but I rarely feel it. There are inevitably moments of despair within my state of hopefulness.
An example happened this week, when I fell seven foot from a bar in the gym, onto my back on the rubber mat floor. Winded and crying I was in agony. I'd been doing a vigorous workout, with as many reps as possible, rotating between lifting dumb bells, doing sit ups and hanging from a bar with tucked up knees. In a lapse of concentration, my right hand slipped off the bar. Instead of hanging with my knees to my chest, I fell like a sack of grain. There was enough time for me to inwardly swear at myself on the way from the bar to the ground.
I'm OK. When it happened I was badly shaken and worryingly stiff. Three days later, my bum still hurts a bit, but I'm OK thank goodness. Some tender self-care and consistent application of hot-cold aids sorted me out. What hurt most was what happened afterwards, at home. At the moment of impact the gym coach was there to pick me up. They kindly lifted me off the floor, and took the time to teach me how to care for my injuries.
The real challenge hit me when I slowly walked into my kitchen and realised that my children were terrified of my injury. I had to help one of them navigate away from a panic attack. I talked them all down, out of emotional overwhelm, into an understanding of my safety, while lifting myself up, with nobody to help me. In that moment there was nobody to look after me, no-one reassured me while I held their hands. They didn't empty the dishwasher or make me a cup of tea. Nor should they - they're still children.
It was an embodiment of how hard it can be to parent alone. I was a bit broken, very frightened and unable not to carry on. I could have asked for help from friends or family, but it would have alarmed the children. Instead I asked neighbours to do small things, which didn't signal anything unusual. I did less than usual, until I felt stronger again. And I asked each of the children to be brave and trust that I would be OK. I gently told them about my pain, to show them that I wasn't frightened of being in it. I tried to show them how seriously I was taking my own care, to nurture their confidence and show that it was helping me to regain strength.
As I carefully rebuilt myself and them, I realised that I'd learned how to do this from watching Mark, at this time last year. He was guiding me.
The belief that everything will be OK is a privilege; hope is a precious commodity, not a prerogative. Optimism is a power which can be misused because it forces attention away from pain. But if we neglect our tenderness we risk it all. I couldn't know this unless I had experienced true hopelessness.
I didn't patronise my children with false positives, nor did I feed their beautiful inner monster. They are no longer entirely naive, they are wisely cynical. Yet they rebelliously choose to retain hope everyday. They seem hard-wired for it. So I will nurture hope for them and with them, even when it hurts me. Since I’m the only grown up around here who can do it. And I can give myself the grace to recover from that responsibility.
This Christmas I'm aware that I get to do this; it’s an entitlement which Mark doesn't get. Despite our evidentially supported distrust in life, we will move forwards. We will carry out precious hope together, with a bit of additional help from a box of ibuprofen.
Pride
Looking back at 2025 I can list many things which make me feel proud. It’s probably more clear to me now than in any other year how noble and strong I’ve been. I would never have dared to use those words about myself before this year. Through it all I can see how my inner strength made a difference to the outcome. I know it was my willingness to surrender and my connection with Mark which gifted me the guidance I needed.
For the first time in my life I know that my efforts have been noble; I have meaningfully made a difference to that which matters most to me. The bitter truth in that sweet pride is that he’s not materially here to share our success with me.
It's his achievement too. I couldn't have done it without him, and yet he's not here. This is how our partnership remains while changing, still.
Gritty Grace
It's because Mark was so present at this point last year that I'm also able to face the intensity of this season. How did he sit beside the Christmas tree, watching his children unwrap their stockings, knowing that he'd never see it again? I have no idea. It blows my mind how he sat upright at that moment, not crying, smiling and cherishing them. If he can do it, then so can I.
Having any hopes for 2026 still feels too naive for me. My truthful wish is simply to not fuck it up, to keep going without landing on my back too often. I want to make some positive memories with our children along the way through surviving this year. It will take risk, failure, grit and grace. And with the guidance of our partnership I'm deluded enough to believe I can do it.
Mark's grit is what will give me the grace to get through the festive week ahead. I’m continuing to learn how to use the alchemy of my own attention to turn my pain into more presence. I have seen how being intentionally conscious of my feelings helps me to transform my loss into a life and love which supports me. And it's because it supports me that it supports our kids, which is the Christmas hope Mark had for me.
Wishing a healthy, happy Christmas season to one and all.
Love from The Rowlands. XXxxx