Love, Advent, Loss and Christmas: Holding on to What Matters

Kevin on Christmas Day - Sweet Memories

I approach Christmas differently now.

I no longer rush past the meaning to get to the celebration. Grief has slowed me down. Love has made me pay attention.

Advent invites that slowing. It asks us not to skip ahead to joy, but to wait—to sit in expectation, longing, and hope. It reminds us that before the celebration, there was darkness. Before the birth, there was waiting. Before the joy, there was love preparing to arrive.

Christmas, at its heart, is not about excess or perfection. It is about God choosing to come close. About love entering the world quietly, humbly, without fanfare. A child born not into comfort, but into vulnerability. God with us and not above us, not distant from us.

And when you have known deep love and profound loss, that truth matters. Because love is not always loud or easy, but it is real.

This season reminds me that love appears in small, faithful ways — through family traditions, shared meals, music, laughter, and memories. Love appears even when it can't fix everything. Even when it can't save someone we care about. Even when it opens our hearts wide.

As I reflect on Advent and Christmas, I hold two sacred truths side by side:

• The birth of Christ—God’s love entering the world

• The love that shaped my family, especially through Kevin.

Not as a comparison. But as a reminder of what love looks like when it is lived, shared, and remembered.

Advent gives me permission to honor both—the holy story of Christ’s birth, and the very human story of love and family that continues to live on in me.

And so I begin here with love, memories, and a heart still learning how to wait.

Advent: Waiting With Open Hands

As I explained in my previous post, “Advent” is a season of waiting, of preparing our hearts, not just our homes. Advent slows us down and invites reflection. It reminds us that hope often arrives quietly, and that love rarely forces its way in.

“Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.”— 1 Corinthians 13:4.

Historically, Advent has been observed as a time of spiritual preparation for the celebration of Christ’s birth. Each week centers on themes that shape the Christian understanding of Christmas: hope, peace, joy, and love. These are not abstract ideas. They are lived realities and often discovered in the midst of uncertainty and longing.

Scholars place the birth of Jesus somewhere between 8 and 4 B.C.E., during a time of political unrest and spiritual expectation. The exact date is unknown. December 25th was chosen centuries later for symbolic and liturgical reasons—not because Scripture tells us the day, but because the meaning mattered more than the calendar.

What matters is this: Jesus was born humbly. In obscurity. Into a world that was waiting for light.

Advent reminds me that God did not wait for the world to be ready. God entered anyway.

This inspires me to act similarly in my own life. I reflect on facilitating a grief group, and my presence was enough to listen, to share their silence, and to offer the comfort of presence, much like how God's love enters our lives during the darkest times. This act of entering into someone's personal darkness resonates with God's divine initiative in entering our world with love.

Christmas: Love Comes Close

The story of Christ’s birth is profound and straightforward. A baby. A manger. Shepherds. Angels. A quiet miracle unfolding on the edges of society.

Christian theology teaches that in Jesus, God took on flesh—Emmanuel, God with us. Not distant from human suffering, but present within it. Christmas is the declaration that love showed up, not as power or dominance, but as vulnerability.

This is why Christmas continues to matter, especially to those of us who carry grief. Because the story does not deny darkness, but it enters it. In my own grief, I have found a gift: a deeper understanding of the Incarnation as a profound act where divine love meets human vulnerability.

Grief has sharpened my appreciation for this, highlighting how God chose to enter our broken world not with pomp, but in humble solidarity with our pain. It reassures me that, in our sorrow, we, too, can encounter sacred presence and find love quietly filling the spaces left empty by loss.

Christmas Memories with Kevin

Thinking about Advent and Christmas always brings me back to Kevin. I think of Kevin and his older sister when they were young—making cookies for Santa, carefully choosing small gifts for each other at the school fair. They didn’t have much money, but that never mattered. What mattered was the thought, the excitement, the joy of giving.

As they grew older, the gifts changed. They became more meaningful. More personal. It was a way of showing love and appreciation. After dinner, we played board games, and everyone gathered around the table, laughing, teasing, and creating lasting memories. Those evenings are treasures to me now. Ordinary moments that were, in truth, sacred.

`Kevin & his sister, 2 and 6 years old.

Music, Light, and Christmas Eve

Christmas Eve holds a special place in my heart—the candlelight service at church. The soft glow passed from the Advent candles.

Kevin played his trumpet —Joy to the World—the music rising, filling the space, settling into our hearts as the choir entered the sanctuary. Christmas caroling with the youth group, sharing that joy beyond the church walls at nursing facilities.

Those moments felt timeless. Holy. Full of hope.

Love Expanding: Uncle with Nieces

In later years, Christmas took on new meaning as Kevin became an uncle.

I think especially of Christmas Eve 2019—the last one we shared. Kevin was making sushi with his nieces, ages 4 and 5. Their little hands reaching, learning, laughing. His patience. His joy. His love.

The room was full of warmth and family connection. My heart felt full when I looked at the video. Unfortunately, I wasn’t present because I had to attend a close family funeral. A Christmas Eve when my heart wasn’t part of it, but I was happy that my daughter was present to capture it on video.

2019 Christmas Eve—Kevin making sushi with his nieces

Love and Grief During the Holidays

Research tells us that holidays can intensify grief. Traditions, music, ritual, they awaken memories. The joy and the ache often arrive together. If you feel this too, you are normal. That doesn't mean something is wrong with us. It means we loved deeply.

Advent permits us to remember and to hope. To grieve and to celebrate. To honor what was while trusting that love does not disappear. Love stays even when someone we love is no longer here. As a small ritual, you might consider lighting a second candle this year—a candle for loss, for memory, for the quiet hope that resides even in our sorrow. Let the soft light of this candle represent the love that remains.

Holding On to What Matters

This Advent, I hold on to:

• The hope of Christ’s coming.

• The love Kevin poured into our family—in music, laughter, and quiet moments.

• The memories that continue to shape me.

This Christmas Day, I will light the candles. I will play the music. I will remember the laughter and the times spent with Kevin and hold the new memories that I am creating with my granddaughters.

And I will hold on to love because love, not parties and gifts, has always been what Christmas is about. Love doesn’t fix everything. But it remains.

If this reflection met you where you are, you’re not alone. I write from lived love and lived loss, holding faith and grief side by side.

And if someone you love is carrying grief this season, feel free to share this with them. Sometimes presence begins with being seen.