In 2002, the Christmas after my mom died (two years after my dad died and four years after my sister died), I did something uncharacteristically Dirk; I decorated my tree in stages: I assembled it one night, then put the lights the next night, and finally added ornaments the following day. For whatever reason, I let go of the need to plow through and get it done no matter what.

That second night included–understandably–some grieving. I felt it as I unwrapped ornaments, this one made by my mother, this one a gift from my sister, the one made by me at a particular point in my past. I needed to cry, but it took Amy Grant singing about the incarnate Jesus leading me out of loneliness back "home" to release it. I cried for Nancy, Dad and Mom, for portions of life built with others and now gone, for selves I had known and released. I feel it again as I write now.

Immersing myself again in Christmas and all its memories feels necessary. It's a ritual helping me to simultaneously embrace and release loss. Thus it will ever be, every year.

I am grateful for a life full enough to have things to lose, like family, relationships and love. There's loss only when I've had something of value that can be lost. There's bitter, but also sweet.

Still, it's hard…and at times hurts keenly.

That tree I assemble each year represents my life. It represents memory, a memorial not only to my life, but to the lives of those I've loved and what they've given me…and continue to give. It's not just a Christmas tree, but a blessing tree, and, in that sense, a tree that honors God as well.

In short, I'm grateful even as I grieve.

Text and image © 2010 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.