<p>Among the millions for whom Christmas is a religious festival and/or a fun-filled holiday, those who have recently endured the pain of bereavement are likely to feel bleak this December.</p>.<p>Even for people who trust in the promise of eternal life (a core tenet of Christian belief), a sense of gloom could cast a shadow over the commemoration of the birth of Christ.</p>.<p>When one’s heart is heavy, traditional celebrations lack lustre. I lost my mother at the beginning of 2022, and I keep telling myself that she died peacefully after a long life.</p>.<p>My brother and I miss her rather than mourn her, realising that we were fortunate to have had at least one parent for over six decades, a blessing denied to many.</p>.<p>I think of friends whose loved ones have left them with alarming abruptness. In fact, I just heard that a young man in our neighbourhood passed away in his sleep.</p>.<p>At his forthcoming funeral, we are sure to hear the affirmation that death is not the end and that he is in a better place. One hopes that his grieving family finds solace in scripture, and in the songs of the season that resound with reassurance.</p>.<p>“I heard the bells on Christmas Day play their old familiar carols,” writes the American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.</p>.<p>He goes on to say that they bring him no comfort and that the peace and goodwill of Christmas are absent<br />in a world where “hate is strong/ And mocks the song /Of peace on earth, good-will<br />to men!”</p>.<p>Longfellow can hardly be blamed for his bitterness. In 1863, the American Civil War was at its height, and his son had been injured. Besides, he had not recovered from the loss of his wife, Frances, who had died in an accident some time earlier.</p>.<p>At the conclusion of his poem, however, Longfellow affirms that God is in control—a conviction firmly entrenched in innumerable human beings, regardless of their creed.</p>.<p>“No Christmas for us this year,” said Preethi sadly. She had cared for my mother devotedly until the end. “There will always be Christmas,” I told her gently.</p>.<p>“What we can do is dispense with the decorations.” It was important, as I reminded both Preethi and myself, to separate faith from festivity.</p>
<p>Among the millions for whom Christmas is a religious festival and/or a fun-filled holiday, those who have recently endured the pain of bereavement are likely to feel bleak this December.</p>.<p>Even for people who trust in the promise of eternal life (a core tenet of Christian belief), a sense of gloom could cast a shadow over the commemoration of the birth of Christ.</p>.<p>When one’s heart is heavy, traditional celebrations lack lustre. I lost my mother at the beginning of 2022, and I keep telling myself that she died peacefully after a long life.</p>.<p>My brother and I miss her rather than mourn her, realising that we were fortunate to have had at least one parent for over six decades, a blessing denied to many.</p>.<p>I think of friends whose loved ones have left them with alarming abruptness. In fact, I just heard that a young man in our neighbourhood passed away in his sleep.</p>.<p>At his forthcoming funeral, we are sure to hear the affirmation that death is not the end and that he is in a better place. One hopes that his grieving family finds solace in scripture, and in the songs of the season that resound with reassurance.</p>.<p>“I heard the bells on Christmas Day play their old familiar carols,” writes the American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.</p>.<p>He goes on to say that they bring him no comfort and that the peace and goodwill of Christmas are absent<br />in a world where “hate is strong/ And mocks the song /Of peace on earth, good-will<br />to men!”</p>.<p>Longfellow can hardly be blamed for his bitterness. In 1863, the American Civil War was at its height, and his son had been injured. Besides, he had not recovered from the loss of his wife, Frances, who had died in an accident some time earlier.</p>.<p>At the conclusion of his poem, however, Longfellow affirms that God is in control—a conviction firmly entrenched in innumerable human beings, regardless of their creed.</p>.<p>“No Christmas for us this year,” said Preethi sadly. She had cared for my mother devotedly until the end. “There will always be Christmas,” I told her gently.</p>.<p>“What we can do is dispense with the decorations.” It was important, as I reminded both Preethi and myself, to separate faith from festivity.</p>