When Christmas rolls around, I can’t help but think of my late husband, James, and the night he died on our ranch. He’d gone for a walk and when he wasn’t back in 30 minutes, I went looking for him. I knew in my gut something was wrong. It was dark out and below freezing. When I didn’t find him, I called our neighbors and told them to “hurry and bring lights.” Eventually they found him, next to his tractor, under his favorite grove of post oak trees. For almost three years, I ran on autopilot, cutting off my highs and lows, trying to live somewhere in the middle, but I’m grateful to say I’ve reached the point where I no longer grieve for what is lost.
I will always miss James. He’s a part of me. But this year, I don’t want to remember that night. I want to think of our home on the ranch and rejoice in how it changed our lives.
Our Little House was nestled under a canopy of huge live oak trees that surrounded the small 484-square-foot structure. The first day we saw it, most of the white exterior paint had peeled away. On the inside, the pine floors were painted navy blue and the walls were colors like turquoise, pink and sunshine yellow. At the time, the old wood house was well over 100 years old and had the original corrugated tin roof—a beautiful rust and golden patina that mingled with the patches of silver.
Sprinkled on the ground outside were large stretches of wild onions, tall stalks with vibrant purple flowers, planted by the Mexican workers who’d first lived there and worked on the ranch. You could tell it had always been a happy little house, and I liked to think babies were conceived and born there, and women made fresh tortillas and hung laundry while their men cleared cedar and raised cattle. Their lives were simple, but good, and I prayed James and I would be as fortunate, and we were.
It was the promise of a new life, free from breast cancer; an opportunity for us to create a home together, untouched by previous lives and the memories that came with them.
The Little House made me forget how tired my body was from breast cancer surgeries and chemotherapy. I chose new paint colors, carved out a kitchen, and downsized beds and chairs and tables to fit inside a house that was only 22 feet by 22 feet. A home we shared with three big indoor dogs.
James cut dozens of cedar trees in the canyon so the seasonal creek would flow better. He trimmed the skirts on the oak trees and cut walking paths along the back of the land. Together we planted new trees and shrubs around the house and built a stone patio and a winding front walk. But above all, we relished our time together. It was everything we’d hoped for and more, and now that he’s gone, those memories are safely tucked away where I can remember them at will.
The holidays are a tough time for many, but I sometimes like to think of this piece of wisdom from the 13th-century scholar and poet, Rumi.
“Don’t grieve for what is lost,
For the heart grows by breaking.
Each crack becomes a window for the light to enter.”
Be well my friends as you get ready for what I hope is a Merry Christmas and a Happy Hanukkah. I hope it brings everyone peace.
12 thoughts on “I NO LONGER GRIEVE FOR WHAT IS LOST”
My husband was only 60 when he died suddenly a few days before Christmas. It’s been many years but I still feel a nagging emptiness every year as I face December. Life goes on and I’m living a full and amazing life, but at this time of year I do miss him.
Peace to you. ❤️
My lovely husband was 62 when he passed away in December several years ago. I felt like half of me died with him, too, and in my case, it took me a fat three years to move past that feeling.
For myself, establishing new Christmas traditions has been key to letting go. While it hasn’t made my family happy, it was what I needed to do to move forward.
Thank you, Brenda, for this timely topic, which truly resonated with me, without making me sob or feel negative about myself.
What a wonderful heartfelt story…..your life.
Thank you for sharing. My father died at 44 and till this day, I’m 76 there
is an emptiness that is unexplainable.
You move on, live life but there will always be that feeling of something missing.
Wishing you wonderful holidays and a very good life
What beautiful memories Brenda. I remember reading your breast cancer blog after James died and I cried along with you. And now you have a book coming out. James would be so proud of how you’ve rebuilt your life. Peace to you as well. Xo, Barb
My husband died 4 months ago. This will be a sad Christmas without him..reading your post gives me hope that there will be happier holidays in the future.
Bonita, so sorry for your loss. You’re doing the important work of grieving. The love of my life passed away 2 years ago Dec 1st and I miss him so much. It will be a sad Christmas for me also but there will be happier holidays in the future. It’s important to be with supportive people who will accept your grief and be there for you. I hope you are blessed with such people in your life . Sending you much love, peace and a big hug.! Take good care of yourself.
Your life with James had been such a beautiful chapter in your life. Thank you for sharing.
From the Canadian poet Rupi Kaur:
Like the rainbow after the rain
Joy will reveal itself
After sorrow
Tell me about the inside. It’s beautiful. Did you design it? I love the shelves in the kitchen and the light fixtures. How satisfying it must have been to transform it all and the pitch looks like something out of a magazine.
the layers of grief fall away to reveal beautiful memories. it’s been 25 years for me.
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Brenda, thank you for sharing such an important part of your life. So glad to know that you’re at that place in your life when good memories have replaced the pain. A grief therapist once said that the 2nd year is the most difficult as we
really come to grips with the painful reality of our loss. The 1st year is filled with confusion and we go through the motions in a daze. I lost the love of my life 2 years ago Dec 1st and that pain is very raw. Not looking forward to Christmas as this is a very lonely day for a lot of people. The only comfort that I derive is knowing that I am not alone in feeling this way. Peace and compassion to all those who are grieving and knowing that one day we will reach a point in our lives where good memories will remain to comfort us. Brenda, I am wishing you a peaceful Christmas with Annie. Sending you love and a big hug! Perhaps, in a future post you would like to share how you celebrate Christmas .