The Holidays Are Hard After a Loss. You’re Not Alone.

About twenty years ago, long before life took some unexpected turns, I learned an unlikely lesson from a very bad musical decision.

While serving a mission for my church, I jokingly volunteered Elder Malie and me to sing a duet at our mission Christmas devotional. We were very clear that this was a joke and an objectively terrible idea. Unfortunately, leadership thought otherwise and put us on the program.

We were assigned Away in a Manger.

We practiced. Or at least we attempted to. It quickly became evident that no amount of rehearsal would help. We could barely get through the song without the people listening completely losing it. We laughed. They laughed. It was painful. On the day of the devotional, we stood up, did our best, and delivered exactly what you would expect. It was rough.

But something unexpected happened during that preparation. I memorized the words, and that song quietly became my favorite Christmas hymn.

I came to love what it represents. A Savior who entered the world quietly and humbly. Someone who descended below all things so He could lift us when we are at our lowest. Even then, I felt comfort in that idea. I had already experienced moments in my life where I felt carried, strengthened, and gently lifted when I could not do it myself.

Years later, after losing our son Tate, that song took on an entirely different meaning.

Every time I hear the line, “Bless all the dear children in Thy tender care,” it stops me in my tracks. It brings tears without warning. I miss my sweet boy. The holidays have a way of bringing grief right to the surface, even when you think you are doing okay.

Christmas morning is especially hard. Preparing gifts for our kids is both joyful and heartbreaking. We see toys Tate would have loved. We imagine his excitement. There is a missing pile on Christmas morning, and no amount of time makes that absence disappear.

One of the most complex parts of losing Tate is something I did not expect. I still worry about him. That Fatherly instinct never goes away. You do not stop being a parent just because your child is no longer physically here. I know Tate is with our Heavenly Father. I believe he is surrounded by love and understanding far beyond what I can comprehend. And still, I worry. I wonder if he ever feels lonely. I wish I could be there to comfort him the way parents are meant to do.

Grief does not always make sense. Faith does not erase it.

When those worries feel heavy, I come back to the Savior. I think about that quiet manger and what followed. Because of Him, death is not the end. Tate will be resurrected, and Brandi and I were able to survive some very dark moments when the pain felt unbearable. Because of Him, families can be together again. There is some comfort in picturing Tate with our Savior, “in Thy tender care”.

That belief does not remove the ache, but it gives it meaning and hope.

If you are reading this and the holidays feel heavy, please know you are not alone. If you have lost someone, if you are grieving quietly, or if this season hurts more than you want to admit, that is okay. Grief has no schedule, and it certainly does not take holidays off.

If you need someone to talk to, I genuinely mean this: you are welcome to reach out. No fixing. No platitudes. Just someone willing to listen and sit with you where you are.

“Be near me, Lord Jesus, I ask Thee to stay,

Close by me forever, and love me, I pray.”

Sometimes that simple prayer is enough to get through the day.