Learning to grieve well in the holiday season.
I’m the daughter of a lifelong Elvis Presley fan, so ”Blue Christmas” has always been part of my festive soundtrack. The words speak of heartache, but the groove swings and the background singers wail. How bad can a Blue Christmas be with The King at the microphone?
Little did I know the phrase Blue Christmas would one day change my holidays forever.
In the spring of 2023, my husband Gerald hung up the phone, his face heavy with concern.
“Something’s not right with Dad.”
My father-in-law Gerry liked to keep his medical issues to himself, but we could tell he was struggling. We persuaded him to let us visit. As he opened the door, we were shocked at the transformation before us. Gerry’s clothes were dishevelled; he was weak and in obvious pain. The next day, he finally agreed to go to the hospital.
He never came home again.
The heartbreaking loss was compounded by the complications of funeral planning and estate laws. We barely had time to breathe, much less grieve.
By the time December approached, Christmas just seemed like one more thing to get through. How could we celebrate without Gerry? Who would make the sausage stuffing for Christmas dinner? Had anyone ever asked him for the recipe? We always assumed we’d have so much more time together.
The Blue Christmas service
It was around this time that Gerald and I received an email from our church. “How would you feel about playing for the Blue Christmas service this year?”
Blue Christmas is a fairly recent addition to the calendar of many Christian churches. Started in the United States sometime in the 1990s, these intimate services make space for grief, worry and loss during the holiday season.
Some go by the name “Empty Chairs” or “The Longest Night of the Year.” Most are held around December 21, recognizing that the darkest days of the year are inherently harder for those who are struggling.
Prayer, silence and music form the core of the gathering. Many will include candles to symbolize light in the darkness, an image woven throughout the Christmas story. Some invite participants to bring photos of their loved ones. Others leave out empty chairs to mark those no longer with us.
Most attendees are regular church members, but churches advertise to the wider community, recognizing that grief affects us all.
Blue Christmas gives no pat answers, no glib excuses. Instead it allows us to hold mixed feelings without apology or explanation. It brings us into community, allowing us to “mourn with those who mourn” (Romans 12:15). It reminds us that God is with us even in difficult seasons.
Despite decades of music ministry, Gerald and I had never played for a Blue Christmas service. The invitation seemed perfectly and sensitively timed.
With our own grieving hearts, we started to plan the music. We wanted the songs to express, “It’s okay not to be okay, but don’t let yourself fall into despair. There is hope.”
An evening of hope
On the Wednesday before Christmas, we entered the candlelit sanctuary. People instinctively sat far apart, each needing their own cushion of space. The air was heavy with the worries of broken hearts.
We opened with “O Come, O Come Emmanuel,” an ancient song crying out for hope in a broken world.
We sang “Away in a Manger” and “Silent Night,” tender lullabies of loving comfort.
A table was set with unlit candles.
“Come forward as you’re comfortable,” our pastor announced, “And light a candle. It can be for yourself or for someone else. You can pray, sing or be silent. We’ll take our time. There’s no rush.”
We lit our candles and started to sing a psalm, woven with a haunting chorus of “hallelujah.” Winter coats rustled past me as people walked to the table, heads bowed, eyes averted. I heard whispered prayers and the occasional sniffle of tears.
And I heard singing. In the midst of sorrow I heard, “Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah.”
As the last note reverberated, peace settled upon the sanctuary, wrapping us all in communal calm. The minister gave a final blessing. People were invited to stay in the silence as long as they needed.
One by one, folks gathered their coats and went out into the dark winter night. “Thank you” and “Merry Christmas” were gently whispered. Holiness hung in the air.
We drove home in silence. As we pulled into the driveway, Gerald said, “I needed that.”
“Me, too.” I replied.
Holding the mixed feelings
Christmas Day was still hard without Gerry. We reminisced about the neon green holiday punch he loved to make. Gerald retold a story from his teens when he thought he was being given an electric guitar, only to discover it was a set of golf clubs. As we lifted a blessing for the feast before us, we said a prayer of thanks for the life and laughter of Gerry.
We still love Elvis in our family, but Blue Christmas is no longer just a song. It’s a way to survive, and maybe even thrive, in the holiday season. It’s a way for us to hold the mixed feelings of grief, joy, sadness and hope, all at the same time. Not sacrificing one for the other but experiencing it all — letting joy lift us out of sadness and letting grief remind us of the fragility of life and the importance of today.
In many ways, it harkens back to that first Christmas – a family far from home, suffering all around them, surrounded by darkness, and yet God was in the midst of it all, bringing light and hope for all people.
So this holiday season, as worries or sadness start to weigh on you, make space. Take a pause from the eggnog and jingle bells to acknowledge your pain, joy, anger and the mess of it all. Attend or host a night of Empty Chairs. Gather a few friends together for gentle carols and kind words. Recognize that Emmanuel, God, is with us, even now.
Together, let’s celebrate a Blue Christmas.
Allison Lynn Flemming of St. Catharines, Ont., is a writer and musician. She and her husband Gerald Flemming are an award-winning touring duo known as Infinitely More (InfinitelyMore.ca). Candle photo by Laura Hope on Unsplash.