I don’t know why my eyes focused on her, but I watched her through most of the Service of Remembrance. Although she was seated with several others, she seemed to be alone, and as the service progressed I could see her physically struggling to maintain what little composure she had left. At times her body shook as she sobbed silently, and she would pull her coat tightly around her, as though it could shut out the pain as easily as it could shield her from the cold.

When the service ended everyone rose to leave, heading toward tables of Christmas ornaments or to visit with friends who were also in attendance. But she remained, never moving from her seat, never lifting her eyes—quietly, vacantly staring at the floor. I sat down on the pew in front of her and asked if she was all right, knowing full well it was a foolish question. She looked up and nodded slightly. I sat . . . searching her face . . . waiting for the truth that I knew was hidden behind the not-so-convincing mask. Her eyes met mine and, in less than a breath, her lips began to quiver as the nod became a no. With tears brimming she asked—with unbearable pain and sadness, she pleaded, “Does it ever quit hurting?”

I could see the anguish in her eyes, the hope for an answer that would provide a light at the end of a very long, very dark tunnel; for the briefest of moments I paused, knowing what I was about to say was not at all what she wanted to hear. “No,” I whispered, slowly shaking my head. “No. It is always going to hurt.” Those words brought the tears she had fought so hard to keep at bay, and again her body shook with her sobs, but it was the only answer I could give her. It will always hurt. Too much has been lost for life to ever be the same. It is the price we pay for having loved. But I continued. “It will always hurt, but it will get better.” The time will come when she will be able to remember and smile, when the tears will not come as frequently and that terrible ache and emptiness will subside. But there will always be those moments, no matter how far removed the loss becomes. There will always be those moments when you walk into a room and a favorite book catches your eye, when you hang a particular ornament on the tree, when a phrase or a smell or a song triggers the feeling that they are there, close beside you, but still so very far away. At those times it will hurt. The pain will come again—but there will be a sweetness that accompanies the longing for life as it once was.

I am about to make the understatement of the century. Death is always difficult but holidays make it even harder. The happy times that were shared with family and friends are changed forever because a very important piece of the puzzle is missing. Whether you continue with the old traditions or create new ones to accommodate the loss, it will be very different. And the fresher the death, the more difficult the days, but as the years pass so will the overwhelming pain. There is a light at the end of that long, dark tunnel, but it is not the light of complete recovery. It is the warming glow of adjustment.

Our grief counselor was still in the building and with her permission I introduced the two of them. As I walked away he had wrapped one arm around her as she cried over and over, “I don’t think I can do this.” Twenty minutes later they emerged from the chapel and she looked at me and smiled. The sadness was still there, but she knew she wasn’t alone. There were those who would help her through her journey if she would only allow it—and although the tunnel was still so very long, she had begun to see the faintest light.

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