The Demise of Tito the Snowman

by Rev. Laura Barclay

Every year, it seems, my niece teaches me a little something about the Christmas season by reminding me what it’s like to see the world through a child’s eyes. This year, perhaps one of the most comical and poignant moments came the day after Téa had built her first snowman, reaching a noble 1 and ½ feet tall, and declared proudly to us all that his name was Tito.

  

The next day brought the bright morning sun which reduced Tito to a pile of mush. I came down the steps and found Téa sitting by herself with huge tears falling silently down her face, clutching something close to her chest, and looking out the window at Tito’s remains.

“What’s wrong?” I asked

“It’s Tito. He went away.” She looked up at me with big, sad eyes.

“Well, he will come and play with you the next time it snows. But it’s okay to be sad. It’s sad when something we care about goes away. What do you have in your hand?”

She showed me a picture of her on a "pirate" ship with her Mommy, Daddy, Nana and Pa. 

“Does remembering a really great moment help when you are sad?”

“Yes. I had fun because I was with family and we sang pirate songs!” She looked momentarily upbeat before remembering Tito’s demise.

“It’s ok to be sad. And we need to really enjoy when we are happy and take a picture with our minds so that we can think of it again when we are sad to bring us comfort. Also, building a snowman is one of the best things about winter. Being at the beach on a pirate ship with family is one of the best things about summer. The great thing is that we know those times will come again, and we have the opportunity to create new happy memories.”

Téa nodded, gave me a hug, and said she needed to think about it for a while and wanted to be alone. Ten minutes later, she had processed it and was ready to create a new memory, bounding into the kitchen to help Mommy cook breakfast. 

This moment stuck out in the holiday season as a primer to a young one about grief and loss, which so many of us deal with during the holidays. I thought of it as a trial run and a way to dissect my own feelings about loss on an elementary level. I realized that in teaching a child, you always learn something yourself. In going back to the basics, we can get to the heart of human processes and thoughts on the most visceral level and reexamine our own lives through the wonder of a child’s eyes.

Grief and the Holidays

by Rev. Laura Barclay

Right now, when it seems everyone is making plans to purchase a turkey or ham and making lists of Christmas presents to pick up for their friends and family, many in our offices are facing a holiday season without a particular loved one for the first time. Whether it’s a grandmother, brother, aunt, or beloved friend, death has not been a stranger to us lately.

As I talk to my coworkers about their losses and my family about the recent death of my Aunt Shirley, a few thoughts, realizations, and hopes have come to mind for which I will be in prayer the next several weeks. First, this holiday season will feel different, no matter how much we might want to stick to the same schedule or traditions. For instance, my Aunt Shirley was not only known for helping my grandmother generously prepare Thanksgiving and Christmas meals, but she moderated fun post-meal activities like trivia games and our rowdy and hilarious “Everything-Under-$10-White-Elephant-Gift-Swap.” Particularly endearing memories to me are that we always made sure my beloved but oft-teased cousin Stuart got the worst gift. Aunt Shirley would have to cut off the bargaining, maneuvering, and wrestling for weirdly shaped gifts that turned out to be bizarre tools or a strange kitchen utensil. I will treasure these fun memories in my heart as a time of happiness untouched with this sadness and loss. However, I know that even if this tradition continues, we need to give ourselves permission not to strive to do it the same way that my Aunt Shirley did. She is irreplaceable, as is her particular type of humor, and we need to give space for others to adapt, change, or cease traditions that we know in our hearts will be different without her presence.

Second, I hope that families facing grief during the holidays will acknowledge the elephant in the room. We all know it will be hard to eat Christmas dinner with one less seat at the table, and all that represents. It is natural and healthy to cry, to remember, to tell stories, and let others know how we are feeling. Telling stories is how we carry our loved ones with us after they have passed. Stories remind us that Aunt Shirley, Brother Bill, Grandmother Gogo, and Beloved Friend Gloria have joined the Cloud of Witnesses in a long line that have gone before and that we still have lessons to learn from their time with us. With the hope of Christ, we have faith that death is not the last word in their story.

Third, I pray that we make space for one another to grieve differently. Some might want to continue old traditions while others may find it unbearable. It could take multiple holiday seasons to find a normal rhythm again. Ultimately, we need to have a spirit of grace when we encounter one other, realizing that the healthiest way to grieve this loss is to be honest with one another about our feelings and make clear our love for our family and the deceased. This will probably feel like walking a tight rope for the first few holiday seasons, but with grace and love for one another in the spirit of our loving God, I know that we’ll make it together.

May God bless you this Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year while you remember your loved ones, present and departed.

Three Days and Nights

Noah and Sophie 2 yrs. ago

by Dr. Dennis Atwood

It was Sunday night when we realized one of our cats was missing. For over two years the daily routine has been: pets outside during the day and inside the house at night. We have two cats and a dog—all female—which seems to provide some balance to our three boy universe, ying to our yang. (However, with son number one now in college the dog has defaulted to me.) My younger two sons each have a cat. The cats, and the boys, have a nightly drill. After showers and teeth-brushing is done, just before prayers, the cats assume their nightly position—Sox on Cole’s bed and Sophie on Noah’s bed. But Sunday night Sophie was nowhere to be found. This was the first full night in over two years that the cat had not come inside for the night. Noah, who is ten, was not happy about not having his sleeping buddy. We assured him the cat would show up. Next day, nothing. On Tuesday, I made some “cat missing” fliers and we put them all over the neighborhood. Tuesday night came. Still nothing. I called Animal Control. Nothing. For three days and three nights we scoured the neighborhood calling for a cat that was not there.

Since we live next to a small swamp I began to fear the worst. On Monday I heard a story about a hawk that had recently snatched up a small dog living nearby and dropped it several miles away—near a vet’s office ironically enough. That dog didn’t hunt again. I also heard about a coyote recently seen prowling the golf course behind my house. With each passing day Noah got droopier and droopier. It’s hard for a parent to watch a child suffer loss and not be able to fix it. But I knew there was nothing more we could do.

Then on Wednesday morning, as Noah and Cole were outside about to head off to school, suddenly Cole came running in the house saying, “I found Sophie!” “What? Where?” I asked. “In Miss Beth’s car! It’s still locked!” In a few minutes, after rustling up the next door neighbors, Sophie was free and Noah was a happy boy. Turns out curiosity almost killed the cat. Our good friends had been loading up their GMC Envoy on Sunday afternoon for a trip to Hilton Head, South Carolina. Apparently, Sophie crawled undetected into their SUV during the loading of golf clubs, beach stuff, and luggage. For three days and nights Sophie hunkered down in the belly of a GMC never making a sound. They never knew she was in there!

So as this cat’s tale turns out, Sophie took a spontaneous vacation to South Carolina for three days with no food or water. She could have jumped out along the way or been run over. But instead she hunkered down for three days and nights entombed in a GMC… and Wednesday morning was like resurrection! After the initial joy, Noah and Cole had to rush off to school. But their joy was palpable. Their beloved cat that was as good as dead, they could now touch and see and speak to. She was alive and present! It was priceless. More than the cat’s return, seeing my son’s joy was the greatest satisfaction of all.

So I’m going to tell them tonight to remember how it felt to experience the surprise and joy of being reunited with someone they thought was gone forever. I want them to remember the sights, the smells, the touches of holding someone they thought they would never see again. Separation and loss is indeed painful and real—even if it involves a family pet.

In a small, tangible way, Sophie’s excursion to Hilton Head reminded me of just how joyful and tangible and real it will be one day to be reunited with those whom we have loved and lost. Our pain here is real, and sometimes we need a signal of the greater reality that awaits people of faith in the Christ who spent three days in a tomb. That final Easter morning is truly going to be glorious. In a strange and funny way, a curious cat and a little boy gave me a grace-filled moment—a foretaste of the gift of eternal life.

Dennis Atwood is the pastor of First Baptist Church of Mount Olive. This article originally appeared on his blog.