Christmas Eve: The Empty Seat and Promise of Hope
Empty Seat
Empty Cup
Ornaments glisten upon the tree
Treasured memories fill the air
A Half-Lit Tree
A Fallen Star
Whispers of what was, tangled with what is.
Night divine, when Heaven met Earth—
Gifts wrapped—some ribboned, some forgotten.
More than we need, yet never quite enough.
Outside, the snow fell gently,
soft as the tears I hold inside.
A new puppy romps through the snow,
breathing new life into this still world,
reminding me of that first Christmas morn,
when the King of Kings was born
under the star that lit the heavens.
The ache settles in the quiet spaces,
where his, Jon’s, laugh should echo,
his hands should steady the star,
and his love should fill the air.
But in the spaces where grief lingers,
I see my children—
the ones we raised,
the ones who, in the face of loss,
have bonded in love and understanding.
Their hearts, tender and strong,
have found ways to hold one another,
to offer comfort, and to be a living testament
to the love their father gave them.
They carry his spirit with them—
unspoken, but ever-present.
In the silence, I see their strength.
In their laughter, I hear his echo.
Yet in the silence, I hear it—
the stillness of Silent Night,
where Heaven and nature kiss,
and all is calm; all is bright.
In that sacred peace,
I find my heart is still,
cradling both the pain and the promise.
The hope of a Savior who came
not to erase our pain
but to dwell within it,
to turn our suffering into something holy.
In the stillness, I find Him.
Like Mary and Joseph,
pilgrims on a journey,
we, too, are called to walk through the night,
guided by the light of a star
and the hope of a Savior.
Our paths may be uncertain,
our hearts full of questions,
but we walk in faith,
knowing He is with us.
The empty seat feels less hollow
when I picture him at the table of Heaven,
where the feast never ends.
And in the ache, I find Him.
The Savior, the Word made flesh,
uniting Himself with our suffering,
and turning it into something holy.
O Holy Night,
the stars are brightly shining,
and His love fills the air once more,
reminding me that life,
even in the midst of sorrow,
is being breathed into us,
just as He breathed life into the world.
What Child is this,
who lays to rest in a manger?
This Child, this King,
who came to bring hope to the broken,
to bind up the wounded,
to lift up the weary.
He, too, knows the ache.
He, too, carries the weight of love.
I still believe.
Believe in the light,
even when it flickers dimly.
Believe in the promise,
even when all feels a mess.
Believe in a love that endures
every season, every tear, every Christmas Eve.
Because even in the shadows, even in the piercing cold,
Grace swaddles us gently, with a soft place to land,
even in harsh places—like a stable.
Amidst the silence and stillness,
the Nativity of Our Lord reminds us
that His light entered the world to guide us through every shadow,
bringing peace to our hearts, even in the hardest of places.
The Nativity of Our Lord reminds us that His light entered the world to guide us through every shadow, bringing peace to our hearts, even in the hardest of places.
Heather lebano
As the kids and I sat among the faithful on Christmas Eve, there was an ache of remembering the voices that once belted out the familiar carols, now missing from our chorus. There was an ache of all that we endured these past few years—in life with cancer and in loss.
The joy and warmth of the Mass are still present, but the absence of those we’ve lost is felt deeply in the spaces where their laughter and voices used to be where they sat among us. Even in the midst of this quiet sorrow, there’s comfort in being surrounded by the faithful, brothers and sisters in Christ, walking together toward home. The liturgy, the songs, the prayers—they swaddle us in a warm blanket—like a Blessed Mother’s mantle—of love and faith, offering a sense of belonging even as we carry the weight of our grief.
The Savior’s coming on that silent night—when Heaven kissed Earth in the quiet of a humble stable—speaks to us in our own silence and sorrow. In the darkness of that night, the Light of the world entered, bringing with Him the promise of healing and peace. He did not come to erase our pain but to enter into it, to dwell within our hearts, to walk alongside us in our grief. Just as the starlit the heavens that night, His presence in our lives lights the way through our darkest moments. In His quiet, powerful way, He offers us solace in our own silence, healing in our own sorrow, and a peace that surpasses understanding.
Though the empty seat at the table remains, the void feels immense, I ponder if it is truly empty—we are but a breath from Heaven, in these thin spaces.
In the stillness of Christmas Eve, as we light the candles and remember the birth of our Savior, I am reminded that He dwells with us in our pain, our absence, and our longing for what once was. The feast may not be as it was before, but in this sacred moment, I find comfort in knowing that the table in Heaven is always full, and He waits for us there.
With each passing year, this being our second Christmas without Jon, and many others I miss lingering at my table, I find that the losses feel heavier. The absence of those once near and the silence left by those—in Heaven and on Earth—no longer with us can weigh deeply on the heart, especially during times like these, during the holidays when friends and family close and share traditions. I miss the traditions we held dear.
But even in the ache, I cling to hope. I hold fast to the truth that our Savior, born into our world of sorrow and joy, has come to bring light into our darkness and peace into our unrest. The promise of Heaven and the eternal feast is what sustains me, and I trust that, in time, we will all be reunited at the table, where love, once broken, will be whole again.
As we decorated the tree and placed gifts beneath it, I was reminded of the traditions that continue, even as they evolve. Each ornament, each light, each breaking of bread with those around the table of plenty, each thoughtful gesture is a way to honor the ones we’ve lost, keeping their memory alive in the joy we still find in these moments. The pups playing under the tree, the quiet moments in church, the ornaments hung on the tree, and the familiar nativity scene are not just reminders of what was—they are also glimpses of what remains: love, faith, and the hope that unites us. Even in the absence of loved ones, these traditions are filled with their presence, like light shining through the dark, guiding us forward.
This Christmas, though our family picture feels incomplete, yet a bit less awkward than last year, my wish is that we each find a glimmer of light in the quiet corners of our hearts, a spark of hope that gently pushes away the shadows. Though the weight of grief may remain, I pray that we discover moments of joy that catch us by surprise—the kind that reminds us that life, even in its fragility, still holds beauty.
May the new year bring with it new beginnings, as God gently leads us forward, calling us to places of healing, growth, and peace. In His grace, may we find the courage to walk toward the future with faith, knowing that the best is yet to come. The veil is thin, eternity not far from our grip.
May we all find the peace that only Christ can bring in the quiet, in the ache, and in the light that flickers through the darkness. This Christmas, I pray that we each discover the hope that rests within us, the light that guides us, and the peace that transcends all understanding. May His love fill the spaces where we feel empty and illuminate our hearts with joy, even in the silence. The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.—Isaiah 9:1
May we find hope in the Word made flesh, for the story is still being written.
Christmas blessings and love from our family to yours.
The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.
Isaiah 9:1
I proclaim to you good news of great joy; today a Savior is born for us, Christ the Lord. Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to those on whom His favor rests.
Luke 2:14
