An empty chair at the holiday table silently demands attention.  I heard from yet another friend this week that had lost a loved one around the holidays.  She was anticipating the empty chair, acknowledging it, and honoring the legacy of its owner.  We all experience this, so I thought it would be helpful to discuss it on this twenty-fifth anniversary of my mother’s passing.

The first holiday following a loss is a milestone on the path of grief.  Over time the loss becomes a part of the fabric of family life.  Others fill the missing roles and the longing for a more complete celebration is deferred. (see the posts from   11/15/10 and 12/24/10) But the empty chairs remain.  As we mature we accept the parameters of this life.  But, that first holiday after loss is most poignant and awkward.  Solomon expressed it well, “Even in laughter the heart may ache and the end of joy may be grief”. 

The motivations for ignoring the empty chair are manifold, noble, and pointless.  Certainly you do not intend to invite grief into an intentionally joyous occasion with a group as complex as your family.  Perhaps there are mixed feelings about the legacy of the missing person.  Maybe you just don’t want to be Debbie Downer and be sent back to the kids’ table. 

Speaking of the kid’s table, my mom told the story of her cousin Walter, who was not the first or last unabashed truth-teller of our clan.  Having graduated to the adult table he felt obliged to contribute to the conversation.  Walter attempted at multiple seems in the exchange to offer the fascinating and detailed account of a cat that was hit by a car on their street.  Artfully interrupted by his more proper seniors and blocked at every turn he conceded in frustration. In summary he announced, “Well anyway, they took it up with a rake”.  This is the stuff of legend in my family and has become shorthand for dispensing indelicate truth.

Somewhere between the stoic disregard for the topic of loss and Walter’s style is the artful and intentional honoring of the person we miss. A toast, a prayer, or a question posed to the group (e.g. what part of mom/grandma’s legacy are you thankful for?) will break the tension and allow us to assimilate the new normal.

Sucking it up and being stoic is always an option.  I tried to perfect it for years after my dad died.  The results are disappointing, but if you insist on pursuing this course may I suggest the following self talk:  “Loss is normal just deal with it and move on. Nobody gets out of this life alive.  Eventually one of the people at this table will be the only one left.  Buck up Simba, its the circle of life.” Feel better?

The first Thanksgiving after mom died was particularly awkward.  The prior year she had decorated for her own memorial service.   That Wednesday afternoon she shepherded her Kindergarten class to the school bus and wished them all a Happy Thanksgiving.  She rushed to the store to provision the feast as her children and their families would be arriving early the next day. 

I am certain she spent a bit of extra time in the Jello aisle, taking care to procure the necessary ingredients for her latest masterpiece.  She had become an aficionado of Jello recipes and had amounted an enviable collection of tools for her diverse, layered, and molded creations. It began with a simple pudding in a cloud and grew to a penchant for introducing foreign objects to perfectly good Jello (which I consider to be an early warning sign of menopause). On Thanksgiving the presentation of the turkey was a distant second to the unveiling of the Jello.

Before getting started on her preparations there was one more appointment to be kept. Due to the requirements of hospitality at home the members of the alter guild were meeting early that week to decorate the sanctuary for Sunday services.  She then rushed home (she rushed everywhere) to prepare for the holiday. It was during the prepping, and cooking, and tasting that she inadvertently ate a nut that triggered a severe allergic reaction. We had come close to loosing her twice before to such a reaction, this time it was swift and final. The following Saturday her life was celebrated in the company of family, friends, and her decorations.

So, there we were, a year had passed and we were dealing with the loss with mutual support, faith, and humor.  The family included two therapists and a priest so you would think we would be adept. But it was Elaine that found a way to honor and acknowledge the empty chair.

Dinner was served and the turkey presented.  Grace was said and the main event was about to begin.  “Wait”, shouted Elaine, “We can’t start without this”.   The consternation and momentary confusion of all present, she entered with fiend pride in her offering.  In the center of the table she placed a 9x12 Pyrex pan full of green Jello including an unshelled walnut, a leaf, and a protruding stalk of celery.  The tension and formality disintegrated and the stories of Jello history transitioned to mom’s more meaningful and treasured legacy.  It went beyond breaking the ice to say that we would remember her and fill the roles she had vacated, albeit imperfectly.

The tradition has taken the form of a Jello competition.  It has evolved into an outrageous use of Jello as a medium to comment on momentous or at least infamous events, current or historic. A sampling of the most shocking themes submitted; Martha Stewart prison Jello, intervention Jello, Texas A&M Bonfire Jello, fish tank Jello, shark attack Barbie Jello, and even Donner party Jello (which my grandmother presented as “elegant”). 

As we cherish the people at the table this year, we will express thanks for both the living and the dead that we miss. We will look forward to a more complete celebration in our inevitable future and we will honor the inhabitants of empty chairs.