
The Christmas letter used to be a holiday season tradition of mine. There was always much to report for the year - the kids' progress in life, our travels and adventures, the news from family and friends. But in 2006, after the death of our youngest son, there was nothing we wanted to report. We were beginning to find we often dreaded communicating with anyone, about anything.
Old friends abandoned us. Some family asked, "Aren't you over that yet?" and we retreated from going out to events as much as possible. My mother had died the year before while I talked and read and sang to her. My father, coping with his own grief from the loss of two of his brothers, could only respond, "Life is for the living."
Our focus turned to solely trying to survive the black pits of grief inside ourselves, and trying to ensure each other, and the kids, would somehow make it through this, since we knew we would never get over it.
The Christmas letter was a tradition abandoned. I couldn't face trying to write an upbeat condensed newsletter while forcing down the emptiness, grief, and fears inside. But 2020 is a year demanding a reckoning of some sort, a year that is a story all its own, so I am sitting down to try to write this Christmas letter.

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