“It’s the most wonderful time of the year." At least that’s what I’ve heard. Even before my son’s death I couldn’t get on board with that. This time of year should be peaceful as we reflect on the wonder and majesty of a virgin birth and the salvation that an innocent baby would one day bring to mankind. I’ve always despised the hustle and bustle of the season, the buying of more and more stuff for people who don’t really need for anything, and of course the traditions like straight up lying to kids about creepy elves and a fat man in a red suit. All that aside, the very real heart-being-crushed-inside-my-chest, take-my-breath-away pain of knowing what was and what should have been makes it difficult to have a “holly, jolly Christmas.”
