File #12 - a Christmas Remembrance
Christmas has a way of amplifying everything - lights feel brighter, music is a bit more insistent and empty spaces feel even more noticeable. For many people, December isn’t a season of joy but one of endurance - a calendar full of memories that arrive whether they’re invited or not.
This was a community remembrance service, open to anyone who needed somewhere to go. No names printed in advance or assumptions made about who or what people were grieving. Just an open door, a softly lit room, and permission to feel what they felt.
People arrived quietly. Alone, or in pairs or small family groups, coats still buttoned, shoulders slightly hunched against more than just the cold. A few carried photographs folded carefully into pockets. Others carried nothing visible at all.
We didn’t rush.
The words were gentle, spacious. There was no insistence on hope, or pressure to feel festive, or suggestion that grief should tidy itself up because it was nearly Christmas. Instead, we named the truth: that love and loss often walk very close together, and that remembering can ache even when it’s done with care.
A candle was lit for those who wanted one - not to fix anything, not to symbolise closure, but simply to say someone mattered. Watching people step forward was humbling. Some people moved with certainty. Others hesitated, then came anyway. One woman whispered a name as she lit her candle, so softly it was almost lost to the room. Almost.
Music filled the space - familiar ‘Christmas’ songs, but slower, softer. The kind of music that allows your mind to wander without being dragged anywhere it isn’t ready to go. A few tears fell. A few hands reached for the person beside them. No one looked away.
What struck me most was the collective permission in the room. Permission to miss someone. Permission to not be okay. Permission to belong, even briefly, to a shared quiet where nothing needed explaining.
At the end, there was no dramatic closing. Just a moment of stillness, and an invitation to leave when ready. Some people stayed for quote a while after the final words. Others went straight away and some people paused at the door, steeling themselves before stepping back out into December.
One man told me, “I didn’t know I needed that.”
I don’t think may people there realised that either.
But that’s the whole point of a Christmas remembrance service. It doesn’t try to replace what’s been lost. It just makes space for it - and reminds us that we don’t have to carry everything alone.
These services are never about doing grief properly. They’re about offering a pause in the noise of December, somewhere people can come without explanation or expectation. A place to sit, to remember, to light a candle, or simply to breathe.
Each year, the door stays open. Some people return, some come for the first time, and some realise - only once they’re there - that this is exactly what they needed.