The last gift my father gave us.
When my mother died, my father lost more than his wife.
He lost the person who had shared his life for forty-two years.
A part of him went with her.
My father continued living after she passed away, but I don't think he ever truly found his way back to the person he had been before. He went through the motions of life, but I don't think he experienced much joy.
There was a missing piece.
And everyone who loved him could see it.
My father and my mother had built a life together. They had raised their family, created a home, and shared decades of memories. When she was gone, he was left with the silence of a life that had suddenly become very different.
He still did the things he enjoyed.
He continued going to the lake, sometimes alone and sometimes with my sister and her husband.
He was an avid reader and almost always had a book on the go.
He was a handsome man, and after my mom passed, there were women who approached him hoping to become a friend or companion.
But my father was not interested.
He quickly shut those conversations down.
His heart belonged to my mother.
Seven weeks after my mom died, my father turned sixty-five.
As a family, we decided we wanted to give him something special, so we all contributed toward a hot air balloon ride.
I was the lucky one who got to go with him.
That day remains one of my favourite memories.
For a little while, my dad wasn't just a man who had lost his wife.
He was an adventurer.
He was a father.
He was someone experiencing something new.
Life continued.
Four years after my mother passed away, my son was born.
My father loved spending time with my children. He adored my girls and my son, and they brought a different kind of joy into his life.
But Christmas remained difficult.
For eight years after my mother died, my father stopped decorating his home for Christmas.
It was as if celebrating without her felt wrong.
The holiday that had once been filled with family and tradition became a reminder of what he had lost.
But then, something changed.
That year was different.
He decorated the house.
He went to both of my daughters' Christmas concerts.
He took my nephew out for lunch.
He was looking forward to Christmas.
Looking back now, I think that mattered more than we realized at the time.
Maybe, after all those years, something inside him had finally softened.
Maybe he had begun to allow himself to feel joy again.
Maybe he was finally learning how to carry the love for my mother without being completely consumed by the loss of her.
Christmas Eve, my sister and her husband had him over for dinner.
Christmas morning, my sister Barb was going to have him over for breakfast.
Then my family was going to his house for Christmas dinner.
It was going to be a full day of family.
But my father never arrived for breakfast.
My sisters, who both lived only about five minutes away, immediately knew something was wrong.
They went to his house and let themselves in.
The house was quiet.
His dog was whining in the kitchen.
They walked down the hallway to his bedroom.
And there he was.
My father had passed away during the night.
But he hadn't died in fear.
He hadn't died alone in distress.
He was peaceful.
The light was on.
His father's journal was resting on his chest.
There was a chocolate sitting on the bedside table.
He looked as though he had simply fallen asleep.
When people hear that my father died on Christmas Day, they often comment on the sadness of the date.
They say, "Oh, how awful that he died on Christmas."
But I don't see it that way.
He died the way he always said he wanted to die.
In his sleep.
He was found quickly.
His family knew immediately.
He wasn't alone for days.
And perhaps most importantly, he died after a Christmas season that had brought him something he hadn't felt in many years.
Anticipation.
Connection.
Joy.
My father died a beautiful death.
Of course we miss him.
Of course we wish we had more time.
That never changes.
But I will always be grateful that his last Christmas was filled with anticipation, connection, and joy.
A thought to take with you
Have you ever found comfort in the way someone you loved spent their final days or moments?
What memory of them brings you peace alongside the sadness of missing them?
Something come to mind?
If you'd like to share it, I'd love to hear what this story made you think about.