Nelson’s “Theory of Grieving” is that I miss Nate the most during times when he would have been with me the most. In other words, during business hours, when he used to be gone anyway, I don’t miss him as much as on Sundays when we were together all day. Thanksgiving was hard, because Nate was always involved in preparing for and hosting that event. His absence was keenly felt, and sadness quickly followed. And of course our anniversary was a rough day.

I give credibility to Nelson’s theory. In the seven weeks since Nate’s death, it’s held true. Because of that, I wasn’t looking forward to our traditional Christmas Eve festivities in the Chicago area at my sister’s home. Each year we’ve had a Swedish smorgasbord there with the entire relation on hand, as well as a few close friends. Following that, we’d each hold an unlit candle, recite a short part of the Christmas story from Luke 2, and light our candles one from the other. The oldest person present concluded in prayer. After the serious part of the evening, the kids always put on a loose program of “talent” accompanied by whooping, hollering and clapping for each effort. And finally it was time for gifts, a $25 grab bag first, followed by presents for little-children-only.

Christmas Eve has always been well attended, and Nate has been part of every year’s celebration, until tonight. I knew it would be difficult for me and I was, in a sense, dreading it, a terrible thing to say about Christmas Eve, which shouldn’t be about me anyway.

This afternoon as I was wrapping the last gifts, a Christmas CD began playing “Blue Christmas” by Celine Dion. It’s a beautiful arrangement of an Elvis tune, and I like Celine’s version much better than his. Hearing it triggered a sweet memory of Nate from a few years back when we still lived in the Chicago area. I was coming up from the basement one evening in December, and he was heading toward it. Christmas music was playing on the stereo, and just as we passed each other, Celine’s “Blue Christmas” came on. He stopped. I stopped. He started singing the song in his own tone-deaf way, and on the spur of the minute, I put my arms up as if to say, “Wanna dance?”

Neither of us knows how to dance. We only do it at the weddings of our own children, when under pressure to do so. But right then and there, he put his arm around me and took my other hand in his, and we actually danced through the entire length of “Blue Christmas.” It was more of a shuffle than a dance, but he continued to sing til the end. It was a complete delight to spend those three minutes dancing, and when the song finished, we went back to what we were doing but with a new warm fuzzie in our memory banks.

Somehow this sweet remembrance of Nate set a good tone for today, and except for a few tears here and there, all went well. Although our two grandchildren are far away this Christmas, my sister’s six were on hand for the festivities, adding energy, joy and adorableness. The college kids were all home, renewing relationships, and the evening was filled with laughter and happiness. Even seeing Nate on an old Christmas Eve video tape was something good, not sad. Overall, there had been nothing to dread.

When we pulled back into the icy driveway at our Michigan cottage well after midnight, the lights of our Charlie Brown Christmas tree glowed from the front window. It was nice to be home. As for Nelson’s grieving percentages, I wasn’t sure any more, because Christmas Eve hadn’t been as difficult as I thought it would be.

“The angel [of the Lord] said to them, ‘Do not be afraid; for behold, I bring you good news of great joy which will be for all the people; for today in the city of David there has been born for you a Savior, who is Christ the Lord.’ “ (Luke 2:10-11)