Joy in the AftermathThe day after Christmas can bring a heaviness all its own — especially when you’re grieving. Maybe you spent weeks bracing yourself for Christmas without your spouse or loved one, expecting the day to be dramatic and emotionally overwhelming. But instead… it just felt quiet. Empty. Different in a way you can’t quite put into words.
And now it’s the day after, and what lingers isn’t the chaos or the intensity you prepared for.
It’s the ache.
The quiet realization that you still have to keep going.
There will be more holidays without him. More birthdays. More milestones he won’t be there for.
It’s the ache.
The quiet realization that you still have to keep going.
There will be more holidays without him. More birthdays. More milestones he won’t be there for.
And that realization can hit harder than Christmas Day itself.
I remember feeling this deeply as I approached the first anniversary of Jon’s death. I had braced myself so much for the “firsts” — the first Christmas, the first birthday, the first anniversary — that I hadn’t emotionally prepared for what came after. In some tucked-away part of my mind, I think I believed that if I could just make it through that first year, something would lift. That maybe the second Christmas would magically feel easier. That somehow reaching the anniversary would mark a turning point toward normalcy.
But the day after that milestone came, and the same emptiness was still there.
The same missing.
The same ache.
The same missing.
The same ache.
And I felt so defeated.
Grief has a way of surprising us — not just with its intensity, but with its persistence. You can do all the “right things,” prepare as best you can, and still feel knocked over by the reality that missing someone you love doesn’t end after a year… or two… or ten.
Hope For the Day After Christmas
But here’s what lifted me during those moments when it all felt too big: hope.
Not the hope that things would magically get easier.
Not the hope that I would stop missing Jon.
Not the hope that the holidays would someday feel “normal” again.
Not the hope that I would stop missing Jon.
Not the hope that the holidays would someday feel “normal” again.
But the hope I have in Christ.
The hope that, because Jesus came, grief doesn’t get the final word.
The hope that Christmas wasn’t just a beautiful story — it is the means God chose for our redemption.
The hope that the Savior who entered our world also entered our suffering, and promises to be near to the brokenhearted.
The hope that Christmas wasn’t just a beautiful story — it is the means God chose for our redemption.
The hope that the Savior who entered our world also entered our suffering, and promises to be near to the brokenhearted.
And the hope that because Christ lives, Jon lives too.
This is the hope that steadies me:
Someday, I will see Jon again.
Someday, the ache will be gone.
Someday, I will stand whole and restored in the presence of the One who conquered death so we could have life.
Someday, I will see Jon again.
Someday, the ache will be gone.
Someday, I will stand whole and restored in the presence of the One who conquered death so we could have life.
That’s the hope Christmas was always pointing to.
So if the day after Christmas feels heavy… if you feel emptied-out, disappointed, or unsure how to face another year without your person… please hear this:
Your grief is not a failure.
Your weariness is not a lack of faith.
Your sadness today is not a sign that you didn’t “do Christmas well.”
Your weariness is not a lack of faith.
Your sadness today is not a sign that you didn’t “do Christmas well.”
It’s simply evidence that you loved deeply — and still do.
And even now, in the quiet of the day after, Christ is with you.
The same Jesus who brought “good news of great joy for all the people” is still bringing hope to your heart today. Joy doesn’t mean the pain disappears. It means the pain isn’t the end of the story.
Because He lives, you can face tomorrow.
Because He lives, there is joy beyond the sorrow.
Because He lives, your grief is held by a faithful Savior who has never let you go.
Because He lives, there is joy beyond the sorrow.
Because He lives, your grief is held by a faithful Savior who has never let you go.
The day after Christmas may feel heavy…
but hope is still here.
but hope is still here.
Cling to that hope, and let it fill you with joy.
If you’re walking through grief and need a quiet place to process, I have created resources specifically for you in my Etsy shop, HOPE & HARMONY PAGES. These three digital printables work on their own and hand in hand with each other:
30 SCRIPTURE CARDS FOR GRIEF. If you know someone these might encourage, I would be honored if you’d share these resources—and my blog—with them.
0 Comments