Being Thankful For The Empty Chair

Every November, it happens. People spend time reflecting on what they are thankful for- Facebook fills up with 30 days of thankfulness and lists of appreciation fill school hallways.

Too often, these lists are cliché, predictable even. “I’m thankful for my family and friends.” “I’m thankful for my health.” “I’m thankful for my job.” We are quick to fill in that blank… I am thankful for _____.

Do we even spend quality time reflecting on these things? In our fast-paced world, do we just try to scribble down a vague topic on each feather/finger of our handmade turkeys?

Even worse, what happens when we approach this time of year and we aren’t feeling very, well, thankful? As the invitations are extended and the meal is planned out, we begin to notice the empty chair and the empty plate. Our loved one that should be at the table sharing in food and conversation.

Whether the loss is recent and the chair hasn’t been empty long or the loss happened decades ago and cobwebs have now decorated the chair, the hurt is the same. The hollow feeling in your core and the ache in your heart; those pains are the same no matter how many years have passed. Our loved ones are incredibly missed, and the image of the empty chair strikes painfully deep.

However, we can’t be quick to put the empty chair in the corner or place the empty plate back in the cupboard. We need these reminders despite the tender ache they bring. We must learn how to be thankful for this emptiness- because these symbols represent so much more than loss.

As this Thanksgiving day approaches, I think of three examples of poignant loss in my life.

  • Thanksgiving day will mark nine months since my dear Grandmother left this world. We managed to gather as a whole family last fall, for the first time in years, and the memories we made with Grandma will be forever treasured.
    Grandma- pretty in red ❤️

    Grandma was the one that taught me family is the most important thing in this world; she lit up our holiday celebrations with her presence alone. No doubt, our dining room will be a bit darker this year. Her chair will be empty, but our hearts will be full… full of memoires, full of love, and full of hope.

  • A few months ago, my former basketball player earned (and I mean, earned) her Heavenly wings. Sweet Riley had a personality bubblier than the marshmallows on top of the sweet potatoes soon to be on my plate (well, not mine, because ugh sweet potatoes, but other plates).
    Riley and her best friend- a couple of “turkeys” at our Thanksgiving practice (2013)

    Her joyful, vivacious personality gives me motivation and inspiration daily. My heart aches for her family this year, and the empty chair at their table. I know their holiday pictures will be missing her contagious smile. Her chair will be empty, but our souls will be full… full of determination, full of inspiration, and full of courage.

  • And my first mentor and true friend, Willy. I smile as I think of her love for life and her infectious laughter. If anyone lived out the thankfulness of Thanksgiving day to day, all year long, it was Willy.
    My dear friend, Willy.

    Her passionate spirit moves me forward each day, even though she has been physically absent in my life for over three years now. I know her family’s table will be just a bit quieter again this year. Her chair will be empty, but our spirits will shine brighter, bigger, and bolder.

Put me in a trash can and call me Oscar, I have been a grouch as the holidays quickly approach. My heart has been broken, and my soul has known great sorrow. The empty chairs at my holiday table can quickly bring back those all too familiar feelings of anguish.

So, we must choose to cherish the empty chairs and empty plates. We cannot simply shove them into the corner or the back of the cupboard. We need their painful reminders of the fragility of life. We need the chair’s gloomy shadow to help us find the light. We need to study the chip in the plate to help us remember memories of holidays past.

This is our life now. We have known great loss, and our table is dotted with empty plates and lined with empty chairs. Cherish the memories made in those chairs, and celebrate the traditions created alongside those plates.

Sit by the family member that asks too many personal questions. Hug the family friend that constantly teases you. Soak up the crazy and the chaotic. Celebrate your people- whether they are family by blood or choice. They are here, and they are yours.

Be thankful for the memories of the past. Be thankful for the empty chairs for they represent the people we have loved and we have lost. But do not hesitate to make new memories- we must create something to remember in the future.

Leave an empty chair at your packed table. Leave an empty plate next to the ones brimming with food. Remember the loved ones you have lost- do not shove their memories in the dark corners of your heart. Share stories, cry, laugh, and, most importantly, love.

Be truly thankful- for the moments you have shared with those the empty chairs represent and for the memories you will continue to make with the “full” plates around you.

Thankfulness has to be without limitation and without conditions. We cannot say, “I’ll be thankful when _____” or “I’ll be thankful if ____.”

We have to be thankful now. We have to choose thankfulness over the sorrow. We have to choose to be thankful for the empty chairs for we owe it to the ones that once sat in them.

Happy Thanksgiving.

“No matter what happens, always be thankful, for this is God’s will for you who belong to Christ Jesus.”  1 Thessalonians 5:18



For My Soul Friend

Most people have a few of those dark chapters in their book of life… the ones scattered within the shadows, the ones we don’t like to reread. 2013 was one of those chapters in my book of life. I had my first experience with death and loss… the kind of loss that shakes you and empties you and drains the last bit of hope from your soul. She was my best friend, which may be weird to some, given that she was 20 years older than me. She filled other roles, too: my second Mom, my encourager, my support system, my comedic relief, my listening ear, my shoulder to cry on, my rock. And then, overnight, she was gone.

I struggled. I cried. I grieved. I vented. I screamed. I tried to put one foot in front of the other. Other days, I didn’t get out of bed. By 2014, I knew I had to be more proactive in my climb out of grief. It was like a giant pit, and every time I got close to the top, I lost my grip and fell back to the bottom. After hitting rock bottom for what felt like the 100th time, I made the decision to finally get out of the pit.

I committed to attending a local grief group for a few months. It was an emotional choice… I felt embarrassed, ashamed, but I also felt a sense of belonging, a sense of relief. I hid my weekly meetings from most everyone (some family and friends may be learning of this for the first time through these words). But it was here that my post truly begins. It was here that my soul connected with Aaron Fry.

Normally, I would ask Aaron’s permission to share these intimate moments, but, with his recent death, I think it will be okay. I want to share the beauty that was Aaron Fry, and I want to create an opportunity for others to continue on the legacy his kind-hearted nature started.

For those of you who have never attended a grief group, it is everything like you see on TV and it is nothing like you see on TV. I missed the first few weeks of this group, but on my first day, I had to introduce myself and tell about the person I lost. I was hesitant to speak, my voice was quiet and fragile. I was uncomfortable; I didn’t want to be there. But, you see, Aaron and I had first crossed paths in the halls of our high school a few years prior. He knew the person I had lost, a beloved teacher. As I spoke, I looked at Aaron, and he smiled at me and nodded for me to keep going. I will never forget that silent sense of support, a smile that felt like 100 bear hugs. A face of reassurance that gave me the confidence to share my story.

The first meeting I attended had been created as a day to share music that reminded you of your lost loved one. Most everyone brought in a cell phone or a mix CD and shared a few songs. And then there was Aaron. He pulled out his guitar, and he began to sing. I have never felt such powerful emotions from a song. Aaron wrote this song, it was called “Undertow,” and he sang it with such hurt but also such hope. He sang a couple other songs, and I remember the anger he sang with. I could feel his pain and his sorrow. But Aaron didn’t live life as an angry, depressed man. In fact, he was just the opposite. Aaron greeted everyone with a smile, and he was friendly to strangers. He was easy-going, and he had a heart of gold.

For months after my experiences in grief group, I tried to write Aaron a note. I wanted him to know what a difference he made for me. He could have been so angry or bitter towards me… here I was grieving a loss of a teacher (she was so much more than that to me, but exteriorly, she was a teacher) while he was suffering the loss of his mother. I had never known the loss of a parent or sibling. But Aaron never made me feel judged… he just helped me heal.

I didn’t have the privilege of knowing Aaron as a close friend, and I will always regret not reaching out and getting to know him. However, his recent death has greatly rattled me. I have questioned why for days until I realized how unique our relationship was. We shared such precious moments within those walls of grief. We learned about stories and feelings that may have only been discussed inside those walls. Moments so personal that I cannot yet share them here. In so many ways, we shared our souls with each other. We trusted each other, and we simply grieved our great loss. From now on, I will always think of Aaron as my “soul friend,” because he not only shared his soul and listened to the secrets within my own, but he also was a man with a cherished soul. Aaron was truly special.

Aaron, these are the words I tried for so long to write to you. These are the thoughts I have kept tucked inside my heart for over two years now. I will forever be thankful for your gentle spirit and kind eyes… many days, you were the only reason I was able to sit through grief group. And through our experiences there, I started to find the healing I was so desperately searching for.

Forgive me if I mess up the words, but from my memory, these were a few of the lyrics to “Undertow.”

Wherever I am going… wherever I go, I’ll just call it home.

Aaron, thank you for teaching me, through my healing, that home is wherever I go. Home is all the pieces and people that have stitched together my soul… thank you for being one of those people.

Aaron, you will be missed. But I truly hope you are Home, and you will forever find peaceful rest.


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