I was certain observing Christmas, 11 months after the death of my children's father, would be a mistake.
Sometimes celebration feels like sacrilege. How can we raise a glass or hoist a pavlova after a loved one's death, after the earthquake, the accident, the election?
A friend in Christchurch said for Christmas, she wanted not only a respite from tremors, but also a resolution for "our poor cathedral".
Another friend in the States is "figuring out how life looks for me without my mom here".
Sometimes, resolution for the dilemma of how to forge ahead after loss is to toss the turkey and traditions out the window.
Growing up in Ohio, US, I looked forward each year to spending Christmas Eve near Cleveland with my father's family: five aunts and uncles, plus cousins. I remember one year, around the same age my daughter is today, proclaiming: "Each Christmas just gets better!" An aunt cautioned things could change.
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After I married, I'd cry happy tears while unpacking Christmas tree decorations: the one Sean and I got for our wedding; another I bought while pregnant with our first child; the impossibly small hand and footprints of our wee ones.
We'd hang these souvenirs from a tree we cut ourselves each year at a farm. Even today, the scent of fresh pine is like a time machine.
It's not traditions that make the holidays joyful; it's the people we love who infuse Christmas with meaning. Sean was the tender heart of our family, the man who bathed the babies and read them stories at bedtime. His death, at age 48, was unexpected.
I would have skipped Christmas in 2010 if not for my children, then ages 5 and 6. We were visiting Sydney for the first time as part of an escape-the-world tour when an Aussie I'd met through a friend invited us to Christmas Eve Mass. The kids and I giggled through the live nativity scene featuring a donkey and a dog.
My new friend, Vanessa, invited us to Christmas with her family the next day.
The large dining table had more than enough room to add our party of three. The family had set an additional place.
We'd hang these souvenirs from a tree we cut ourselves each year at a farm. Even today, the scent of fresh pine is like a time machine.
One of them explained: "We're not particularly religious, but we always leave an extra seat for Jesus." Or the stranger. Or us.
I thought we would stay for two hours. We lingered for eight. Christmas was special not for what we got, but because of what we shared. It was magic because I had shed expectations with each layer of winter clothing left behind.
Kiwi Christmases have been a relief for what they lack - old memories.
It's easy for this Northern Hemisphere native to fixate on sand in crevices and sunshine on skin, rather than focus on who's not home for the holidays. I've remarried and I'm grateful for my Antipodean guide to summer holidays, someone with whom Miss 12 and Master 11 have already made memories.
My dad and step-mom spent their first Down Under Christmas with us last year. We loved showing them the holidays, Kiwi-style.
Christmas morning, Dad wheeled out a new bicycle for my son, who was overjoyed. He presented a second bicycle - to me. I burst into happy tears because I had determined long ago Christmas held no pleasant surprises for adults - just ghosts, extra work and bills.
This year will be our first holiday in America since Sean died. Our newly formed party of four will fly to the States to embrace friends and family and to celebrate my father's 70th birthday.
I'm trying really hard to replace expectations with gratitude for the fact both my parents are alive and well.
Maybe you, too, are revisiting ghosts of Christmases Past. Maybe it's been a year of "firsts" after a death or diagnosis. Maybe you don't much feel like celebrating. One of my widow friends said we honour the loves we've lost by making the most of the lives we have.
My wish for you is peace, a happy surprise and failing that, a ticket to somewhere far away.
