⚠️ Hope in the Midst of Mourning

   

The holiday season often brings with it a bittersweet mix of joy and sorrow. For many, it is a time of celebration, family gatherings, and cherished traditions. But for those who are grieving, it can be a stark reminder of what—or who—is missing. 

This Christmas, I find myself reflecting on the empty spaces left behind by loss, and yet, I also find myself clinging to the hope that sustains us even in the darkest moments.  

Recently, I read a deeply moving piece by my cousin, Dr. Efraín Velázquez, titled "An Empty Chair at a Table of Hope." In it, he shared his raw and vulnerable journey through grief after the loss of his son. His words resonated deeply with me because they echo the same tension I feel this season—the ache of absence and the unexplainable peace that comes from faith.  

Dr.  Velázquez described a moment when his family went out to eat for the first time after their loss. When asked how many seats they needed, he hesitated: “Six.” Then, painfully, “No… five.” That empty chair at their table became more than just a missing seat; it was a symbol of the void left behind by his son’s absence. And yet, in that emptiness, Dr. Velázquez found something unexpected: hope.  

The Empty Chair  

Is this your first Christmas with an empty chair at your table? Perhaps you’ve lost a parent, a sibling, a spouse, or even a child. The holidays have a way of amplifying grief—every tradition feels incomplete without them, every memory tinged with both love and longing. As Efraín so beautifully wrote:  

 “Empty chairs haunt us as symbols of loss… But those empty chairs that tormented me have become symbols of promise and hope.”  

How can an empty chair—a glaring reminder of absence—become a symbol of hope? It seems paradoxical, but this is the mystery of faith. In our deepest pain, we often encounter God most profoundly. As C.S. Lewis once said, “Pain is God’s megaphone.” It forces us to confront our fragility and opens our hearts to the possibility of divine comfort.  

Faith in the Midst of Grief  

This Christmas marks another year where I’ve had to grapple with my own losses. Like Efraín standing before his son’s lifeless body, I’ve found myself in moments where words fail and faith feels fragile. I’ve stood at hospital bedsides and gravesides, pleading silently for miracles that didn’t come in the way I hoped. And yet, in those moments of despair, I’ve also experienced an inexplicable peace—a peace that doesn’t erase the pain but sustains me through it.  

Dr. Velázquez shared how he whispered to his son’s still body, “Child, get up,” only to be met with silence. Yet even in that silence, he felt God’s presence:  

 “A different miracle happened instead. I was filled with peace… Now more than ever, I lack enough faith to stop believing and hoping.”  

This resonates deeply with my own experiences as a chaplain and as someone who has walked through valleys of grief. There have been times when all I could do was groan inwardly before God—no words, no eloquent prayers—just raw pain laid bare before Him. And yet Scripture reminds us in Romans 8:26:  

“Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness. For we do not know what to pray for as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words.” 

Even when we cannot articulate our pain or find answers to our questions, God hears us. He meets us in our brokenness and offers us His presence—a presence that transforms even an empty chair into a symbol of eternal hope.

Hope Amid Chaos  

This season reminds us that Christianity does not promise a life free from suffering or loss. The message of Christmas—the birth of Christ in a humble manger—was never about avoiding pain but about finding hope within it. The shadow of the cross loomed over that manger from the very beginning, yet so did the promise of resurrection and redemption.

Efraín’s reflections remind us that while death is inevitable, it does not have the final word:  

“The shadow of a cross overcast the manger, but a Star shone from heaven, reassuring eternal Hope… The grave does not have the last word.” 

For those mourning this Christmas season, this truth can be both challenging and comforting. We may not understand why we endure such profound losses or why some prayers seem unanswered. But as Efraín so powerfully wrote:  

“Hope is not logical… It just is.” 

It is this illogical hope that allows us to keep going—to believe that one day those empty chairs will no longer be empty because death will be defeated once and for all (1 Corinthians 15:54-57).  

An Invitation to Hope  

This Christmas, I want to extend an invitation inspired by Efraín’s words: Keep an empty chair at your table—not just as a reminder of who is missing but as a symbol of hope for what is to come. Let it represent both your grief and your faith—the tension between sorrow and joy that defines so much of life.

And while you’re at it, invite others to your table as well. Open your heart and home to those who may also be grieving or feeling alone this season. There is healing in community and comfort in shared stories.

As Dr. Velázquez wrote:  

“At our table of dialogue faith could be absent or fragile… But when inviting others to fill the empty chairs at this time, always leave one more vacant.”  

A Closing Reflection  

This Christmas may look different for many of us—quieter, more reflective—but perhaps that’s where its true beauty lies. In the stillness and simplicity, we can hear God’s gentle whisper reminding us that we are not alone.

To anyone mourning this season: Your tears are seen; your pain is valid; your questions are heard. And yet there is hope—a hope born in a manger over 2,000 years ago that continues to shine brightly today.

May you find comfort in knowing that even in your silence or tears, God hears your heart. And may this Christmas bring you moments of peace amid your grief and glimpses of joy amid your sorrow.

From my heart—and my table—to yours: Merry Christmas.

Please visit Adventist Review for complete article by Dr. Efraín Velasquez 

https://adventistreview.org/theology/devotionals/an-empty-chair-at-a-table-of-hope/