Beyond the Horizon
There’s something about this time of year that feels sacred, as if the air itself holds memory. And right there, in the stillness of a December morning moment, I felt him. My Dad. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a soft, familiar presence, the kind that settles into your heart before you even realize it’s arrived.
This December marks eight years since he passed, and every Christmas season since has carried a tender mix of warmth and ache. The holidays have a beautiful way of awakening our deepest memories: the traditions, the laughter, the familiar scents and songs, while also stirring the quiet longing for the people we wish we could hug just one more time.
Grief doesn’t vanish during the holidays. If anything, December makes it shimmer. But I’ve learned that where grief shows up, love shows up too.
In the early months after losing my Dad, I felt his absence in every room, every tradition, and every story we used to share. But as the years have unfolded, something unexpected happened, our relationship didn’t end, it simply changed shape.
I talk to him now in ways I never used to. Quietly. Internally. Sometimes standing at the sink, driving in the car, or folding laundry. Sometimes I feel him instantly, a warmth in my chest, a sense of peace, a moment of clarity that feels unmistakably him. Other times? Nothing.
And usually, if I’m honest, it’s because I’m not paying attention. I’m rushing, distracted, and moving through life too quickly to notice the soft, subtle ways he shows up.
But when I remember to ask…
When I slow down just enough…
When I whisper, “Dad, will you send me a sign?”
He does. Every single time.
Sometimes it’s tender, a cardinal on a branch when I’m feeling low. A big, green John Deere tractor crossing my path when I’m thinking of him. Sometimes it’s sweet like a song he loved playing in the grocery store. And sometimes, it’s downright funny, the kind of wink-from-the-universe moment that makes me laugh out loud and say, “Okay, Dad, I see you.”
And it’s the unexpected ones I love the most. The signs that slip into ordinary moments and turn them into something sacred.
That’s when I remember that love doesn’t stop just because a life ends. Love expands. It travels. It finds us. And in that remembering, grief softens. It doesn’t disappear, but it becomes something we can hold with both hands: one holding sorrow for what was, the other holding gratitude for what still is. And I think that’s the true miracle of December, it reminds us that love lives on, not just in the memories we revisit, but in the moments that visit us.
Christmas was always a season my Dad loved, and I feel him a lot this time of year, in the glow of the lights, the scent of pine, the hush of snowfall, the laughter of family gathered around the table.
So this December, I’m choosing to honor him in a way that feels joyful and true:
I light a candle for him.
I ask for his signs.
I smile at the memories, even the ones that make my eyes well up.
I give thanks for the gift of being his daughter.
Because Christmas isn’t just about what we celebrate, it’s about who we carry with us into the celebration. And my Dad? He walks with me still. Just differently now.
If this Christmas season feels tender for you too, whether you’re missing a parent, a partner, a sibling, or a friend, let yourself feel it. Let the lights soften your heart. Let the music warm you, and let the ache and the gratitude sit beside each other.
Ask for a sign.
Slow down long enough to see it.
Honor your loved one not just in tears, but in joy, in memory, and in the way you carry their love forward.
Because those we miss during the holidays never really leave us… they simply love us from a place just beyond the horizon. And their love, especially in December, still finds its way to us.
xo, Sheryl
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