In the days leading up to Christmas, we often hear talk of "The first Christmas without..." and of "The empty chair", that place once occupied by a loved one and which now seems to highlight their absence more strongly than ever.

These expressions sum up the pain of those facing the holidays for the first time without the presence of a loved one. And it's true: that first Christmas can be very hard, but those of us who accompany people through the grieving process know that sometimes it's not the first that's the hardest... but the second, the third, or even beyond.

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Those around us may forget, but our hearts do not. Grief does not follow the calendar; it is not overcome by turning the page. It is walked through, integrated, transformed.

Pain and faith are not mutually exclusive

As believers, we know that crying does not contradict hope. Jesus himself wept at the tomb of his friend Lazarus, even though he knew he would raise him from the dead. In those tears we see the love of a God who does not ignore human pain, but accompanies it.

[destacate]Our consolation does not come from denying death, but from knowing that it does not have the last word[/destacate]Christ's consolation does not take away our tears, it fills them with meaning. Our consolation does not come from denying death, but from knowing that it does not have the last word. But that certainty does not spare us the path of pain.

Sometimes, in our eagerness to console, we say things that hurt more than they help: ‘You have to be strong,’ ‘He wouldn't want to see you like this,’ ‘You should be over it by now.’ With good intentions, we try to close a wound that still needs to breathe.

But true accompaniment is not about covering up pain, but about offering a safe space for it to be expressed. In many cases, the best ministry is that of silence and presence: being there, listening, remembering together.

Talking about the loved one: a necessity, not a weakness

One of the most important—and least understood—things is that people in mourning need to talk about their loved one. To remember their voice, their gestures, their laughter. To tell a story. To name them.

This is not a sign of weakness or lack of faith, but a way of keeping the bond alive through love and memory. When someone remembers, they are not ‘stuck’ in the past: they are integrating their history, learning to live with a transformed presence.

Therefore, Christian accompaniment means not silencing those who want to talk. Listen without interrupting. Do not change the subject. Do not ‘correct’ the pain with pious phrases.

[destacate]Memory is a form of love, and love never dies[/destacate]Sometimes, the most healing thing is simply to say, ‘Tell me more about him’ or ‘How beautiful what you share, thank you for remembering it with me.’

In grief, the silence that listens is worth more than the words that try to fix the irreparable. It is not about filling the void, but about not leaving the person who inhabits it alone.

We can also learn to remember together, mentioning those who have departed with gratitude and giving thanks for their lives and their witness. Memory is a form of love, and love never dies.

That is why we say that grief is not overcome, it is integrated. And faith teaches us that the love that was once shared does not disappear: it is transformed.

Hope that does not cancel out pain

At Christmas we celebrate the God who became man and dwelt among us. He did not come to a perfect world, but to a wounded one, full of loss. In the manger, God became present in human frailty. And since then, no tear is shed alone.

When we look at that empty chair, we may feel pain, yes, but also gratitude for the love we have experienced and hope for the promise of reunion. Faith does not erase absence, but it illuminates the path to continue loving in the midst of it.

Faith, as Miguel Lara says, does not take away the pain now, but it helps you to know that one day it will pass.

This Christmas, may the God of comfort help us to accompany with tenderness, to listen without haste, and to remember with love. Because in Christ, no empty chair is completely empty: it is inhabited by His presence, by memory, and by hope.

Lourdes Otero is a journalist and member of the Grief and Suicide Working Group of the Spanish Evangelical Alliance.

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