There are not many “pure” celebrations in this world, not many occasions in which we are only festive, only rejoicing, only merry. Especially as our lives go on, especially as the years and decades pass, we accumulate more to mourn, more to grieve, more to lament. Eventually every joy is tempered by at least some measure of grief, every new pleasure wistful about some memory of pain. Few celebrate their 40th birthday with the abandon of their 10th, their 50th anniversary with the unadulterated joy of their 1st. Though life brings many pleasures, it also brings many pains.
As the holidays draw near, many feel sorrow approaching in lockstep with joy. The same storm that brings much-needed rain to the fields also threatens to wash out the picnic and the parade. And just so, as the Christmas season comes, many feel the rush that comes with giving gifts and enjoying feasts and marking celebrations, but at the same time the ache that comes when they hang fewer stockings than in years past, when they set fewer places round the table, when they see a face missing from the family photographs. Though they truly do celebrate, there is
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