As Christmas letters go ...

This one is too grim, too soon, and yet, I pray, not too hopeful

The last picture I have of all six together in 2022 — Judith, Jocelyn, Julia, Jenelle, Jillian, and Jeffrey.

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As you can imagine, we’re all still reeling and in pain from the loss of our oldest daughter, Jocelyn Nydam Redfern, on June 23. We’re talking about her continually, remembering her beautiful smile and those tearful, happy moments. You’ve all been so kind, and we did earnestly hear and willingly grieve with you in our shared shock when you cried with us—that phone call and news you dread to speak about and don’t want to swallow. Joanne and I have lost focus on so many fronts, and we apologize for our forgetfulness and distracted attempts to keep up and put on a good face. Grief appears to have no salve, only a pasty modicum of applied steadiness as we drag ourselves forward and away from the shattering words of her death. Five months is not enough yet to arrest our sorrow and see our daughter wandering in her new home, adjusting to everlasting digs in Heaven’s courtyards, which no one can adequately describe. How could she not be happy there, though? And that is sometimes enough to trudge into the kitchen and do the dishes, lift our chins and chat with the grandkids, then check in on Jocelyn’s boys, Zeke and Chi, amazing blossoming men, mirrors of our daughter’s face and mind and gestures. They look back at us, quizzical at our yearning stares. And dear Xander has been loving us beyond protocols and custom. Jocelyn picked a gem, and he also knew the treasure she was. Pray fervently, we ask, for the three of them. We talk with Jeff, Jill, Julia (“Now there are five,” she said), Judy, and Jenelle more tenderly than we ever did and reach across long distances with a familiarity that heals. Still, long moments pass with our heads bowed in disbelief. This is how we mend, I suppose, tethered by the indwelled Spirit of God who weeps with us. He holds our Josie and whispers to her what we pray for and how we are learning patience before we can see her again. Christmas and its Advent flicker rather than shine, but slivers of glee are good, tinsel and holy services weave our bodies and minds into gratitude and service. We’ve been burning fires as the Colorado winter wiggles between freezing and chilly wind, a crematory practice, blazing the dead pines and aspens and elms to heat our house. Every act has a foreboding between the hugs and conversations. These temporary encounters are mist and smoke, reminding us that the next realm and its delights are worthy hopes to hold onto. Sacrificing our fallen wood to stay warm may sound crass, but it’s a sacred thing to do—the fallen rise again in ash and outstretched embers. There is comfort in the fact that God built this enterprise of wonders without death in mind and then chose to join us 2,000+ years ago after we broke it, willingly falling himself. His rising again is what we grasp for our daughter, too. A promise we believe will be kept. Not everyone accepts this fabulous, mysterious answer to dying readily, so we witness and testify, praying as our heads bow, that grace comes to us all.

Love you all,
John and Joanne Pearring
Christmas, 2024