By Greg Gillum

This year, the word Eltern has taken on a different meaning for me.

My mother died many years ago, and in March my father, Ralph, died at the age of 89. In August, I returned to Kentucky to place his ashes beside my mother’s grave. Standing there, I realized something both painful but strangely comforting: for the first time in my life, neither of my parents was living in this world.

And yet, they have not simply disappeared from my life.

As children, we first encounter the world largely through our parents. From them we learn language, traditions, values, habits—and faith. We also eventually discover that our parents are imperfect human beings, just as we are. Growing older sometimes means seeing them more clearly: appreciating their gifts, forgiving their failures, and recognizing how much of them continues within us.

My father spent most of his working life as a school guidance counselor in Michigan. His work was essentially about listening to people. After his death have I reflected on how much of that vocation became part of me – something positive they gave me. I later became a hospital chaplain, where listening was also at the heart of my ministry. Perhaps our parents teach us even when neither they nor we realize a lesson is being taught.

Christmas offers a particularly tender image of parenthood. At the center of the story is not an abstract theological idea but a child: Jesus, born into the care of Mary and Joseph. Luke tells us that after the shepherds departed, “Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart” (Luke 2:19).

Parents spend a lifetime doing something similar—treasuring moments, worrying, hoping, remembering, and eventually letting their children go.

For those of us whose parents have died, Christmas can make their absence especially noticeable. An empty chair, an old ornament, a familiar recipe or Christmas song can suddenly open a door to memory.

Christian faith does not ask us to close that door. We remember. We grieve. We give thanks.

And perhaps we discover that those who first taught us how to live continue, in ways both ordinary and mysterious, to accompany us on the journey. This is one of the lasting gifts they give us.