The Empty Sit

The church glowed with warmth that Christmas Eve, though I felt none of it. Candles burned in every window, their flames swaying gently, casting golden halos against the stone walls. Garlands of pine and red ribbon wrapped around wooden beams, filling the air with a fragrance that should have stirred comfort. Families shuffled into pews, their whispers and laughter like a soft tide, rising and falling, mingling with the steady hum of the organ. Children clutched programs for the nativity play, their parents straightening crooked halos and shepherd staffs.

The whole sanctuary seemed alive with joy, with anticipation.

But not for me.

I slipped into a pew at the far back, leaving the seat beside me untouched. I couldn't bear to fill it, not tonight, not ever again. The wood felt cold beneath me, harder than I remembered. My coat, frayed at the sleeves, was pulled tight across my chest though the building was warm. I clasped my hands together, forcing them still, though every part of me trembled inside.

"I don’t belong here," I whispered, the words escaping before I could swallow them back.

No one turned, not really. An usher paused in the aisle, hesitating for a heartbeat before moving on. A child's eyes lingered on me until his mother gently tugged him forward. I was invisible and yet exposed all at once, a shadow sitting where light refused to touch.

The first hymn rose, voices swelling as the congregation stood. "O Come, All Ye Faithful." Around me, the sound was strong, steady, lifting toward the rafters, but my lips stayed still. The words caught in my throat, buried beneath a grief too heavy to carry into song.

My eyes drifted to the doorway every time it creaked open, though I knew she would not walk through it. Still, some foolish part of me hoped. Every silhouette in the threshold brought a flicker of life to my chest before it was crushed again.

I pressed a hand inside my coat, fingers finding the worn edges of the photograph I had carried for months. Its corners had softened from being touched too often, its colors faded from the press of my thumb. I didn't need to pull it out yet. Just feeling it there was enough to keep me upright.

The children's play began. Their voices were high and eager, their steps clumsy. Shepherds dropped their staffs, wise men stumbled over lines, Mary rocked the doll with more curiosity than reverence. The congregation chuckled softly, indulgent in their joy. For a moment, I almost smiled. Almost.

But then the ache rushed back, fiercer, sharper. She had loved this play. She would have been here early, sitting beside me, eyes sparkling with every missed cue, whispering little comments only I could hear. She had a way of seeing holiness in imperfection, of finding beauty in the crookedness of life. Without her, the stage looked dimmer, the laughter thinner.

I clenched the photograph tighter.

When the lights dimmed for the candlelit portion, the sanctuary transformed. A single flame passed from hand to hand until the church shimmered with hundreds of small lights, fragile yet defiant against the darkness. I watched them flicker, trembling but enduring.

Someone offered me their flame. I shook my head. My candle remained unlit. I didn't deserve the light, not when my heart felt carved from shadows. Holding a flame felt like a lie.

The pastor began to speak, his voice steady, warm, carrying through the sanctuary. He spoke of a child born into darkness, a Savior who came for the brokenhearted, for the weary, for those carrying burdens too heavy to name.

His words pierced me. I bowed my head, gripping the pew in front of me, my forehead nearly touching the wood. I didn't want to cry here. I didn't want to be seen. Yet my shoulders trembled, and I knew anyone watching could see it. I thought about leaving, slipping into the night unnoticed.

But something kept me rooted.

Maybe it was the weight of memory. Maybe it was the photograph pressed against my chest. Maybe it was her.

When the choir began "Silent Night," I finally drew out the picture. My hands shook as I opened it to the dim candlelight. Her face looked back at me, smiling, eyes alive with mischief and kindness. My thumb brushed her cheek again and again, as if I could keep her from fading.

A tear slipped down, landing on the paper. I didn't wipe it away. The empty seat beside me wasn't an accident. It was hers. It would always be hers.

The congregation sang, "Sleep in heavenly peace." My lips did not move, but I listened, letting the words wash over me. Maybe I wasn't ready to sing. Maybe I never would be. But for the first time in months, I let someone else carry the song for me.

The service ended. Families rose, gathering coats and children, exchanging hugs and goodbyes. The air buzzed with cheer, with plans for tomorrow morning. I stayed seated, unable to move, unwilling to disturb the vigil I had kept.

Someone walked past me, pausing just briefly enough to whisper, "Merry Christmas." Their voice was gentle, almost reverent.

I lifted my head, met their eyes. For a moment, the world blurred through my tears, but I managed a small nod.

That was enough.

When I finally rose and stepped into the cold December night, snowflakes drifted from the sky, catching in my hair, melting against my coat. The air stung my cheeks, but I breathed it in deeply. Above, the stars shone sharp and clear, as if reminding me that even in darkness, there was light if I chose to see it.

The street outside the church was quiet, lined with glowing windows and wreaths on doors. Families were gathering, laughter spilling into the night. I walked slowly, each step heavy but deliberate. The photograph was still clutched in my hand.

I stopped beneath a lamppost, the light falling soft and steady. I looked again at her face, at the life frozen in those fading lines. For months, the sight of it had torn me open. Tonight, it still hurt, but differently. The pain was sharp, yes, but no longer hollow. Her memory wasn't just loss. It was presence. It was love still lingering, love that refused to be extinguished.

The seat beside me had been empty, but she had been there. In the laughter of children, in the glow of candles, in the trembling notes of a hymn. Maybe not the way I longed for, but enough.

I tucked the photograph back inside my coat and whispered into the night, "Merry Christmas."

The words hung in the cold air, fragile and trembling, but real. And for the first time since she had gone, I believed I might belong —not because the pain was gone, but because even with it, I had chosen to come.