My Dad's Christmas Tradition Was The Stuff Of Legend. Then Tragedy Struck.

“Change the clocks,” Dad whispered to my brother and me before we loaded into the truck. It was Christmas Eve, and we were making our way home after spending the day with Mom’s side of the family.

Each year, Mom only ever wanted one thing for Christmas: to go to midnight Mass. And each year, after our bellies were full of food and laughter from another visit with our relatives, she’d check the time, determined to make it to church.

Instead, Dad would slow the truck, joking that the engine was sipping fumes, or my brother and I would point at Christmas lights glittering in the far distance and ask to drive by them. We were always distracting, stalling, working as a team to delay our arrival. But it was the year that Dad asked my brother and I to rush inside and turn the clocks ahead an hour while he and mom backed the car into the garage that we were at our most conniving. For years we kept our delicious secret, never telling her the lengths of our scheming, but she eventually resigned herself to the fact that she was outnumbered, and that we would never make it to Mass.

Every Christmas Eve and Christmas Day would be spent swirling in the company of extended family, and we were never really able to slow down or enjoy the holidays together, just the four of us. So when we’d get home from wherever we’d been, the thick velvet of a Christmas Eve night settling in, we instead wanted to take time to celebrate at home.

Those nights, we’d sit by the fireplace, pour drinks, share stories and soak up the joy of being with one another. The minutes would turn into hours, and we usually ended up putting ourselves to bed just shy of night giving way to daybreak.

As we sat there, the radio would play in the background, with Christmas music floating softly over the pops of fire. One year, Handel’s “Messiah” — or, as many people refer to it, “Hallelujah” — broke over the speakers.

Dad sat up, eyes bright, and exclaimed: “I love this song! Let’s put this on the outside speakers and toast on the deck!” Spurred by his excitement, we grabbed our glasses and bundled in our coats. We noticed it was just before midnight, meaning we’d get to officially ring in Christmas as the song played.

Dad notched the volume as high as it would go, and the “hallelujah!” roared down the canal behind our house and across our neighbors’ yards. We watched as one by one their lights flicked on, puzzled faces peering out from behind their curtains at our family clinking glasses and loudly singing.

The moment buoyed us, and we knew that we had experienced something special. So, the next year, we did it again — this time with neighbors joining us, and then again and again as more people stopped by when they heard about our new tradition. It became its own celebration — friends and family welcoming Christmas together. We added signature drinks and goofy Santa hats, and it was nicknamed the “Hall-lelujah” in honor of my family’s last name.

And so it went for years — continuing to grow in size and jubilation — until Dad got sick.

On Christmas Eve 2014, we didn’t get together with our extended family — Dad barely had enough strength to visit or even stay awake. Instead, the four of us gathered around the hearth, the gas wheezing, as he lay in front of the fire to warm himself. When he retired early, my mom, my brother and I solemnly toasted one another at midnight.

The next morning, we took Dad to the hospital and spent Christmas there, hunched in rigid, wooden seats, as “A Christmas Story” played on a loop over the TVs and Dad drifted in and out of consciousness. When he was released days later, we finally celebrated what would be his last Christmas.

Dad had a boundless presence and his quick wit always at the ready with a joke. It was this silly, relentless humor that shaped our incredible relationship while I was growing up. When I’d return home to visit after moving away, I’d announce myself by bursting in the door and shouting, “Your favorite child is home!” Every time, he’d peer around the corner with a boyish grin, quipping, “But I don’t see your brother!”

His playful nature was always most acutely on display during the holidays. There’s nothing Dad loved more than being with the people he loved and gently teasing them, like my great-aunt, who finally started giving him a holiday-themed sippy cup of whiskey each year after he once joked that only the kids got presents.

When he couldn’t fully enjoy what would end up being his last Christmas — or the Thanksgiving and Easter that came before it — it unnerved him. Even as we blared Handel’s “Messiah” that final year when he came home from the hospital, he only limply smiled in return.

It was just a few months later, in May 2015, when Dad left us.

When Christmas came that year, we struggled to find joy in our usual traditions. I decided I wanted to celebrate, Mom didn’t and my brother was unsure about how he felt. We eventually settled for a subdued Hall-lelujah on the deck — just the three of us.

But standing where we’d held so many former Hall-lelujahs, we realized we couldn’t punish something Dad loved so much. It felt like losing another part of him, which only created more room for the grief to fill.

So, the Hall-lelujah grew — just as it had before. We once again welcomed family, friends, and friends of friends. We packed our patio with bodies and love and memories — and joy poured into the space inside of us where ache and longing may have otherwise taken hold. Some joined the celebration from their corners of the world if they couldn’t be with us in person. It is now, without question, our favorite tradition and something we look forward to every year, in huge part because when we toast Christmas, we’re also toasting Dad — and keeping his memory alive.

When you’re steeped in grief, the things you love can feel the most threatening. The loss feels bigger, more profound on certain days — not just the holidays, but birthdays, anniversaries, and other mileposts that mark our years. When we lost Dad, I wasn’t sure how we would keep going in those moments, especially at Christmas. But over time, we’ve found ways to honor him on these days, and it fills our hearts in return. It turns out that sometimes doing the thing you’re afraid will hurt the most actually can do the opposite: It can help you heal.

Now, when we stand out on our patio on Christmas Eve and the music roars into the night, a new kind of warmth comforts us in the cold because, in his way, Dad is still there. We carry him forward with us every year, and our hearts beat a little stronger as we embrace not just the Christmas spirit, but his spirit too.

Erin Hall is a writer currently living in Chicago, Illinois. She is a communications professional by trade, and her creative writing has been published by Deep Wild Journal, Detroit Metro Times, HuffPost, Multiplicity Magazine, and TodayShow.com, as well as in “Chicken Soup for the Soul: Believe in Angels.” You can find her on X (formerly Twitter) at @ErinHall802 .

Do you have a compelling personal story you’d like to see published on HuffPost? Find out what we’re looking for here  and send us a pitch .