The Coldest Day of the Year
December 12th, 2025
Today, love looked like: wearing a pair of one friend’s fleece-lined panty-hose while holding a hand-delivered latte from another.
This is how two of my closest friends showed up for me in my grief, the day of my Dad’s funeral.
It also looked like:
A friend and a nanny who both brought sticker books for my son to keep him occupied in a long service.
A sister and brother-in-law who drove two hours after a snowstorm just to be there.
A childhood best friend who walked up and didn’t say a word, but hugged me tight – and held me upright – as I collapsed into her with sobs. She didn’t need any words that day. Her face in the sea of other sad eyes was the exact presence and permission I needed to fall apart. We lived at each other’s houses in our young lives, our fathers were seconds for each other. Our hearts are so entwined – she felt my pain also.
A mother-in-law who was doing laundry at my house in the days after.
Two cousins who showed up voluntarily, and independently of one another, early morning, with salt and a plow to clear the church parking lot.
But I keep thinking about those tights and that coffee. How both things wrapped me in their warmth on the coldest day of the year – the day we put my Dad’s body in the snow-covered ground.
I keep thinking about how thankful I am that for two-and-a-half years, I had been investing in these relationships. Each Wednesday night I cleaned my home, prepped simple snacks, poured wine, and made space for our whole, messy selves. Each page read and discussed. Each minute in prayer. Each check-in text. Without ever imagining how all that would play out on a day like this. How these casual relationships have turned to sisterhood and only continue to deepen. And how it all started with a text: “Would you like to join a Summer bookclub on my back deck? Also, there’s wine.”
My Dad’s death had been nine years coming (since his dementia diagnosis), but still, it happened all at once. He was “fine” and then he wasn’t, and within 24 hours of being admitted for pneumonia for the second time in a month, we were using words like “comfort care” and “hospice” and “end-of-life”.
So, it wasn’t until the day before his funeral I realized I didn’t have anything appropriate to wear.
It had been cold, and snowing, since he went into the hospital Thanksgiving week. The day we were to bury him, all the weather gurus were predicting a blizzard. Part of my Dad’s service – his internment and military honors – would be graveside at the Veteran’s cemetery. I scoured my closet to find I didn’t have a single dark-colored, cold-weather dress to wear. The closest I had was a chiffon-thin, knee-length navy blue number from J Crew.
I remembered my friend, Alicia, had worn these fleece-lined tights under leather shorts one night last Winter, which had looked like dressy black pantyhose. We all loved them. She’d sent us the link where she purchased them at the time, but of course, I couldn’t get them overnight. So, I frantically text her, asking if I could borrow hers. And the next day, she drove an hour through half-plowed roads to get to the church 15 minutes early so I could slip them on under my dress.
That same morning, when we woke up, the café in my small hometown was unable to make coffee – a water boil advisory brought on by frozen pipes was to blame. Of all days, this was not one to be attempted without coffee. I text my friend, Lauren, in desperation, thirty seconds before she offered, and she was on her way with a latte from my favorite coffee shop in Cincinnati.
Both of these girls coming through for me with trivial-but-in-the-moment-felt-critical things, at the last minute, weather-be-damned… I felt carried, held, and loved.
These acts came after they had texted, prayed, sent food, come and sat with me at home the week my dad left us… And I am nearly unable to believe how fortunate I am have such sweet, present, tangible – and intangible – support.
This is not meant to be a slight on those who couldn’t show up that day. Or who showed up differently. We all have our own stuff and seasons. There will be times I will be able to show up in these ways for my friends also, and times I will not. I had many more friends and family whose hearts and prayers were with me that day, even as their circumstances kept them from being physically present. And that matters too.
It takes all of us, doing all the things, to carry someone through.
It’s important to note: As much as we wish it did, and as much as mainstream sitcoms would lead us to believe, love like this doesn’t just materialize.
It takes work. It takes showing up for each other, week after week, year after year in the everyday-ness. It takes intentional planning and commitment to spend time together regularly. It takes humble apologies and conflict resolution when misunderstandings inevitably happen. It takes endless amounts of grace. It takes hours on your knees praying for one another. But all that effort is well worth the return on the investment. And best part is, the investment is part of the reward also.
Plus, there’s wine!