It may seem strange to think about death during Christmas, a time celebrating the birth of the Lord, championing hope and light and promise. But for many people, as I’ve come to realize, the subject is unavoidable.

For the families and friends of those recently killed or wounded in Berlin, Christmas suddenly doesn’t make as much sense. The traditions may seem empty, the music somehow silent without the same number of voices singing along. Smiles may be genuine but they are shaky, remembering that some gifts, bought weeks in advance, now have no one to open them.

For those who’ve lost someone in the past year due to gun violence — including officers killed in the line of duty and civilians killed in the line of life — this December marks the first Christmas without them. This December is the first one without their smile, without their bear hugs or bad jokes or their quiet ability to listen and understand. It is, I imagine, unbelievable.

For others still, this isn’t the first Christmas that hurts. At the end of every year, scars that seem to be healing are ripped open once again by memories so poignant they seem to have been made yesterday.

The parents of the children killed in the Sandy Hook Elementary School shootings — just one example of many — feel the gaping hole left by their child’s absence whether the media is documenting it or not. They count, I’m sure, the birthdays and the presents and the little moments that should have happened but now are left only to wild, black-and-white images spinning relentlessly in their imaginations.

But of course, as people say, it gets easier. Of course it gets easier to compose yourself, to gain control of your impulses after years of grief have plagued you, have taken over your body at the most inopportune moments…

There’s a song playing in the waiting room at the doctor’s office. Maybe your wife used to hum it under her breath sometimes when she came home from work. It wasn’t all the time, only once in a while, but you can see her right now, you can see her coming through the kitchen door and kicking off her shoes, tossing the car keys on the counter and twirling once before entering the living room, humming breathlessly, unevenly — and suddenly the fact that it’s all in your head is excruciating.

You hear your name called and you can breathe for a moment, but then you realize it’s not her voice. It’s just the receptionist.

Or when people ask if you have any kids. Yes, you might say, I have a daughter. Four years ago, her favorite color was sky blue and she was afraid of Big Bird and she liked to try staying up all night on Christmas Eve to catch a glimpse of Santa. She always woke up at seven the next morning, wondering how she missed him.

And now? they ask you. Now… you turn on her nightlight before Christmas and you try to smile at clear blue skies even though they're the ones that took her away.

And that, I guess, is what they don’t tell you. The split ends of broken traditions can rejoin eventually, smiles can form faster and faster, and words can be heavy or hollow depending on the day. But it — it — doesn’t get any easier.

So, to everyone who lost someone this year or before: Though I don’t deserve to be, I am sorry.

I’m praying for you, and I wish you a restful Christmas season.