Missing the Glue

As the holidays creep closer each year, I feel a quiet ache—one that doesn’t come from shopping lists, overflowing calendars, or even the empty chair at the table. It comes from the absence of the two people who once held our entire family together: my parents.

When Mama and Daddy were alive, holidays weren’t complicated. There was never any question about where we’d go. We always knew. Their home—no matter how small or how crowded—was the gathering place. You didn’t even need an invitation. You just showed up, and you were welcomed. It didn’t matter if you came for lunch, dinner, or a quick hello. They were always glad to see you.

I can still picture it: cousins shoulder to shoulder, kids sitting cross-legged on the floor with plates balanced awkwardly in their laps, siblings talking over one another, laughter echoing off the walls. Someone always told an old story, someone always burned the rolls, someone always got their feelings hurt—and still, somehow, we were together. That house may have been tiny, but it never felt too small for love.

Now, with my parents gone, I’m realizing that it wasn’t the food or the decorations or even the traditions that made holidays special. It was them. They were the glue—the strong, invisible, unspoken force that kept us coming back, kept us connected, kept us family.

These days, everyone has their own plans, their own quiet celebrations, their own little bubble. No one is to blame; it’s just life. But sometimes, even surrounded by people I love, I feel like a wobbly chair missing a leg—like I’m longing for that strong, familiar glue to hold us together again.

I miss being able to just pop in at my parents’ house, no appointment needed, no text message asking, “Are you home?” They were always there, arms open, lights on, ready to listen or just sit with you while you ate leftovers at the kitchen counter. They didn’t need a reason to be glad you came.

That kind of unconditional welcome is rare. And once it’s gone, you feel the empty space it leaves behind.

Regret is a quiet thing—it doesn’t scream, but it lingers. There are conversations we can’t go back and finish, moments we can’t recreate, apologies that never got spoken. You learn, in time, that you can’t fix what’s past. You can only carry it, learn from it, and try to love better moving forward.

I guess that’s what I’m trying to do. I can’t bring back Mama or Daddy, and I can’t make the family gather the way we once did. But I can hold onto what they taught us: that love doesn’t need perfection, that a small house can hold a big family, and that a warm welcome is one of the greatest gifts you can give.

Maybe it’s our turn now. Maybe we become the glue.

Until then, I’ll keep remembering the way it felt to walk into that familiar house—crowded, noisy, sometimes chaotic, but always full of love. And I’ll keep missing them, not just because they were my parents, but because they showed us what family really looks like when everyone shows up.

Dear Lord,

Thank You for the precious gift of family and for the memories that time cannot erase. Thank You for the parents who shaped us, taught us, and loved us well. Help us carry forward their legacy of open doors, warm welcomes, and unconditional love.

When grief tugs at our hearts and change feels heavy, remind us that You are the One who holds every family together. Teach us to love generously, forgive quickly, and gather joyfully, even when things aren’t the way they used to be.

Give us the courage to become the glue—to offer the same comfort, acceptance, and unity that once held us close.

In Jesus’ name we pray. Amen.

Random musings © Bonnie Annis