It took the Isle of Lewis a hundred years before it was able to publicly acknowledge the loss of HMY ‘Iolaire’ on the first day of 1919. Things that are true of us individually also tend to be true of communities, so I think I understand a little about the stopper we sometimes place to hold at bay such grief as cannot be borne all at once.

Now that the bottle has been opened, though, we will not stop remembering. The ‘Iolaire’ has been written about, broadcast about and memorialised in a myriad of – as far as I can tell – uniformly tasteful ways. Those doing these things are, after all, a part of the story themselves. They are almost always of this community, and so theirs are the gentlest hands to tend a wound in which they share. 

One of the most notable aspects of the post-centenary period for me has been the freedom to mention the ‘Iolaire’. For a long enough time, it was rarely spoken of, and never at all by those who had survived its wreckage. I was maybe eight or nine years old when my mother told me about it and I experienced a sensation I was to have many times in relation to our own history as islanders: why is this not known? The question was, more properly: why is this  not taught as history?

The answer, of course, is, in the case of the ‘Iolaire’ that Leòdhasaich don’t regard it as history. Yes, it happened 104 years ago and no, there are none alive today who lived through these events. Nonetheless, we bear the marks of it in the shared experience of being islanders.

I like that we loan our minister out each year on the anniversary, to preach words of comfort at the service of remembrance. It gives me a sense of security to know that we islanders are still inclined to look to God for meaning in tragedies that we cannot otherwise understand.

Remembering past griefs is part and parcel of welcoming a new year, of course. For those who experience loss, it is never truly history – just as this community continues to be affected by the ‘Iolaire’, we each carry our private bereavement with us always. And, just as with the ‘Iolaire’, I don’t know how I could do that apart from God. He is in the present with me, comforting and upholding; but that would not be nearly such a blessing if he wasn’t also present in my remembering.

What I mean is that when I look back and recall those I have loved and lost, I don’t see it as pure, meaningless grief. Bereavement is not arbitrarily inflicted by an unfeeling deity, rather, he shares in our sorrows all the way along. So, when I remember my husband, or my father, or my granny, I don’t feel a sense of deprivation – because God is in it all.

Sometimes people do things that hurt us, and we cannot understand why they have behaved as they do. It may well be that even someone you considered a friend might treat you in ways you cannot understand. And, sadly, that can be because they actually meant to hurt you, or they are simply careless of your feelings. With God, however, we can be sure that even those things which rip our hearts open are not inflicted in order to cause pain.

Whoever you are missing this New Year, look back and know that Christ himself sorrowed in your loss, and at the necessity of death itself. But then, look forward, and see him in your future also, leading you ever closer to a reunion with himself, and your loved ones who fell asleep in him.