The year my sister Julie committed suicide I believed Christmas would never again be a joyful time for me.

It started with my sister, Cathi’s, passing two years earlier, after seven years struggling to overcome breast cancer. Though not unexpected, her husband and three children, ranging from 12 to 21 years old, as well as we five siblings, our children, and our parents, were shattered with grief.

The first Christmas after her death I avoided parties and holiday gatherings as the devastating impact of Cathi’s passing rooted deep in my heart.

Two years later, my younger sister, Julie, took her life, just a week before Thanksgiving. Julie finally surrendered to her vicious opponent– relentless, agonizing mental health issues and associated alcoholism– devastating her two young boys, ages 5 and 21 at the time, as well as her estranged husband; and again, our entire family of now only four siblings, our children and our parents.

The sudden and violent loss of our dear little Julie bore down on each and every one of us. Adding this grief to the still throbbing heartache of losing Cathi drove us all to our knees, physically, mentally and spiritually.

Christmas, which my parents instilled in us as a festive, exciting, joy-filled holiday, became a time of year I dreaded, while trying to present a “happy face” for my own children.

As a single parent of two young children, barely making ends meet, the inability to buy everything that would delight them on Christmas Day left me feeling even more depressed and also inadequate.

I’m not certain my kids noticed a lack of games, toys or gadgets, but I noticed it all and the disappointment in myself, my life, my ability to provide a luxurious life for my them, gnawed at my heart, stomach and soul.

I could have gone on hating the holidays, feeling resentful of families who hadn’t lost any of their siblings, had more money, were successful in their businesses, or in any way seemed happy during the holidays…if it hadn’t been for Julie. She gave me an irreplaceable, unbelievable reason for holiday joy, but I didn’t see it until years later.

Julie had two wonderful sons, whom she loved and cared for with the fierce loyalty and protection of a mother lion. Her oldest boy, Matthew, was born with Down ’s syndrome, but thanks to Julie’s unwillingness to accept limitations predicted by medical professionals, was becoming a high functioning, delightful, young man.

Julie’s youngest son, Timothy, was an introverted, impish child with curly, golden hair, who followed her every movement with his eyes, and never strayed far from her side. During his first five years, he watched his mother struggle with internal demons that stole her ability to always be present and nurturing.

I’ve shared Julie’s boys’ lives since Christmas Eve 1999, just five weeks after she departed this physical life.

I opened my front door that evening to find the boys and their father on my doorstep; exhausted from the long drive from Utah to California, the fear and grief on their faces outlined their desperate need for emotional sustenance.

Sick with a severe respiratory flu, I laid on my sofa, overwhelmed with compassion, and listened while their story of pain, grief and confusion poured out.

We spent the Christmas holidays together, buying gifts, decorating the tree, preparing meals and looking for opportunities to feel happy, while forcing down the bitterness of loss.

It wasn’t the most light-hearted holiday, but I was deeply honored to love, support and comfort them, as our hearts knit together in grief.

As the years flew by we spent many holidays and non-holidays together, healing, growing and recalling wonderful memories of Julie and her sweet, generous spirit.

One Christmas Eve years later, I finally began recognizing the gifts she continued to give.

Julie’s dear little family arrived at my home again, this time supporting me. I had started a new business, which was struggling, and once again felt the inadequacy of not being able to provide a luxurious holiday for my children, who were spending it at their dads’ houses. “Another crappy Christmas” was my dominant thought, until Julie’s family arrived.

They immediately drove me to the nearest Christmas tree lot, where we found a perfect tree, at a significant Christmas Eve discount; we tied it to the roof of their car, all of us laughing and delighted at our smart bargain!

We took it home and the boys decorated it with every dusty, forgotten ornament I could find in my attic, while we all sang our favorite holiday songs over and over.

There were enough gifts to make it feel like a “real” Christmas, and I bought a stuffed, musical Scrooge, who sang cynical Christmas songs that reduced us all to howling laughter.

That year, our Christmas bounty seemed magical and endless, and I finally began enjoying the holidays.

Thirteen years later I attended Timothy’s high school graduation, observing with gratitude what a strong, confident, kind young man he’d become, and marveling at the path he’d created for his life.

Matthew sat next to me, irritated to attend the graduation ceremony because he was missing work at a job he loved, and where he had many friends; he’d also matured into a responsible, adventurous, and yes, even rebellious, teenage-like young man, with a heart of gold.

Like nearly every other family of a graduate at the ceremony, I cried with joy and pride when Timothy strode onto the stage, graduation cap perched at an angle on his head and gown billowing out behind him. I reached for Matthew’s hand and held it tightly, while saying a silent “thank you” to Julie—realizing her generous loving spirit lives on in the two amazing young men she created, protected and nurtured during her short time with them. They are her gift of love to us all.