I never took down my Christmas lights from last year.

		Joann Cantrell, a trade magazine editor, lives in Cranberry (jcantrell@aist.org).

I left a single strand across the top of the cabinets in my kitchen and lit them every time my heart sank and I felt the need to lift my spirits. In the last 12 months, that ended up being quite often.

I didn't have a chance to take down the holiday decorations right away. A week after the New Year began, my 36-year-old brother, Don, unexpectedly showed up at my house on a Saturday morning to take me for a ride in his new car. We didn't go anywhere special, but the time we spent together that day is a memory I will cherish.

The following Tuesday, after an ordinary day at work, Don collapsed at home from cardiac arrest.

When he reached the emergency room, his heart was shocked seven times and CPR was performed for 15 minutes before a heartbeat was obtained. I have been haunted all year by the unforgettable image of the helicopter he was transported in as it came in to land on the hospital roof that cold, rainy, miserable night. When a young neurologist prepared us that all hope may be lost, I suggested that perhaps we could still pray for a miracle. She shrugged at the notion and half-heartedly replied, "You can if you want to."

Two days later, my brother woke up.

And so in the dead of winter, my family and I spent 50 days and nights stuck in a hospital purgatory where waiting for an outcome and praying for a miracle are the only diversions to critical situations. In the close quarters, you can often hear others calling out the name of their loved one or praying for God's mercy to end their suffering.

One night, while sleeping on a chair in the critical-care waiting room, I was startled by a stranger in the middle of the night who came into the room to retrieve something. Realizing that he frightened me, the only words exchanged came from his whisper, "Have hope," then reiterating as he squeezed my hand, "have hope."

It was a struggle to keep hope alive.

Don was born with congenital heart defects and had a history of close calls, but each time, he defied expectations and pulled through. Time became his ally. Though Don's initial prognosis was bleak, each year that he did live was another year of medical advances and new technologies in cardiac care.

Only seven out of 100 people survive cardiac arrest. Along with the miracle of his recovery, we received the precious gift of more time -- time for special visits with each other, time for conversations, time to reminisce and laugh. By the end of March, after seven weeks in emergency rooms, intensive and critical cardiac-care units and rehabilitation, Don recovered and was sent home to wait on a donor for a heart transplant.

Much sooner than anyone expected, the call came only 10 days later. We raced once more to the hospital. We spent with my brother what turned out to be the last waking hours of his life.

The high hopes of a second chance with an organ donation as a gift of life did not materialize. Two days after the transplant surgery, he passed away, leaving behind a devastated family and shattered friends.

The journey of grief is a hard road to walk. I faced my sorrow with an eye-opening realization that life holds no guarantees.

Searching for solace, I took a trip to Ireland with my husband. Still mourning, I cried on the plane ride across the Atlantic. I cried in the churches and I cried in the pubs too, not really caring who was watching.

One sunny afternoon, on a hike to the summit of Croagh Patrick in County Mayo, I realized that grief was quite the same as the strenuous climb into uncharted territory. Each step became a challenge as I found myself climbing on all fours and clinging for balance. Two hours later, when approaching the final mile with a 45-degree slope, I struggled with wanting to quit and wanting to move on. I felt the same way about life, overwhelmed by trying to cope with the mountain of unforeseen circumstances that had come my way.

Along with my husband's encouragement to continue, there were others I met along the way who were coming down the mountain having already made the climb. Each offered words of inspiration to persevere. Over and over, the sentiments were similar and no one suggested that I give up. A final passing stranger smiled when I asked about the last stretch.

"Keep going," he urged. "When you get to the top, you'll gain a whole new perspective."

He was right. Climbing the mountain was cathartic and reaching the peak showed a magnificent view. I was finally able to see the big picture and now it was time to merge that perspective with the reassurance that I could get through life's difficult climbs with the support of others.

Yet as this holiday season approached, I found myself wanting most what I can't have. Selfishly, I wish I could have more days with my brother.

I struggle with the Christmas season and the message given to be filled with hope. Instead, I'm ready to take down the 2006 calendar, rip it to shreds and declare it the worst year I have ever endured.

Or maybe not.

While the loss of my brother left a gaping hole in my heart, his death offered the opportunity to embrace a larger view and appreciate each day of life as a gift. In the midst of grappling with my heart-wrenching loss and attempting to turn grief into gratitude, a baby girl came into my life this year and filled it with joy. Another miracle, another blessing -- my first grandchild.

Appropriately, her name is "Hope."