New Year's Eve Without the Sound of Arguments

On the last afternoon of the year, a house in Hanoi was filled with the aroma of freshly cooked food. Outside the alley, traffic hummed along amid the stream of people hurrying home for family reunions. In the kitchen, a pot of water still bubbled, and steam clouded the window. Everything should have evoked a feeling of togetherness, yet inside the house, the atmosphere had begun to tighten like a string pulled too far.

It started with something very small. One person spoke in an irritated tone. Another immediately snapped back. Before one sentence ended, the next rose louder. Hands that had been tidying up suddenly set things down hard on the table. Every face darkened. Before long, the arguing drowned out even the lively sounds of the street outside.

"It's the last day of the year—why do we have to speak to each other like this?"

"I don't want to either. But when something is this obvious, who can stand it?"

This was not the first time. From childhood into adulthood, one daughter of the family had watched this scene repeat itself again and again. Almost every year, on the thirtieth day of the last lunar month, just as every household was preparing to welcome the new year, her family would fall into discord. Some years it began with the cleaning. Other years, it was triggered by nothing more than an unpleasant remark. But whatever the surface cause, the result was always the same: voices grew louder, and hearts grew further apart.

After each such episode, the house would fall silent. The meal remained on the table, but no one wanted to sit near anyone else. One person turned away; another stepped out to the porch. She would stand in the middle of the room, her hands gone cold, with only one lingering question in her heart: Why is it that on the very day that should be the happiest, our family ends up fighting?

She once thought it was because everyone was tired at year's end. Work piled up, money had to be managed, the house had to be arranged, so people became easily irritable. But that explanation did not comfort her. There were tiring days at other times too, yet the discord never recurred as regularly as it did at year's end.

"Doesn't anyone find it strange? Every year, on this very day, our family argues."

A relative sighed: "It must be because everyone is busy at year's end, stressed inside, so we lose our temper easily."

"But does it really have to happen exactly like this every single year?" she asked, her eyes on the meal slowly going cold.

The other shook their head: "What can you do? Family matters pass eventually."

But it never truly passed. It left a heaviness within her. Whenever the last lunar month returned, while others eagerly anticipated the reunion, she felt anxious. She feared that a single careless sentence could set the whole family ablaze. She tried to hold back, to speak softly, to avoid anything that might spark debate, but the tension still crept into the house like an invisible cold wind.

Her family had not previously understood much about the lives of the departed. There was no habit of regular worship in the household. On ordinary days it was like this, and at Tet, while everyone busied themselves preparing for the living, they never thought deeply about the loved ones who had left this life.

Then she had the good fortune to encounter Thich Chan Quang and heard him teach about the connection between the living and the spirits of the departed. She understood that death does not mean all feeling ceases. Those who have passed can still see their loved ones, and still need to be loved, respected, remembered, and offered food. During days of reunion, if a family only enjoys itself together and completely forgets them, sadness and resentment can arise.

Hearing this, she sat quietly. The noisy year-end days of the past surfaced in her memory: the hot kitchen, the cold meal, the faces flushed with anger, and the words no one truly meant to say. Her heart tightened as a thought appeared: Could it be that the anger in our home does not only begin with the matters right before our eyes?

After that dharma talk, she shared what she had learned with her relatives. At first, everyone hesitated. One looked at her and asked, full of doubt:

"Do you really think our family's arguments are connected to not remembering the departed?"

She answered slowly: "I wouldn't dare claim to explain everything, but for all these years, every year-end without fail, our family has fought. And we have never sincerely thought of those who have passed."

"So what do you want to do?"

"Let us make an offering of a meal, first of all out of gratitude. We invite our grandparents and departed loved ones to come home and reunite with us. No superstition, no elaborate display—just sincere remembrance and chanting for them to lean on in their practice."

That was the turning point in her thinking. She realized that all this time, her family had only tried to extinguish arguments after they happened, but had never looked back at how they treated those who belonged to the family yet were no longer visible to ordinary eyes. This realization did not frighten her. On the contrary, it softened her heart. If the departed still remembered this home, then they were not strange, distant shadows. They had once been parents, grandparents, or dear relatives—people who had lived, loved, and sat at the family table just like everyone today.

From then on, she began making offerings regularly. Every month, every week, and especially during the holidays, she prepared with sincerity. She did not ask for greedy things, nor did she arrange anything for show. When placing food on the table, she kept a heart of respect, inviting the departed to receive it, and wishing that they might lean on the chanting and turn their hearts toward goodness.

Her relatives gradually joined her in the preparations. When someone felt unsure, she gently reminded them:

"We do this out of love and gratitude, not out of fear."

"Do we need to prepare a lot?" someone asked.

"There's no need for display. What matters is whether we remember them, respect them, and are sincere."

The other nodded softly: "Then this year, let's all do it properly."

The next year-end arrived. The streets were still crowded, the kitchen still hot, and the work still plentiful. But something in the house was entirely different. Before the neatly prepared meal, everyone calmed their hearts to remember the departed. No one spoke disrespectfully of them, and no one treated them as something to fear. They were spoken of with the gratitude of children and grandchildren toward their own family.

That day, there was no sound of objects slammed onto the table. No remark suddenly ignited an argument. If someone was tired, another stepped in to help. If something was displeasing, people said it quietly and let it go. She stood in the kitchen, hearing her loved ones chatting peacefully behind her, and the shoulders that usually tensed at year's end suddenly relaxed.

She did not exclaim that she had found a miracle. She simply quietly looked at the peaceful house, gratitude rising in her heart. From the day the family learned the way, learned to make offerings sincerely, and remembered the departed, the strange discord that had haunted them for so many years was gone. Life in the home became warmer.

Through those days, she came to understand that some bursts of anger seem to belong entirely to us, yet their causes may be more complex than what the eyes can see. When people know how to live with love and gratitude toward both the living and the departed, to love without superstition, and to respect without display, even invisible distances can be soothed.

In every year-end season that followed, the house still rang with the sounds of cleaning, of bowls and chopsticks, and of calls to prepare the meal. But within those sounds, the familiar arguing was gone. The day of reunion had finally become a true day of reunion—not only for those sitting together, but also for the loved ones no longer present before their eyes, yet still remembered by the family with complete devotion.

The Meaning of the Story

The departed still need love, respect, sincere offerings, and chanting to lean on in their practice. Understanding the world of spirits correctly allows the living to be neither superstitious nor cold-hearted, thereby preserving love, gratitude, and peace within the family.

Compiled from a dharma talk by Thich Chan Quang.