My right hand is surely stricken with lockjaw of the
fingers. Writer’s cramp – that disease of Christmas card preparation – is upon
me.
It’s almost midnight, and I’ve been writing for hours. The
house is still and quiet; the glowing Christmas tree lights and star of
Bethlehem cut into the darkness, encouraging a pensive, reflective mood. I flip through the names in my file box
one at a time and record them on individual envelopes. Flickering candlelight and a CD of canters
chanting an Orthodox Akathist of Thanksgiving provide perfect accompaniment.
Our customized Christmas cards (some of you may remember my
traumatic card-printing evening at Wal-Mart mentioned in the blog of Dec. 4th)
feature a sunshine-splashed picture of the family taken July 4th. We’re hanging out at the lake in bare
feet and swimsuits; some of the grandkids are still smeared with face
paint. This is not a formal studio
shot, but the real deal. This is
who we are.
I stuff and seal each envelope, noting its destination: an
ex-employee from my bakery…a childhood companion…a friend from church…a neighbor
down the road…a friend who was almost like family for 30 years…a colleague from
Purdue…a woman I hope to get to know better. As these people pass in review beneath my pen, I am grateful
for each one.
Tomorrow the cards will be mailed – little pieces of our
corner of the world, traveling abroad to touch those on our list with the good news:
Jesus is the gift.
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