December is going fast, and I’m still mailing Christmas cards.

I lick an envelope sealed and wonder if it will carry the scent of Goldfish crackers I just snacked on with my son.

I’ve been mailing Christmas cards over the past week. They would’ve gone out sooner, but I’ll spare you the details of that story.

There are more I would like to send.

Some are addressed to homes, where someone is noticeably missing. I take my pen and address in ink the short name of the spouse left behind. The name doesn’t look right on its own, the remaining half. I whisper a prayer of joy and a hug to tuck inside the white pocket that will carry it on its way. A love letter.

Some are addressed to friends I’ve not seen in years; some to friends I see each week. I write names, and I notice how families have grown. I give thanks. I write names, and I pray for them to grow. Each a gift.

I send some to family down the highway and to family states away, and I hope they’ll see bits of themselves in the handsome pictures of our sons. Bloodlines that connect our hearts and warm us when winter chaps our hands and minds.

I am thankful for every stuff and seal and stamp, even the paper cuts along the way.

Yet, there are others left out. I think of new friends and of the faces of many I’ve shared so many memories, good and bad. 

Even family, I hope will know, that they are on our hearts and minds this time of year and always. I could fill the day with cards. I could fill the day with thanks.

This Christmas, we’ve received. We’ve opened sweet notes filled with the beauty of our shared promise. We’ve gotten photographs of families with big, happy grins and families with semi-grins and even some “might-be-screaming” grins, and each is picture perfect. We feel the love of Christmas.

I watch our boys with their daddy, and Christmas is here. It’s the smile of an infant son as he traces your face with his tiny hand, looking up to the father who loves him without end. It’s in the warmth of a cradled hug, like that which held the Savior of the world on a silent night in Bethlehem. It’s in the lights like that which set the darkness ablaze, when His gravestone was rolled away.

There is salt still on my fingers and yellow bits of cracker on the floor.

Christmas should smell like Goldfish and babies, and it should remind us, who are born again, that He sent us the best note, the best picture, the best gift of all. In red, He says, I love you. More.

Let us embrace His love this Christmas and always. Peace. Life. Joy.

Love,
Mommy

Originally published on the author’s blog