c. 2000 Religion News Service

(Dale Hanson Bourke is the mother of two sons and the author of five books.)

(UNDATED) In about a week, the first pangs of guilt will strike. They will be brought on by a Christmas card with an embossed return address, a perfect studio photo and a lovely letter detailing the high points of the year.

The first card always comes from the same friend. I am convinced this woman spends her entire August ordering cards, booking photo studios and writing drafts of the family Christmas letter. She then has September free to update her mailing list and can spend the next two months addressing the envelopes in gold calligraphy.

After that card, the others begin to trickle in. I love the ones with photos of the kids, although I find myself staring at pictures of teen-agers and wondering what happened to the cute little toddlers in last year’s card. Or was that two years ago?

I’m really happy to receive Christmas letters, even from people I don’t know very well. When I was younger I tended to consider such missives silly. Now I read and re-read every one. I’m old enough to appreciate years without tragedy and still young enough to enjoy hearing about accomplishments.

I have plenty of friends who send cards just before or after Christmas. I have a few friends who slip into January. I have one friend who typically sends Christmas cards somewhere around March. It’s become a tradition with her after a particularly horrendous year put her so far behind that she stored her half-written Christmas cards away and didn’t find them again until early spring.

As usual, I meant to order those embossed cards but of course it’s too late. I took a hundred different pictures of the kids on vacation this summer but none will work for a Christmas card. I’d like to write a letter but it’s hard to find the right tone. I don’t want to brag about the kids too much or sound too maudlin about the difficulties.

So I will do what has become a tradition: I will procrastinate.

Eventually I will pull out my basket full of return address labels from last year’s cards, various directories and handwritten lists. I will once again vow to put them all on my nifty computer so I have a master file. I will set up the folding table and spread out the stamps, return address labels and colored pens.

The table will become a shrine of guilt for most of the month. Every time I pass it I will promise to sit down and write a few more cards.

It would be so much easier if I simply viewed sending cards as one more Christmas tradition, like hanging stockings or putting up the tree. But cards have become more personal than that to me. They are the one way I stay connected to friends I rarely see anymore.

A Christmas card is my last connection to a college roommate and my childhood best friend. It is the only way I know that a co-worker from my first job is still alive despite her many health problems. It is the way I continue to acknowledge gratitude to a favorite professor.

The same card does not fit all. I choose a more religious theme for some, an inclusive holiday greeting for others who do not share my faith. I have some elegant ones purchased at a half-price sale last year and some cute ones on recycled paper.

As I write a greeting in each card, I will think of that person and remember our times together. Sometimes I’ll vow to give a call or schedule a visit. Now and then I’ll say a prayer.

It’s not a very efficient system. No embossed return address, no mailing to thousands. I feel guilty for not having my act together.

Yet Christmas cards are less a social act for me and more a sacrament. They are a way of acknowledging a connection, no matter how tentative, to someone who has touched me or my family in some meaningful way. They are a way of holding on to a memory or revisiting another time. They are a way to celebrate not only the holiness of the season but also the way God works through human touch.

In this too busy, too scattered world, sending Christmas cards is one small way to celebrate the wonderful inefficiency of relationships.

KRE END BOURKE