There is a ribbon of forty-five Christmas cards draped across the living room window. They were hand made, one each year of our marriage, in a variety of mediums. There was an era of paper casting, and another of photographs. Several of our kids drew pictures that graced the card. One of those was so lovely that a friend said she was disappointed that we went the commercial route that year. A bunch were sewn, either of houses or trees. Two years I blended paper, once as snow and the other time as a metaphor for the swirling season. 

 

This year we are sending a dark card for the third time. The previous two provided contrast for golden stars, and the current one depicts a dove across a black backdrop. The dark ones were an expression of loss.... one when my mother died and the other when the congregation John was serving wanted us to be gone. 

 

The shadow side of Christmas is sometimes glossed over. If we bake enough cookies, and sing loud enough, we can drown out the sadness. Yet anxiety is embedded in the story itself. Joseph was concerned about marrying a pregnant woman. The shepherds were frightened as they huddled in a field. Hundreds of mothers' hearts were wrenched apart by the death of their babies under Herod's rampage. 

 

We, too, experience a soup of emotions. Sometimes it is the absence of those we love, or the gulf between our imagination and reality. Other days we are caught up in the glory of lights, and generosity. 

 

The arc of cards is proof to me that the range of feelings are all part of the story. I have been anxious, and hopeful, rejected, and joyful. 

 

I will be again.