Forty-five of my Christmas cards are finished. This is early, even for me, but when I gave myself permission to do something fun, as a celebration for finishing the chaplaincy internship, that is what emerged. 

 

They are paper angels, blended and pressed into a ceramic mold, then dried by the sun. That is the ingredient that would not be available to me if I started in November. The sun part feels significant, as if that warmth will somehow bless the recipient on a dreary day in December when it arrives in a pile of bills. 

 

The angel floats on a piece of handmade paper, and then is mounted to cardstock. It is my intention to entice Benjamin to write the message, as he did last year. We will see if he is amenable. 

 

Half of the dining room table has been recruited for this process, which makes eating on it difficult. But our family has shrunk significantly, and until the twins come home in a few weeks I can get away with it. 

 

All of the angels are women. I did not purposely ignore male options, but the makers of angelic symbols lean toward the feminine. I don't mind, though I am certain that my father and a few uncles are happily ensconced in the Holy City. 

 

The part I have not yet solved is the envelope. I am not sure if there is one that can contain these textured cards. Maybe I will do a lot of delivering. Which matches my conception of angelic influence perfectly.