The cards that took flight from our home to yours are all the same. Well, that is, if unanimity is defined by composition and message. They are the product of soft paper dissolving into slurry, on a bed of ripped parchment. The declaration inside does not waver, from one envelope to the next. 
 

 

In another sense, each is unique. Some depict angels carrying hearts, or stars, while others are blowing trumpets. A handful of cards include a baby in a manger. Colors vary, and there are idiosyncrasies in Benjamin's mindful script. 
 

 

Hence, the paradox. They are alike. They are different. 
 

 

The way our family and perhaps yours celebrates Christmas is a tango of those two extremes. The stockings and ornaments come out of hibernation, as they have each December for decades. There is joy in welcoming old friends, like glass cherubs and folded stars. Occasionally, they require a spot of glue before being perched on a branch. This is not due to rambunctious toddlers at play, but simply a consequence of age. The lyrics to the carols we sing are more readily available than our friend's phone number, or the reason we walked from the living room to the kitchen. The gift tags under the tree repeat the names of last year and the year before that. 
 

 

But the contents in the boxes are new, or at least the size of the sweater. We may step into homes we have not been invited to before, or explore untested flavors of cookies. There may be additions to our inner circle, like fiancés and babies. 
 

 

I began this missive by suggesting that the card in your hands flew. In truth, 160 of them did no such thing. No stamp entitled it to a ride inside a canvas sack in the baggage compartment. Rather, I brought it to your home, or workplace, or placed it in your open palm. This is partly to lean into the age-old practice of delivering letters, but also because the weight and depth of the envelope taxes the post office, making it a costly choice. 
 

 

God leaned down from His lofty place in order to come to earth personally. This is the news that Benjamin so kindly inscribed for you, which has been told and retold for two thousand years.  It carried its own cost. A weighty one, if you have read ahead.  It is the same three words that burst from the hearts and horns of angels, who most certainly were flying among the stars at the time. Yet, simultaneously, and inexplicably, they are as new as a Baby before his first breath.