It’s All in the Cards

My favorite thing about Christmas and my least favorite thing about Christmas are actually one and the same. As much as I love receiving Christmas cards from other people, I dread the work that’s involved in creating my own. Before we had kids, and prior to making the kind of money we do now to invest in decent tree decorations, my husband and I used to cut out the pictures from all the holiday cards we received. Poor and resourceful, we punched a hole in the top of each and every one, tied a pretty ribbon, and hung them all on the forlorn tree tucked in the corner of our tiny one-bedroom apartment. It was a two-for-one kind of deal—we could efficiently display our cards and simultaneously boast of having the most festive tree in town.

Not really.

Fast forward a few years. Now that we had a couple of kids under our belt and we realized that we could actually participate and reciprocate in this whole card-giving tradition, we cheerfully set out to create cards like the ones we had received in the past–beautiful, perfect pictures of beautiful, perfect families.

Not really.

In the days before digital cameras, I wouldn’t really know what the pictures looked like until I picked them up from the developer. Flipping through them, I would think, “Surely, they must have left the good ones out. I know we didn’t take all these bad pictures!” It was almost like listening to the playback on a tape recorder, but instead of “I can’t believe I sound like that!” it was more like “I can’t believe I look like that!” But then I would flashback to the day those pics were taken, and no wonder we all looked like monsters. Remember how we were acting? Prior to snapping those embarrassing pictures, I spent hours scouring every store in town for the perfect coordinating outfits, spent money on overpriced haircuts and manicures (even pedicures—and I assure you you couldn’t even see my feet!). But I felt like all this special prep would help us stage the perfect picture. It was as if we were all actors in the movie version of our lives. These images frozen in time of us as we were that day in December.

But the image is one of us all so high strung and stressed out from the frenzy of it all that instead of that peaceful look—think images of sugarplums dancing in our heads—we evoked a more agitated and uneasy look—more like Kevin McAllister in Home Alone.

Every year, I try to overcome this barrier to joy. I begin shopping for the outfits earlier. And I’ve relaxed a bit on the hair. I’m not opposed to covering up those imperfections with hats and scarves. A small child, strategically placed, can do wonders in concealing my own problem areas. I even try to “outsmart” my perceptive family by acting all aloof, like the pics are no big deal. Maybe this year, one of the four kids won’t be crying, and one of the two parents won’t be yelling. After all, from what I remember—back in the day when all those cards were hanging on our make-shift tree, we celebrated a Christmas that was all about joy and peace and love, even in the face of our less-than-perfect circumstances. Nowhere is it written (and I’ve looked) that Christmas is about looking beautiful on a card that will be delivered to the mailboxes of 150 of my closest friends, coworkers, and family members.

From everything I’ve been taught or discovered on my own, it’s about Jesus. When you see my card this year, I hope that’s what you see. I hope you see Jesus. Because, you see, Christmas was never about me. It was always about him.