I’ve been making Christmas cards for the last two days. “Why?” I ask myself, have I spent so much time creating something that in the best case will spend December displayed on someone’s shelf, and in the worse case tossed in the trash along with credit card offers and grocery ads.
I could tell myself a big story and say I’m doing it for them. But the truth is, at least some of the people on my card list will be a little annoyed to receive a hand-made gift. These are the people who value love by the amount of cash involved. Never mind that each hand crafted took at least 30 minutes of labor, while a store-bought card with a scrawled name on the bottom is, let’s just say, less of a time investment.
Certainly I’m making cards because I want to. No one puts in that kind of effort without some kind of reward.
I love the look of the cards.
I’ve learned a little something new with each card I have created.
I’m using up part of my stash of scrapbook paper, so each card is somewhat different from the others.
But I am also making them for me, because as I linger over the task I think about the people who will be receiving the cards. My mother and mother-in-law will be tickled by the photographs; my sisters are going to get pink cards, just because it’s a chance to do something girly for a change. My in-laws will get the more traditional cards, because they would think pink Christmas cards are a little over the top.
I’m doing it for me, because when I slip those cards into envelopes, stick a stamp on them and put them in the mail, I will be giving my family a little slice of something vastly important during this time of year, I’ll be sending them my time.
I have no way of knowing how this small gift will be received. But that isn’t going to stop me from offering it.