Glad Tidings

Christmas, if ever, is a time to count one's blessings.  And December, if ever, is a time to keep me from it.

In our house December's particularly hectic.  For a family of seven, holiday preparations can become an ordeal.  But in addition to that ceaseless round of activity, I must also contend with three birthdays, all of which get their own celebrations. 

Moreover, the division of labor in our household is too simple for the complications of Yuletide.  It's more than simple‑-it's appallingly primitive.  My husband gets the big jobs: he brings the money in and the garbage out.  All other duties are mine. 

Thus it's I who do the shopping and wrapping, and I who decorate the house.  Above all it's I who send the Christmas cards.  I select them, write their greetings, and sign all names to them.  I address, seal, stamp, and mail them too, and by December 23 I am the latest in Christian martyrs.  "Humbug!" is my hymn.

But it was on a December 23, one year, that I found four cards in the mail.  I opened Len's first.  "Dear Bill," it read.  "Good to hear from you."  This was followed by a cramped paragraph of news and chitchat, and then came the signature.  Under that was an afterthought: "P.S. Regards to Ronnie."

I, a footnote?  A mere P.S.?

I should, I know, have found it funny.  But exhaustion takes its toll in humor.  I should, I know, have forgiven the thoughtlessness.  But frustration doesn't spur the Christmas spirit.  Furious, I stomped into the den, a thousand bitter thoughts accompanying me.

My girls wanted their presents wrapped prettily?  Let them learn to make their own bows.  My boys wanted home baked bread and rolls?  Let them learn to follow the recipe.  My husband wanted a pie for dessert?  For dessert he could have Len's card!  "I'm not a footnote, and not a slave," I told myself angrily.  "The family can have Christmas without me.  And as for my so-called friends‑-!"

It occurred to me suddenly that I hadn't opened the other cards.  "And what glad tidings do the rest of my crowd have to offer?" I fumed, marching back to the mail.  "What glorious message of good cheer will I find next?"

The first card I opened was from Sunny, and postmarked Bermuda.  "Spending this Christmas on the sands," she wrote.  "Enjoy your happy hearth."  Sunny has no family to spend Christmas with.

The Rumbores' greeting was next, and Will had signed both names; Anne has multiple sclerosis.

The last card was from the Blacks, or more accurately from Judy.  That year she and Steve had separated.

I left all three out and placed Len's card beside them.

"Mail's in the foyer," I called when Bill came home from work.

"You first," he smiled, giving me a kiss.  "Ummm, the pie looks delicious.  What's in the oven?  Bread?"

I nodded.

"And you wrapped the presents, too."  Then, dryly, "And what did you do in your spare time?  Reshingle the roof?"

"No," I confessed.  "Just thought Christmasy thoughts.  Come, I'll show you."  Then I led him to the table where the four cards lay.