A Simple Card

My neighbor called the first thing this morning. "Don't go out if you don't have to," she said. "The streets have turned into ice." She was worried about me. That's the thing about St. Louis. Friendly neighbors still watch out for one another. I like to think it's the same everywhere but the daily newspapers tell me otherwise. Still, I believe there is some good left in this world. My neighbor tells me so.

Rarely does St. Louis get very much snow. The two or three inches that fell over the weekend is an anomaly for this part of the Midwest. More often it is ice that wreaks havoc on the neighborhood roads and sidewalks. Hopefully, it won't last for long. The weather report calls for warmer temperatures today. The sun will surely shine, melting the danger underneath.

This afternoon my husband nearly risked his life walking to the mailbox at the top of the hill. I should have listened to my neighbor. Our home is in a relatively new subdivision so all of the mailboxes are clustered together, allowing the mailman to make one stop near the entrance. Arriving back home, Gary stomped his feet on the front porch, shaking the snow and ice from his boots. I opened the leaded glass door for him. His hands carried a bunch of embellished Christmas cards. "There's one from your dad," he said, softly, handing me a pink envelope with three holly stickers pasted on the reverse side.

Sitting down on the sofa, I cautiously opened my father's card. In all my life I don't ever remember my father sending me a card. Ever. Like most relationships I suppose (mine included), it is the woman who takes it upon herself to send a card whenever the occasion calls for it. Women typically choose the cards, purchase the cards, write the inside notes, address the envelopes, and lick the stamps until we finally drop them into a mailbox in the hopes of reaching the correct destinations. So it was with my own mother. A simple thing, really. Mailing a card. Right? Maybe not.

Inside the rosy envelope that my husband handed to me was a card decorated with a pink felt mitten addressed to, 'Daughter.' The card had an old fashioned appearance and looked hand-stitched. On the front, it was decorated with white ribbon, green buttons, and a burgundy-colored heart that seemed hand-sewn. I couldn't imagine where my father had found such a card. It was a treasure of simplistic beauty. Printed inside was a rather typical message of love and yuletide. It said something to the effect of, 'Merry Christmas Because You're Such a Special Daughter.' But written below was a message atypical in its purest form. Carefully, in scripted letters were the hand-written words, 'Love, Dad.' Underneath, written in red ink, 'And, you have one Great Guy for a husband-my Son-in-Law. Merry Christmas, Gary. P.S. Thanks for ALL of your help-To both of You. With All My Love."

Wow. I was speechless. Seeing my reaction, Gary quickly reached for a tissue.. Wet tears streamed down my cheeks as I tried to be strong. Finally I just let it go and bawled my eyes out.
My dad sent me a card. A Christmas card. Although (to my knowledge) my father had never chosen a card for me (before), purchased a card, written the inside note, addressed the envelope, licked the stamp or dropped it in the mailbox...this year he did. He didn't want me to go without. This first Christmas without my mother, my father did not forget. In spite of his grief and sorrow my father somehow found the strength to take Mother's place in this often, taken for granted ritual.

Receiving this card was not lost upon me. I did not take it for granted. This first card, the first Christmas card from my father was the greatest gift he could ever bestow upon me.

A simple card.