I’ll open it and be glad. And I’ll put it with the others in the basket on top of my pantry cabinet until a few days after Christmas.
If you send me a Christmas card with a picture of your kids, I’ll open it and be glad. I’ll marvel at how the kids have grown. And I’ll put the picture on my fridge, for at least a few weeks after Christmas.
But if you’re my husband and you give me a Christmas card (and you always do), I’ll open it and be thrilled. I’ll read it carefully as you look on. And I’ll watch while you read the one I’ve chosen for you. Then we’ll flip them over and scan the back for silly little bonus messages and make sure the year is inscribed somewhere on it. Then I’ll tuck them away after Christmas with the other decorations, with every other Christmas card we’ve exchanged for eleven years of marriage. Then we’ll bring them out again next year, when it’s time to decorate. And we’ll sit and reminisce about Christmases past and be very, very glad.