Well, we are finally into the
twenties. No, I don’t mean degrees. This is Galveston, you know. Tropical Island off the coast of Texas. I mean twenties as in dates. The few days before Christmas. The “most wonderful time of the year,” and
all that. And on top of all that, the
world didn’t come to an end at midnight.
Always a plus. But a special thanks
to the Mayan guy who carved that calendar and provided us with all the
excitement over the last few weeks. We
spent much of the day yesterday printing and folding and addressing and
stamping. Yep. That means the infamous Vaughan Christmas
letters are ready to read. They will be
put in the mail today. Mail. That’s one of those antique ways of
communicating with people where a nice guy dressed in red walks around the
neighborhood with a big bag on his back delivering toys to all the good little
girls and boys. Wait. I got a little ahead of myself. I mentioned it was getting close to
Christmas, right? The guy who brings
mail is the one who dresses in blue and walks around the neighborhood and
carries the big pack on his back and delivers, well, sometimes toys. See how I could get confused?
I like to get that old kind of mail. Snail mail.
Kind of has a ring to it, doesn’t it?
You wait anxiously, checking outside every so often for a glimpse of
that blue suit guy. And then when he
walks up onto your porch, you pretend like you are busy so he doesn’t see how
excited you are. And then as he walks
away to the next house on the block, you wait until just the right moment, when
you are pretty sure he won’t hear the commotion behind him and actually turn
around and catch you red-handed checking your own mailbox like you are some kind
of thief. That’s when you can leap
through the front door and pop open the lid and gaze at the wonders that have
been hand delivered to your door. It
could be anything. Oh, sure there are
usually plenty bills. Plenty of
bills. And junk, too. Lots of that stuff. You know.
Ads for the local dentist or for pizza.
A special notice that you have been preapproved for a brand new credit
card. Maybe one of those “you may have
already won…” notifications. But then
there may also be, especially at this time of year, that wonderful creation of
marketing genius, the Christmas card.
Who could have predicted how successful that idea would become? A piece of paper, folded in half. On one side a random picture of a winter
scene or Santa Claus or a tree. A cheesy
bit of verse or quaint saying in the middle.
And the best part of all, you don’t have to come up with anything
substantial on your own. It’s not like
you are writing a letter or anything.
All you have to do is sign it, basically placing your “ditto” on
whatever wish or wisdom the creative mastermind has provided for you. Put it in the envelope graciously provided for
you, stick a stamp on the front, which, by the way, you no longer have to lick,
and … get this, it’s the best part … attach it with a clothes pin to your
mailbox for that wandering bag-toter to take with him as he continues on his
appointed rounds.
So, I love snail mail. I especially love Christmas cards. Once a year we get photos and a quick summary
of family history and an updated address so we will know where to send the card
next year. That’s a hint. If you want a copy of our Vaughan Family
newsletter, send me a Christmas card.
That’s part of the unspoken protocol, isn’t it? If you get a card from someone, you have to
send them one back. Hmm. I guess I need to put one aside for the CEO
of Palais Royal. He sent me a very nice
card. Even included a ten dollar coupon. Who else …
Psalms 48:10 says, “Like your name, O God, your praise reaches to the ends of the earth; your
right hand is filled with righteousness.”
Father, thank you for all those people we
hear from at Christmas. Make them really
happy in the coming year. Amen.
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