I have a confession to make:  I have a bundle of Christmas cards that  I received in 2013, some of them never opened.  They sit in a yellow file folder in the cupboard over my kitchen desk. Throwing papers into a cupboard and shutting the door was a habit I developed in those years when I was working full time, had two active children, and did a lot of single parenting when my husband traveled for work. 

My older sister, who in the Olympics of clutter removal would definitely medal, would have thrown them out years ago.  But I can’t do that; not until I open them and read them.  I hold it to be a sacred obligation that, if someone takes the time to write me a hand-written card or letter, I take the time to read and savor what they sent (twice).  I read it once, then put it aside, then read it again, and then pray for the sender as I (finally) recycle the card or letter.

I am finally reading these cards, in 2020. 

To be honest, I’m enjoying it. I feel like a time-traveler, going back and seeing my great-nieces and great-nephews as they were 7 years ago. And it is fun to read the descriptions of highlights of ”the year past”, even though “the year past” happens to be 2013. 

Reading these cards helps me.  Helps me to remember the truths that are universal.  For, though the details change from year to year, the highlights of the year were the same then as they are now: loving and being with family and friends, getting through hard times with the help of a Higher Power, cherishing our children, and celebrating the wonder and joy of both holidays and ordinary days.

For instance, my friend Fran wrote in her card, back in 2013, that she was “counting her blessings many times daily”. I opened her card the day of an inconceivable amount of death in New York City.  That red card, with a sketch of a Christmas mouse on the front, sat on my desk for several weeks before I recycled it. Every time I walked by, I saw it, wondered why a Christmas card was on my desk, and remembered.  Ah yes.  Be joyful. In the midst of these hard days, count my blessings often.

This clutter from years past is for me a timely reminder: Like Christmas of 2013, this pandemic will someday be history.  Someday it will be nothing more than an assignment for grade-school children to interview their grandparents about.

Until then, I intend to glean what I can, from this clutter and from every corner of my life:  The reminders to trust. Wait. Stay positive and live out the storm.