There’s something intimate about a card with a hand-written note that beats any email or text or even a phone call. There’s also something about opening up your mailbox to find an envelope with your name on it, someone’s real handwriting, and those wavy little ink lines showing it’s been sent by the post office.

I have about three dozen cards from my first pastor mailed to my house, though I saw him nearly everyday and we lived only fifteen minutes apart.  I’ve saved them.  I treasured his time in writing a personal note, going up and down the aisle looking for the perfect card, sealing it with his own DNA (literally).  We communicated by every other means, but those cards melted even the coldest of weeks more than anything else could.

I’ve been sending cards to friends every week. I look forward to Mondays, my day off, when I can pull up to that familiar blue box and drop it into the void of no return. Nothing like sending cards, nothing like getting one. Just for the heck of it.

By the way: Hallmark is having a sale at most grocery stores right now: Buy one, get one free. I promise I’m not promoting them.

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