Maddie Makes Cards (Christmas short story)

Maddie was ready. Before her on the table lay everything she needed to make the best Christmas cards ever. She would craft them, fill them with clever hand written messages, address them and actually mail them. This year she would not feel guilt as she received those cute cards with everyone’s family picture on the front. This year she would meet her friends, family, and, most importantly, her husband’s congregants with her head held high because she had fulfilled her Christmas obligations.

She’d started in October by confirming that all the addresses in her book were current. Good thing, too, Aunt Holly moved to Pittsburg three years ago and Maddie still had her listed in Orange Park. She’d congratulated herself on catching a possible faux pas that could have derailed her plans.

In November, she’d gone to an intensive weekend seminar on embossing and card making. Gary, her husband, was not overly thrilled with paying for a hotel so that Maddie could learn to make something they could buy at Wal-Mart for less than five bucks. He didn’t understand. A pastor’s wife had to meet certain expectations. This year everything would be perfect, to make up for all the years she had failed. When she returned home with six prototypes, he merely raised an eyebrow and said with his usual dry wit, “At that price, they should be edged in gold.”

It was December now, and she’d cleared her calendar for the entire day. She had eight hours to do nothing, but cut, glue, and write. She set the mood by lighting a cinnamon candle and putting some Christmas music in the CD player. After cranking up the tunes, she started to crop.

She proceeded with extreme care, making sure that everything was flawless. Ribbons were expertly tied and glued in place. After a couple hours her back was aching, but her stack was growing. There were cards of green, red, and blue adorned with trees, angels, and starbursts. She imagined people’s expressions as they opened these gems. She could hear them saying, “Wow, I had no idea Maddie was this talented. We should ask her send out the invitations for the annual bake sale.”

When she broke for lunch, she counted her cards and compared them against her list. She was horrified to find that although the day was half gone, she’d barely completed a quarter of the necessary work. “How can that be?” she moaned.

She immediately set back to work, ignoring her rumbling stomach. She also abandoned her notion of cleaning up as she went. Soon the table was littered with bits of paper, ribbon, and glitter. When the mess got in her way, she simply raked it off onto the floor. Her care in setting the embossing powder slipped, and she smudged more than one card. She grunted in frustration as she made replacements, resenting the wasted minutes.

She was deep in concentration when Brandi, her cat, wandered into the room. A dangling ribbon tempted the feline, and she perched on her haunches batting at the silver material. Maddie, horrified, yelled and swatted at the cat. As she did, Maddie hit the open vials of embossing powder with her arm and sent them flying. The black, gold, and silver dust covered the table, the floor, Maddie, and Brandi. Brandi, startled by the ruckus, ran away. Multi-colored paw prints snaked down the hallway.

Gary came home to find his dining room a Technicolor nightmare and his bride hysterical. “It’s all ruined,” she moaned.

He reached for a card and gently shook off the powder. “See, easily fixed.”

“They’re supposed to be perfect.”

“Historically speaking, Jesus is the only one who's managed to be perfect. 'It's the thought that counts,' is cliche for a reason. People will be blessed because you thought of them, not because your card looks perfect. Here, let’s see what we can salvage.”

They saved more than Maddie thought possible. With Gary’s help, she was able to get all the cards in the mail the next day. Despite all he said, she felt better knowing she had done it right this year.

When Christmas cards from their friends and congregants started arriving, she opened each with joy, unburdened from the guilt she’d known in seasons past. One afternoon, her mailbox was stuffed with cards. She pulled them out eagerly, only to recognize her own handwriting. Each one was stamped, “Return to sender. Insufficient Postage.”