By the first of December, all my Christmas cards had been mailed except one.
Sadly, I entered the card shop with no real hope of finding the appropriate card for a son in prison. A son who didn’t want to see family, didn’t write us. A son who was once beautiful, godly, funny, but whose heart had grown cold, hard. What was there to say at Christmas?
The bell on the door of the shop tinkled merrily as I entered the busy, happy place. I hoped no clerk would ask, “Are you looking for something in particular?” Christmas carols played. Most everyone smiled, even weary shoppers.
I began my search with my emotions in check, as though shopping for a head of lettuce. Lord, help me find a card. God and I both knew it was a half-hearted prayer. A card with a snowy scene caught my eye. A warmly lit house glowed in the far distance. I opened it slowly, daring to hope…just a little.
A son moves out of a mother’s home, but never her heart. Merry Christmas, Son. You have always been loved.
Holding the card to my happy heart, I hurried to the checkout counter.
Oh, my Father, you know all about distance between family members.
