'Tis the season to hear from old friends and family you don't see very often. I love my Christmas cards. The colors, the glitter, the feelings.
I love catching up with everyone, whether it's good or bad news. I love the family pictures. The cards with their kids have become grandkids, sometimes looking remarkably like their parents when they were the same age; sometimes showing a different gene pool. It's life at its most condensed and to me, most precious.
My Christmas card and letter bring people up to date on our year, too. I feel free to share any family problems and accomplishments. I let people know about our health. It's laid out there because it can be.
But what about cards or letters sent by battered women? Can they lay it out there? Who would want to? It not only hurts to have so little control over your life; it's humiliating. Those who receiver her cards remember her as she was. Only she's not the same.
I hope your Christmas cards and letters are open and honest--portraying your life with its normal warts and surprises.
And I send prayers for those who can't tell the truth. It hurts all of us.