Christmas cards in January are special because they arrive at a time when the mail has returned to being exceedingly dull, and a brightly colored envelope of greetings found in the midst of a monochromatic pile is always a treasure.
And so it was this past January when a large white envelope arrived from our old home in ATL that opened like a gift, presenting a smaller red envelope inside. The soft fusion of cursive and printed
handwriting on it was a happy sight I had forgotten. Like magic, my long lost college
friend Lisa had dropped in for a visit.
I drew the lucky card back at UT's Morrill
Hall, having been in the right place at the right time knowing the right people to
meet the lovely and sparkly Lisa. My roommate was friends with Lisa and her
roommate--all of them sorority sisters and super smart business majors. And
for even more prestige, Lisa dated Phil, a Tennessee football player who was the handsome physical
antithesis of her tiny and beautiful self. Everyone in this affable group
was fun and interesting--and I was fortunate enough to hang with them.
After college, Lisa and I stayed in touch
as she married her offensive lineman and ended up in Texas while I headed for Atlanta and Delta Air Lines. After I started flying, I got to visit Lisa and Phil in Houston, and I tried to catch up
with them on Houston layovers, sometimes hit and sometimes
miss. Eventually, two children came their way and mine; we all got really busy as life evolved to its fullest. As time went by, my world became a bit complicated, I became a backsliding
correspondent and, with one big move, Lisa’s annual Christmas cards were returned to the sender out in Texas.
However, in 2014 the Post Office somehow kindly overlooked the fact that we hadn't been at our old Atlanta address in six Christmases, and delivered it anyway. On the receiving end, Whitney, the new homeowner at our old place, had become a dear friend and did me yet another kindness and sent that red
envelope up to Tennessee.
The Christmas card was signature Lisa, with flowing kindness and humility--full of apologies and owning responsibility
for losing touch. All pleasant words,“We are
doing fine”, and “If you have time, I would love to hear from you”, completed
by her long-familiar closing that made me smile, “Love always, Lisa”.
My hasty and happy reply owned my poor
correspondent supremacy, and my Reader's Digest version of our last seven or so years was rewarded with a fast email response. The “We are doing
fine” in Christmas greetings had left out Lisa's battle with a rare and aggressive cancer, but she balanced that news with confidence that God would provide a cure.
Mostly, Lisa's message was a symphony of regret
for years out of touch, mixed with warmth and a promise for a visit once she was feeling better. It
was a brief note packing an understated punch, as always written making me feel I was the
most interesting and beloved person she knew--even though I know most everyone
with whom Lisa interacted could claim the same honor.
Shortly thereafter, we managed a good one hour catch-up phone call, in spite of talking being difficult for her. With the back story of cancer silently hanging in the air, Lisa only briefly touched on the intricacies of her sickness, preferring instead to focus more on the everyday life stuff. We marveled about
how lightning fast our children had grown up, and how much we truly missed having Tom 'n' Jerry in our lives. We commiserated on the trauma of
sending our oldest kids off to college this year, and went back over life and good times at UT, enjoying the same stories that never get old.
In subsequent days, Lisa and I moved on to easier communication in texts here and there, and it seemed I was looking through the keyhole from 800-ish miles away, knowing little about how it was really going out in Texas. Lisa was so gracious, hopeful and resolute in what little information she did offer up about her illness, I deferred to her leading, and prayed for the miracle and our someday happy visit. While it was sublime being back in her orbit, the passing days had a bittersweet feel that made me sad and anxious.
After three--almost four--weeks of knowing Lisa again, I received a one sentence email saying she had passed away. The lovely and sparkly Lisa was laid to rest on Valentine's Day, which felt like a sweetly appropriate day for one always effortlessly loving and kind. For many many reasons I hate that she is gone, and I deeply wish she was not.
In subsequent days, Lisa and I moved on to easier communication in texts here and there, and it seemed I was looking through the keyhole from 800-ish miles away, knowing little about how it was really going out in Texas. Lisa was so gracious, hopeful and resolute in what little information she did offer up about her illness, I deferred to her leading, and prayed for the miracle and our someday happy visit. While it was sublime being back in her orbit, the passing days had a bittersweet feel that made me sad and anxious.
After three--almost four--weeks of knowing Lisa again, I received a one sentence email saying she had passed away. The lovely and sparkly Lisa was laid to rest on Valentine's Day, which felt like a sweetly appropriate day for one always effortlessly loving and kind. For many many reasons I hate that she is gone, and I deeply wish she was not.
So, beyond profound sadness, my thankfulness begins at the University of Tennessee for my having been in highly beneficial circumstances to meet such a lovely forever friend. Then my gratitude rockets across time to the Howell Mill Post Office where someone messed up and sent an ordinary Christmas card over to a home where the resident always does kindnesses for me.
I had almost four irreplaceable weeks, a wonderful gift where I saw courage and grace and felt that wonderful "Love always, Lisa" again in a subtly tremendous way. I suppose all that shouldn't have come around, but it did--through the delivery of one significant red envelope.
