In our digital age, the tangible holiday card still means something

If you're still on my holiday card list and we haven't spoken in years, it's my way of saying: Forgive me for not calling, but you still mean a lot to me.

Writing Christmas cards is one holiday tradition I do not consider a chore. It's a time to reflect on the people who have intersected with my family over the arc of our lives. My husband's college track coach who helped mold him into an adult. My former neighbors who hosted crawfish boils in their backyard. Aunts and uncles all over the country who I probably won't see again until the next wedding — or the next funeral.

The list expands every year and I agonize over who to weed out. On my spreadsheet, I highlight questionable acquaintances in yellow, which means, "Do not send" (unless, of course, they send one first). My friend is more ruthless. She keeps a special tab of people she's removed from her holiday card list, along with the year in which they were exiled.

But I keep most recipients on the nice list, even if they do not reciprocate. For all my social failings as a friend or niece or distant relative, I look forward to giving and receiving this relic of Christmas past. The exchange grounds me with gratitude and feels more personally meaningful than sharing a "season's greetings" family photo on social media. In the darkest time of the year, the cards we collect are physical reminders of our relationships.

Did Sir Henry Cole, a British civil servant, have any idea what he started when he invented the first commercial Christmas card in 1843? Cursed with too many friends and too little time to write each a lengthy personal letter, he commissioned an artist friend to instead design a card for him to mail. In the Victorian era, it cost just a penny to post a card. Now a U.S. Forever stamp costs 60 cents, and popular custom family photo cards can easily sell for $2 a pop. Hanukkah, New Years, Kwanzaa and Lunar New Year are all reasons now to send old-fashioned warm wishes through the mail.

Some credit millennials for reviving what could have been an obsolete tradition. Most of the picture-perfect cards in our pile come from this generation. The last time I saw my second cousin Jimmy from New York, he was young and single, doing back flips on the dance floor at my wedding reception. Some 15 years later, I see he now goes by James, is married, and has three gorgeous children and an equally photogenic dog.

I have another lovely cousin on the East Coast whose holiday card is more like a visual collage of all the exotic beach vacations she's taken with her family over the past year, including to islands I didn't know existed. "They look like models," my husband remarked. "They must be wealthy." Observing that they've moved, I had to look up their new Upper East Side address. Zillow confirmed that indeed they are.

My first memories of receiving holiday cards were tearing through the envelopes that my parents received from faraway college roommates or my dad's Army buddies. A thicker envelope indicated inside was a typewritten "family update" that had been Xeroxed for mass production. Over the years, I remember the sadness, and sometimes shock, that my parents felt as they learned of old friends who had passed away. All through the holiday card.

As I age, there are friends and family who I've lost, too. It's half of a favorite couple whose conversations took us well into the early morning hours over soup, bread and red wine. A caring sister-in-law whose gleeful laugh I can still hear when I close my eyes. They are names missing from the face of an envelope, names I hold in the light and feel gratitude for all the moments we've shared.

These days we're more connected than ever, and yet more distant. We have every ability to call, Zoom, text and direct message, but often fail to make time for the simplest of check-ins. Every year I have the best intentions of writing each recipient a tailored message, but usually resort to the original signoff of "Miss you lots! XOXO."

It means I owe you a call. I want you over for dinner. We should just go for a walk.

But in the meantime, please accept my humble holiday card. It's my shorthand for saying I'm so lucky to have you in my life.