I write cards of condolence as often as I can. This is an art. I endeavor to enter someone’s sorrow, to restate what they might be experiencing. I do not offer cheap consolation. I lament with one who has lost a friend or relation or who is suffering ill health (Isaiah 50:4). I often teach through my cards, so I recommend books to read and other resources.

My mother was a champion letter and card writer. She never missed a birthday, anniversary, or holiday. She wrote to me frequently and at length. After Lillian Groothuis died in 2010, I began writing cards and letters more frequently. I did not write enough cards or letters to my mother or Grandmother Groothuis, who was also an admirable correspondent. Now I write many souls often, some of whom I don’t know or barely know. Some are in my inner circle of correspondence.

After writing to a dear friend’s father, I learned that he read my card to his daughter over the phone and remarked that I should write a book on how to write a short, but meaningful card. I don’t think I could write a whole book on it, but here are a few notions on that theme.

Writing cards is a way to re-humanize a de-humanized culture. Too much is too automatic and impersonal. When you pen (and I mean pen) a card, it bears the mark of your handwriting, your choice of ink and pen. A human—you—emerges from the thick lagoon of the pre-set, the template, the standard, the algorithm.

I often pray, “Lord, who needs a card?”