6 o'clock on Christmas Eve, I get a call from Edward, my best friend, telling me to look outside my front door. There I find one of his self-designed cards that we spent Sunday evening printing. That made me happy.

When I was out with him doing his Christmas shopping, he coyly tried to add some picture frames to the basket. It was pretty clear that they were intended for me, as earlier I had been complaining that I couldn't find the kind I needed to house some of the pictures that I have of him. Hoping I wasn't wrong, I obliquely thanked him but asked him to put them back. But when he's spoken over the last two days of his card list, I was silently hoping that I was on it.

Upon reading it, my elation so eclipsed the happiness of just a few moments before as to make it nearly invisible by comparison. The message he wrote was so sweet, it blew me away. That card is the best present I've ever gotten. I was leaving a message on his phone, telling him how much he means to me, when I suddenly found myself tearing up and barely able to speak. He is such an incredible person, and I am so lucky to be his friend.

He had said that he doesn't write much on holiday cards because people don't really appreciate them, and certainly don't keep them. My task now is to somehow get this one laminated or encased in transparent aluminum or something, so I can read the inside and enjoy the design on the outside for at least the next twenty years.