It's just a small, white envelope stuck among the branches of
our Christmas tree. No name, no identification, no inscription. It has peeked
through the branches of our tree for the past ten years or so.
It all began because my husband Mike hated Christmas--oh, not the true meaning
of Christmas, but the commercial aspects of it--overspending... the frantic
running around at the last minute to get a tie for Uncle Harry and the dusting
powder for Grandma---the gifts given in desperation because you couldn't think
of anything else.
Knowing he felt this way, I decided one year to bypass the usual shirts,
sweaters, ties and so forth. I reached for something special just for Mike.
The inspiration came in an unusual way.
Our son Kevin, who was 12 that year, was wrestling at the junior level at the
school he attended; and shortly before Christmas, there was a non-league match
against a team sponsored by an inner-city church. These youngsters, dressed in
sneakers so ragged that shoestrings seemed to be the only thing holding them
together, presented a sharp contrast to our boys in their spiffy blue and gold
uniforms and sparkling new wrestling shoes. As the match began, I was alarmed to
see that the other team was wrestling without headgear, a kind of light helmet
designed to protect a wrestler's ears.
It was a luxury the ragtag team obviously could not afford. Well, we ended up
walloping them. We took every weight class. And as each of their boys got up
from the mat, he swaggered around in his tatters with false bravado, a kind of
street pride that couldn't acknowledge defeat.
Mike, seated beside me, shook his head sadly, "I wish just one of them could
have won," he said. "They have a lot of potential, but losing like this could
take the heart right out of them."
Mike loved kids - all kids - and he knew them, having coached little league
football, baseball and lacrosse. That's when the idea for his present came. That
afternoon, I went to a local sporting goods store and bought an assortment of
wrestling headgear and shoes and sent them anonymously to the inner-city church.
On Christmas Eve, I placed the envelope on the tree, the note inside telling
Mike what I had done and that this was his gift from me. His smile was the
brightest thing about Christmas that year and in succeeding years. For each
Christmas, I followed the tradition--one year sending a group of mentally
handicapped youngsters to a hockey game, another year a check to a pair of
elderly brothers whose home had burned to the ground the week before Christmas,
and on and on.
The envelope became the highlight of our Christmas. It was always the last thing
opened on Christmas morning and our children, ignoring their new toys, would
stand with wide-eyed anticipation as their dad lifted the envelope from the tree
to reveal its contents.
As the children grew, the toys gave way to more practical presents, but the
envelope never lost its allure. The story doesn't end there.
You see, we lost Mike last year due to dreaded cancer. When Christmas rolled
around, I was still so wrapped in grief that I barely got the tree up. But
Christmas Eve found me placing an envelope on the tree, and in the morning, it
was joined by three more.
Each of our children, unbeknownst to the others, had placed an envelope on the
tree for their dad. The tradition has grown and someday will expand even further
with our grandchildren standing to take down the envelope.
Mike's spirit, like the Christmas spirit will always be with us. May we all
remember Christ, who is the reason for the season, and the true Christmas spirit
this year and always.