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 10 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 -- the
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.
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
around the tree with wide-eyed anticipation watching as their fathers
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.
