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;
and shortly before Christmas, there was a non league match against
a
team sponsored by an inner-city church, mostly black. 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.