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-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.
May we all remember the Christmas spirit this year and always.
