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