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A Christmas StoryIt's just a small, white envelope stuck among the branches of our Christmas
tree. No name, no identification, no inscription. It 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; the dusting powder for Grandma;
and, 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 Christ, who is the reason for the season, and the true
Christmas spirit this year and always. God bless.
-- Author Unknown
Thanks to Irismist