SIMPLE WHITE ENVELOPE
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 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 f or the season, and the
true Christmas spirit this year and always. God Bless!
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 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 f or the season, and the
true Christmas spirit this year and always. God Bless!
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