A Christmas Story
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. 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, and "give" in a Christ-like
manner. After all, he is the reason for the season, and the true "Christmas
spirit" this year and always.
God bless
-Anonymous-
