A Christmas Story

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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 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


~Author Unknown