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