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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. 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, unbeknown 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.
~Author Unknown~
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