The 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... 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 Christ, who is the reason for the season, and the true Christmas spirit this year and always.

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