From: "New Humor" 
  
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.
Text file Source (historic): geocities.com/stauffer_james/Literature

geocities.com/stauffer_james

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