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 the
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 in the wrestling team 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.

[Author unknown].