White Envelope
Author Unknown
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 the 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 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 of 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.
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