White Envelopes

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.
Author Unknown