It is just a small white envelope stuck between the branches of our Christmas tree. No name, no identification, no inscription. It has been peeking through the branches of our tree for the last ten years or so.
It all started because my husband Mike hated Christmas… not the true meaning of Christmas, but its commercial aspects… the frantic running at the last minute to get a tie for Uncle Harry and the dust for Grandma… the gifts given in desperation because you can’t think of anything else.
Knowing that it felt like that, I decided one year to avoid shirts, sweaters, ties and so on. I looked for something special just for Mike. Inspiration came in an unusual way.
Our son Kevin, who was 12 that year, was struggling at the junior level at the school he attended; and just before Christmas, there was a non-league game against a team sponsored by a downtown church. These young men, dressed in sneakers so worn out that laces seemed to be the only thing holding them together, stood in stark contrast to our boys in their stylish blue and gold uniforms and their shiny new wrestling shoes.
As the game began, I was alarmed to see that the other team was wrestling without a helmet, a kind of lightweight helmet designed to protect the wrestler’s ears. It was a luxury that the ragtag team obviously could not afford.
Well, we ended up hitting them. We took all weight classes. And as each of his guys got up from the mat, he strutted around in his shreds with false bravado, a kind of street pride that couldn’t recognize defeat.
Mike, sitting next to me, shook his head sadly, “I wish only one of them could have won,” he said. “They have a lot of potential, but losing like this could take their hearts away.
Mike loved children – all children – and knew them, having coached in little league soccer, baseball and lacrosse. That’s when the idea for his gift came. That afternoon, I went to a local sporting goods store and bought an assortment of wrestling hats and shoes and sent them anonymously to the downtown church.
On Christmas Eve, I put 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 highlight of Christmas that year and the following years. For every Christmas, I followed tradition: one year I sent a group of young mentally disabled people to a field hockey game, another year a check to a couple of older brothers whose house had burned to the ground the week before Christmas, and so on.
The envelope became the highlight of our Christmas. It was always the last thing to be opened on Christmas morning and our children, ignoring their new toys, were left with their eyes wide open as their father lifted the envelope from the tree to reveal its contents.
As the children grew, the toys gave way to more practical gifts, but the envelope never lost its charm. The story doesn’t end there.
You see, we lost Mike last year to the dreaded cancer. When Christmas came, I was still so wrapped up in grief that I barely lifted the tree. But on Christmas Eve I found myself putting an envelope on the tree, and in the morning, three more joined in.
Each of our children, unbeknownst to the others, had placed an envelope on the tree for their father. The tradition has grown and will one day expand even further with our grandchildren standing to take out the envelope.
Mike’s spirit, like the spirit of Christmas, will always be with us.