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 at this time of the year 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. You know, 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 wrestling at the junior level at the school
he attended. Shortly before Christmas, there was a non-league match against a
team sponsored by an inner city church. These black and hispanic 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
head gear, a kind of light helmet designed to protect a wrestler's ears. It was
a luxury the ragtag team obviously couldn't 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. He understood kids in competitive situations, 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 challenged 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
— 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. Still, the story doesn't end there.
You
see, we lost Mike last year due to cancer. When Christmas rolled around, I was
still so wrapped in grief that I barely got the tree up. Yet 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 their envelopes. Each of my children now grown with children of their
own, continue that tradition of spreading joy to others ... spontaneously and
anonymously.
Mike's
spirit, like the spirit of Christmas, will always be with us.
~
Woman's Day Magazine 12/14/1982 from
Nancy Gavin's 'For the Man Who Hated
Christmas'
CHECK
HERE for OUR FREE LANGUAGE TRANSLATOR or TO SHARE WITH FRIENDS & FAMILY
GET
OUR
