The Gift

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, 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 the Christmas spirit this year and always.