Song Playing is called
"The First Noel"
   
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. The kids were 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 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.
Mike's
spirit, like the spirit of Christmas, will always be with us.
 
 
 
 
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