The Tradition
Author: Unknown
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.
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