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. 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. And 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-eyes anticipation watching as their fathers take
down the envelope.
Mike’s spirit, like the Christmas spirit, will always be with us.
- Written by Nancy W. Gavin-
Used with the Permission of Her Family
First Published in Woman's Day on December 14, 1982
Visit http://whiteenvelopeproject.org for more information on this true
story.
- Author Unknown -
Copyright (c) by Rusti since 2002
All Rights Reserved
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