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 ten years or so.

It all began because my husband, Mike, was very uncomfortable with the holiday season.
No, not the true meaning of the holidays, 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 12-year-old son, Kevin, was on his school's
wrestling team. During the holiday season, there was a non-league match against an
inner-city team, sponsored by a church. These youngsters, dressed in sneakers so ragged
that
shoestrings seemed to be the only thing holding them together, presented a dramatic
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.
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." "They have a
lot of potential, but losing like this could take the heart right out of them."

Mike loved kids -- all kids. He knew them well, having coached little league baseball,
football, 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. As our holiday celebration approached,
I placed the envelope in 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 that holiday season and
for years to come.

Each year, 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 during the holidays, etc. The envelope became the highlight
of our
family celebration. It was always the last thing opened up that 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. The children grew. Toys gave
way to more practical presents. The envelope never lost its allure.

The story doesn't end here. You see, last year we lost Mike to dreaded cancer. When
the holidays unfolded, I was still so stricken with grief that I barely got the tree up.
But the night before our family gathering found me placing another envelope on the tree.

The next morning, I discovered 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 the same wide eyes as they watch their
fathers take down the envelope.

Mike's spirit -- the real holiday spirit that sometimes seems so elusive -- will always be
with us. May we all remember the holiday spirit this year and every day of our lives.

Author Unknown