One of the finest Christmas anecdotes I've ever seen came from my EX-Files partner
and co-conspirator, Pam Wright, in an article she shared with the readers of Better
Investing magazine back in December 1998.
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