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 for the past 10 years or so.
It all began because my husband Mike hated the commercial aspects of Christmas: the overspending, the frantic last-minute shopping for impersonal gifts.
Knowing this, I decided one year to find a special gift for him. The inspiration came unexpectedly. Our 12-year-old son Kevin had a wrestling match before Christmas against a team from an inner-city church. The opposing team, dressed in ragged sneakers and wrestling without protective headgear, presented a stark contrast to our well-equipped boys. Our team won decisively.
Mike, sitting beside me, shook his head sadly. "I wish just one of them could have won," he said. "They have potential, but losing like this could break their spirit." Mike loved all kids, having coached youth sports. That's when the idea came.
That afternoon, I bought wrestling headgear and shoes and sent them anonymously to the church. On Christmas Eve, I placed an envelope on the tree with a note inside telling Mike what I had done. His smile was the brightest part of Christmas that year.
A tradition was born. Each Christmas, I continued the practice—sending mentally handicapped youngsters to a hockey game, helping elderly brothers who lost their home to a fire, and so on. The envelope became the highlight of our Christmas, always opened last on Christmas morning, with our children watching in wide-eyed anticipation.
As the children grew, toys gave way to practical gifts, but the envelope never lost its allure. The story deepened when we lost Mike to cancer. Grief-stricken that first Christmas without him, I still placed an envelope on the tree. In the morning, I found three more—each of our children, unbeknownst to the others, had placed one for their dad.
The tradition has grown and will continue with future generations. Mike's spirit, like the Christmas spirit, will always be with us.