Christmas Stories: For the Man Who Hated Christmas
By Nancy W. Gavin
By Nancy W. Gavin
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.
It all began because my husband Mike hated Christmas. Oh, not the true meaning of Christmas, but the commercial aspects of it – overspending and 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 on the wrestling team at the school he attended. 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.
It all began because my husband Mike hated Christmas. Oh, not the true meaning of Christmas, but the commercial aspects of it – overspending and 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 on the wrestling team at the school he attended. 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.
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. He so enjoyed coaching 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 a small, white
envelope on the tree, the note inside telling Mike what I had done, and
that this was his gift from me.
Mike's
smile was the brightest thing about Christmas that year. And that same
bright smile lit up 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 white 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 small, white envelope never lost its allure.
The white 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 small, white 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
the next morning, I found it was magically joined by three more.
Unbeknownst to the others, each of our three children had for the
first time placed a white envelope on the tree for their dad. The
tradition has grown and someday will expand even further with our
grandchildren standing to take down that special envelope.
Mike's spirit, like the Christmas spirit will always be with us.
Mike's spirit, like the Christmas spirit will always be with us.
