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. He didn't hate 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 and 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, mostly black.
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. The story doesn't end there.
You see, we lost Mike 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, three more joined it. 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-eyed anticipation watching as their fathers take down the envelope. Mike's spirit, like the Christmas spirit, will always be with us.
我家的聖誕樹上掛著一張小小的白色信封。上面既沒有收信人的名字和寄信人的籤名、也沒有任何提示。它掛在我家的聖誕樹上已經十多年了。
一切都因丈夫邁克對聖誕的憎恨而起。他並不憎恨聖誕節本身的意義，但他討厭聖誕被商業化了。人們大把大把地花錢;在除夕夜的最後一分鐘，圍著圈不顧一切地跑去為哈裡大叔搶些彩帶，為外祖母手搶些彩粉;瘋狂地瓜分禮物，把一切都拋在腦後。
正是因為知道他的這種感受，於是有一年我決定打破常規(平時都送些襯衣呀、毛衣或是領帶等禮物)。我為邁克準備了一些特別的東西。靈感是有來歷的。
那年我們的兒子凱文十二歲，在學校摔跤隊的初級班裡接受訓練。聖誕節前夕，學校安排了一場非聯賽的比賽，對手是本市教會資助的一隻隊伍，他們大部分隊員都是黑人。
這些小夥子們穿著破爛不堪的運動鞋，唯一能夠綁在腳上的仿佛只有那條鞋帶。而與之形成鮮明對比的是我們的孩子，他們身披金藍相間的制服，腳蹬嶄新的摔跤鞋，顯得分外耀眼。
比賽開始了，我驚異地發現對方選手在摔跤的時候沒有帶專業頭盔，只有一種好象質地很薄的帽子保護著選手的耳朵。
對貧民隊來說買一頂頭盔顯然是一種奢侈。毫無疑問我們以絕對的優勢獲勝，並取得了每個級別的冠軍。比賽結束了，他們隊的每個男孩從地毯上爬起來，在潰敗的失意中昂首闊步裝出一副獲勝的樣子，流露出像街頭地痞一樣的驕橫和蠻不講理。
坐在我身旁的邁克傷心地搖搖頭說道：「我真希望他們其中一個可以贏。他們很有潛力，但是就這樣輸掉了比賽就等於輸掉了他們的信心。」
邁克愛孩子——所有的孩子。他曾帶過小型的聯賽橄欖球隊，棒球隊和長曲棍球隊，所以他了解他們。而我的靈感也由此而發。
當天下午，我就到本地的一家運動用品商店買了摔跤專用的頭盔和鞋子，並以匿名的形式把禮物送到了本市的教會。
那個聖誕夜，我把一個信封掛在聖誕樹上，裡面寫著我做的事情，並告訴邁克這是我送給他的禮物。他的笑容是那年聖誕節最明亮的飾物，多少年來那笑容還一直延續著。
每年的聖誕節，我都沿襲了這個傳統。我曾送給一群智障兒童一副曲棍球，也曾送給一對年老的兄弟一張支票，因為聖誕節的前一個星期大火燒毀了他們的房子。等等，等等。
在我家，拆信成了聖誕節的亮點。聖誕節的早晨，那封信總是我們最後拆開的禮物，孩子們甚至忘記了他們自己的玩具，站在一旁，瞪著大大的眼睛，滿心希望地看著父親從樹上取下信封，然後打開看裡面的內容。
孩子們漸漸長大，玩具開始給更具有實用性的禮物讓位了，但是信封從未失去它的吸引力。我們的故事永遠都不會結束。
現在我們失去了邁克，他患了癌症先我而去。而聖誕依然年年到來，我仍沉浸在失去他的悲傷中，雖然我幾乎扶不起聖誕樹，但是聖誕夜我仍放一封信在樹上。清晨，我看見有三四封信掛在樹上。每封都是孩子們掛上去的，對大家都保密，都放了一封信在樹上獻給他們的父親。
這個傳統在延續，有一天會被我們的孫子傳得更遠，當他們瞪著大大的眼睛，滿懷希望地等待著他們的父親從樹上取下信封。邁克的精神，像聖誕的精神將永遠伴隨著我們。