(no subject)
as told by the UU minister at tonight's xmas/crissmuss eve service
I think it's best when read out-loud.
Here's a really good story --not a story from my own life, but one that I think speaks to all of our lives:
It's just a small, white envelope. It has peeked through the branches of our Christmas tree for the past 10 years.
It all began because my husband, Mike, hated Christmas. Oh, not the true meaning of the season, but the commercial aspects, the frantic, last-minute running around, the overspending, the useless gifts given in desperation because you couldn't think of anything else.
So I decided to reach for something special, just for Mike. The inspiration came in an unusual way.
Our son Kevin, who was 12 that year, was on the junior high wrestling team. Shortly before the holidays, there was a non-league match against a team from a very tough neighborhood in the city, sponsored by an urban church.
Our team showed up in their beautiful blue and gold uniforms and brand new wrestling shoes. The other kids were ragtag, to say the least. They didn't even have headgear, the lightweight helmets designed to protect wrestlers' ears.
Our kids walloped them; they took every weight class. As each of their boys got up from the mat, he'd swagger around with false bravado, that kind of pride that hurts to watch.
It hurt Mike, who was seated beside me. He loved kids--all kids--and had coached Little League lacrosse, football, and baseball over the years. '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.'
That's when the idea for his present came. I decided I would help to level the playing field, as it were. That same afternoon, I went to the local sporting goods store and bought an assortment of wrestling headgear and shoes, and sent them anonymously to the other team.
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. His smile was the brightest thing about Christmas that year, and for many years to come. Each Christmas, I followed the tradition. One year, his gift sent a group of kids with special needs to a hockey game; another year, a check went to a pair of elderly brothers whose home had burned to the ground the week before Christmas.
That small white envelope became the highlight of our Christmas. It was always the last thing opened on Christmas morning, and our children, leaving their new toys for a few moments, would crowd their dad with wide-eyed anticipation as he lifted the envelope from the branches to reveal its contents.
The small white envelope never lost its allure.
The story doesn't end there. Last year, we lost Mike to cancer. When Christmas rolled around, I was still so wrapped in grief, I barely got the tree up. But Christmas Eve found me placing an envelope in its branches, somehow comforted by the gesture. In the morning, it was joined by three more. Each of our children, unbeknownst to the others, had placed a small white 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 envelopes. Mike's spirit, like the Christmas spirit, will always be with us.
I think it's best when read out-loud.
Here's a really good story --not a story from my own life, but one that I think speaks to all of our lives:
It's just a small, white envelope. It has peeked through the branches of our Christmas tree for the past 10 years.
It all began because my husband, Mike, hated Christmas. Oh, not the true meaning of the season, but the commercial aspects, the frantic, last-minute running around, the overspending, the useless gifts given in desperation because you couldn't think of anything else.
So I decided to reach for something special, just for Mike. The inspiration came in an unusual way.
Our son Kevin, who was 12 that year, was on the junior high wrestling team. Shortly before the holidays, there was a non-league match against a team from a very tough neighborhood in the city, sponsored by an urban church.
Our team showed up in their beautiful blue and gold uniforms and brand new wrestling shoes. The other kids were ragtag, to say the least. They didn't even have headgear, the lightweight helmets designed to protect wrestlers' ears.
Our kids walloped them; they took every weight class. As each of their boys got up from the mat, he'd swagger around with false bravado, that kind of pride that hurts to watch.
It hurt Mike, who was seated beside me. He loved kids--all kids--and had coached Little League lacrosse, football, and baseball over the years. '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.'
That's when the idea for his present came. I decided I would help to level the playing field, as it were. That same afternoon, I went to the local sporting goods store and bought an assortment of wrestling headgear and shoes, and sent them anonymously to the other team.
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. His smile was the brightest thing about Christmas that year, and for many years to come. Each Christmas, I followed the tradition. One year, his gift sent a group of kids with special needs to a hockey game; another year, a check went to a pair of elderly brothers whose home had burned to the ground the week before Christmas.
That small white envelope became the highlight of our Christmas. It was always the last thing opened on Christmas morning, and our children, leaving their new toys for a few moments, would crowd their dad with wide-eyed anticipation as he lifted the envelope from the branches to reveal its contents.
The small white envelope never lost its allure.
The story doesn't end there. Last year, we lost Mike to cancer. When Christmas rolled around, I was still so wrapped in grief, I barely got the tree up. But Christmas Eve found me placing an envelope in its branches, somehow comforted by the gesture. In the morning, it was joined by three more. Each of our children, unbeknownst to the others, had placed a small white 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 envelopes. Mike's spirit, like the Christmas spirit, will always be with us.