Theresa A. Thomas

  • Making your mark

    There it was — “Angela,” written on the front of the peanut butter jar. When I asked my six year old why she did it, she stopped what she was doing and said simply, “I wanted everyone to know I was going to eat peanut butter.” When she wrote her name on the sheets a few years ago, I had asked a similar question. “Why did you write your name on there?” The answer then had been, “I don’t know. … I was there.”

    It’s not the first time one of our children has made his or her mark on an item in our home. With nine children, over the years I’ve found names written practically everywhere — on the walls, in books, on the sidewalk, and on shower doors, among other places. Sometimes the names are bold and large. Other times, they are tiny. It doesn’t seem to bother the kids that they’re found out automatically by signing their names. They somehow seem to need to say, “I’m here. I was here.” Or “This is mine.” Writing one’s name on something denotes ownership … or simply signifies one’s undeniable presence.

    The day my husband and I moved out of our very first house we went up into the small, walk-in closet on the second floor of the tiny Cape Cod home, and squeezed into it together. My husband had remembered writing “David Thomas was here” on the basement wall in his old childhood home as a kid, and that gave us the idea for what we were about to do. We looked briefly at one another in the dim 25 watt light emanating from the old bulb. And then I giggled … and handed him a pen. There we sat, together, slouched in that teeny, slanted ceiling second-story closet and he wrote, “David and Theresa Thomas 1987 to 1993. Thanks for the memories” in indelible pen. Then we left.

    We never really stop wanting to leave a mark, do we? We all want to make our claims, our marks on the world. We want others to know that we were here, that we did something. Authors write books, sometimes, with the hope of leaving something that extends beyond their natural lifetime. In fact, entire civilizations have left monuments and other stately physical structures in order to state their existence and “leave something” for posterity.

    While physical marks are one type of leaving evidence of one’s presence, there are other intangible ways of making a mark. “Making a name for oneself” is one expression of this, but in fact, every single thing we do leaves a mark of some kind on the world. Like a pebble in a pond which creates a ripple, every word we say, every task we undertake, affects others around us in some way. Everything we do, for good or for naught, affects others and thus directly or indirectly affects society.

    I remember seeing a cartoon that depicted a boss yelling at a man, who went home and then snapped at his wife, who was then impatient with their child, who then kicked the dog. It’s a domino effect and the default mode of human nature — to react in kind unless we make conscious choices to do otherwise.

    The ripple effect can also be positive. One kind word can start the domino of kindness and we won’t know until life’s end the true effect of one considerate and caring gesture.

    Yukio Shige is a retired Japanese man who spends most of his days at Tojimbo Cliffs, a venue where many despondent people come to commit suicide. He simply observes the people who come to the cliff. When he notices someone alone who appears distraught or anxious he approaches that person and engages in conversation, often preventing the life-ending action the person came to commit. His simple action has left a profound mark on the world, in the lives of those he has saved and in the lives of those who will now come into contact with those he has saved.

    One of my favorite movies is “It’s a Wonderful Life” where George Bailey finds out what the world would be like without him. It turns out, there are many lives that the simple but good George has touched, lives who would be unalterably different had he never been born.

    What about us? What kind of mark are we making in our little circle of the universe? Each of us comes into contact with a unique group of people and we have a unique area of influence. What will be our mark for posterity?

    Posted on June 29, 2011, to:

  • I want to hold your hand

    In the summer of 1979 I was 16 years old. One muggy, warm evening I was picked up by my first date ever and went to the county 4-H fair. As my date and I were engaging in polite conversation and making our way through crowds of people to a stand where you tossed rings around bottles to win oversized stuffed animals, the young man, just two years my senior, turned suddenly and his hand brushed against mine. A wave of excitement rushed through me. Just a gentle touch of the hand made me think suddenly, acutely, of nothing but him. Years later that same hand took mine on our wedding day when my first date became my husband who promised to love and cherish me the rest of our lives. I remember the security I felt with fingers entwined, us against the world, as we walked down the church aisle as Mr. and Mrs., and emerged as a new couple, a new team.

    Sometimes, on Sundays after Mass, we would drive into Michigan City, where his grandparents lived. His grandfather, who was nearly blind and could hardly walk, sat in a rocking chair by the window. I would sit by him and offer my hand. He clenched it tightly. As he recounted stories of his youth he would squeeze my hand or gently tap it with a finger. He had lost one of his thumbs in an accident but that did not deter his lively hand gestures or exuberance in grabbing my hand. He seemed to gain strength from that simple physical contact. There was a relational power in that effortless act that took understanding deeper than mere words or glances ever could.

    The first Christmas my husband and I spent together was not in a cozy corner of our home or our parents’ homes. Rather, we spent the day in the hospital emergency room. My husband held my hand before I was whisked away for a D and C. I had miscarried our first child earlier that day and complications were arising that necessitated the procedure. I was young. I was scared, but the squeeze of my husband’s hand gave me the courage to get through that difficult day. Four more times, we suffered the loss of a child, and each time my husband was there, offering his support … and his hand.

    My husband also held my hand during the births of our nine children, and he probably still has nail marks on his palms from when I had to have a bone marrow biopsy and I dug my fingers deep into him.

    When our oldest was an infant, I loved to sit in the rocking chair, with him. As infants do, he clutched my finger when I put it in his palm. It was our first hand-hold. Soon, along came his brother. The three of us would take walks every day, and I loved holding their hands as we strolled along, exploring the neighborhood.

    With each child added to our family, our hand-holding circle grew. We held hands as we read books together, relaxed on the sofa and as I sat by them, first next to the cribs, then the beds, until they drifted off to sleep at night. I didn’t worry about rushing off to get something done in the evenings. Somehow I innately knew the time was limited and there wouldn’t always be the opportunity to simply share moments of fingers intertwined.

    I recently read an article in which a doctor stated that hand-holding reduces stress. I believe it. A study by psychology experts at the University of Virginia found that subjects who held someone’s hand during a difficult procedure were more relaxed than those not holding hands. They further found that the greatest hand-holding benefits came from spousal hand-holding. Researchers concluded that there are measurable benefits of being socially connected, and of close physically-expressed, emotional relationships.

    To hold someone’s hand you have to trust them. Holding hands, non-verbally, says, “I want to relate to you and words are not enough — or even necessary.” Hand holding can convey love or courage. It can demonstrate affection or understanding. You can’t hold someone’s hand and stay mad at them for long. Words may be misspoken or misunderstood. Holding hands cuts through misunderstanding. Holding hands is real.

    When we help we “lend a hand.” When we applaud we “give a hand.” But what about simply holding a hand? I think the world would be a better place if we just did that.
    Are you a hand-holder or not? Write me at TheresaThomasEveryday Catholic@gmail.com

    Posted on May 31, 2011, to:

  • Mysteries in the hardware store

    I ran into a friend in the hardware store yesterday. She was in the paint section, looking to match some paint to refresh some of her rooms. I was also in the paint section, hoping to find some clean, pretty colors to replace our wallpaper. I hate wallpaper.

    Anyway, Susan is the mother of my daughter’s best friend, and I hadn’t seen her since last summer. We had so much to talk about. Right then and there, between samples of Harvest gold and Limoncello yellow we caught up as best we could, chatting about our daughters — their year so far in college, their stressors, their concerns.

    And then we turned to discuss our other children. When I got to my adult son who is living far away from my husband and me (on the opposite side of the country, in fact), Susan said something that jolted me in a good way. As I described to her my pain of my son leaving the nest and working so far from us she interjected, “That’s the Ascension.”

    “What?” I asked

    “That’s the Ascension. You’re going through what Mary went through at the Ascension.”

    She was referring to the event and the second glorious mystery of the rosary.

    Hmm. I guessed so. Pain of separation. He was doing his work far from me. I always thought of the Ascension from the ‘significance to the faithful’ point of view — Jesus’ work was done and He was returning to heaven. Susan made me think of the event from His mother’s perspective. Interesting.

    As we continued to talk I mentioned another event in my life. She slid in with “Oh! The Visitation.”

    Yes, I suppose. I was experiencing something similar to Mary in that moment too. As our conversation continued, Susan continued to point out parallels in my life to certain mysteries of the rosary. It was a combination of comforting and feeling déjà vu. I liked it.

    And that’s when I realized what Susan had known all along — that the rosary mysteries could not only be meditations on the great events of Jesus’ life in terms of their significance to mankind in general, but they could be peeks into the mysteries of our personal lives as well. They were opportunities to relate to Him in a more personal way. As Catholics we are to unite our sufferings to Jesus on the cross to see their redemptive power. Our joys can also more fully unite us to God as we ponder their significance in our lives — what God might be trying to say to us in each mystery event, in each moment that we experience something similar, if even in a small way.

    The “Agony in the Garden” in the sorrowful mysteries, for example, not only reminds us of the torturous suffering that Jesus went through in anticipation of His brutal death but we can possibly more fully understand, relate to and maybe accept with resignation and offer up the anticipation of some dreaded event in our lives when we pray and ponder this mystery. A student might be dreading a test. A father might be dreading a presentation or separation from the family. A mother might be dreading a medical procedure or even the simple challenges of a particular day. By meditating upon Jesus’ acceptance of the Father’s will — in the Agony in the Garden He prayed, “Not mine but Your Will be done” — we can perhaps gain the courage to face our own cross, our own suffering, and approach it in the best way possible.

    In pondering the luminous mystery, Institution of the Eucharist, we might come to a better understanding of and appreciation for the Holy Eucharist and what a gift it is to us. Maybe that thought will get us to daily Mass or at least to approach it with a more appreciative and open heart the next Sunday that we go.

    In short, I realized what my friend Susan must have known a long time — that applying the mysteries of the rosary to my daily life is a way to make it a living prayer — something that can be prayed almost constantly, daily. I appreciate this insight from Susan, my “big sister in Christ,” and continue to be amazed how God uses little events and ordinary friends to teach us great things about Himself.

    Posted on April 26, 2011, to:

  • Channel of grace

    David was 17 years old the summer he started working in the plastics factory, which was owned by his uncle. He took this job in between his junior and senior years in high school hoping to maximize earnings for college, which was just a year away. He also hoped that he would learn something about business. He did that, and more. But we’ll get to that in a minute.

    While working that summer at the plastics factory, David slowly came to find out that many of his coworkers had police records. Some had been incarcerated for theft, forgery, even physical assault. He personally worked under the supervision of a young man 21 or 22 years old, who, like many of the others, had been in prison.

    Days were long at the factory and tasks were mundane. Conversation was a way to keep everyone from becoming too bored. David and this man talked about everything from the weather to music to philosophies of life as they manned the grinder and cleaned up the waste. One day, the conversation took a surprising turn. David’s boss asked him if he would buy him a gun. Because the man had a record, he was unable to do so himself. David was stunned.

    “A gun? What do you need a gun for, man?” he asked.

    The young man replied directly, “To protect my family. I don’t live in the greatest part of town. There’s shootings. … I got a daughter. …”

    Whether David believed him or not he couldn’t decide. But one thing was certain; he was not going to try to buy anybody a gun, even if he had been old enough. So he dodged the question, changed the subject and buried the conversation in the back of his mind. A few weeks passed.

    Part of David’s backbreaking and unglamorous job was moving remnant shavings from the plastic molds into the shredder. He frequently did shoveling outdoors. One day it was so hot that he removed his shirt to work — leaving on just a sleeveless white T-shirt. His boss came up to help with the task and noticed David’s brown scapular hanging around his neck.

    “What’s that?” the boss asked.

    “It’s a scapular,” David replied.

    “What’s it for?” the boss asked.

    “Well …” and David, to the best of his ability, explained the concept of the scapular associated with the Carmelite order, of God’s love and protection, and the basic role of sacramentals, to an ex-criminal right there in the plastics scrap yard. The young man asked questions. David answered the best he could. The young man seemed intrigued.

    The night before his last day of work, David asked his mother if he could have some scapulars. She directed him to the top drawer in the dining room buffet where the extra, replacement scapulars were kept. He took out three. The next day he gave them to his young boss. The man was visibly touched.

    “For me? You got these for me?” 

    “Yeah,” said David.

    The man opened one of the plastic bags which held the scapular and looked at the written explanation, then put the scapular around his neck.

    “Wow, thanks!”

    He tucked the other two packages in his pocket to take home to his family. It was a grace-filled moment. There was no preaching, no lofty sermon or judgmental comments. David saw this man’s desire for protection and answered his request for a gun with three small brown scapulars. In his own way, without fanfare or preaching he was a channel of grace for someone else. Did this young boss of David’s ever join the Catholic faith? Start going to Church? Convert? Did he ever become officially “enrolled” in the brown scapular? I don’t know. But I do know that in that case, in that instance, one young man brought a message of God to another young man in a situation some may call random. Is it coincidence when we are placed in a particular situation in a particular time and an opportunity arises to minister to another? Or is it part of God’s design and plan from the start? You decide. I’m simply going to offer that it’s good to ponder the influence each of us may have unexpectedly, daily. In the strangest places, if we are open, we can be witnesses to our faith.

    Posted on March 30, 2011, to:

  • Saving Sundays: Part two

    Sometimes when you throw a little pebble in a pond you get a surprisingly big ripple. That’s what happened with my column last month. I tossed out the rather old and rather biblical idea that Sundays are special, that they ought to be honored as the Lord’s Day and respected as a day for families. I certainly didn’t expect the tidal wave of responses I’ve received.

    First, I was phoned by people I know — siblings, parishioners, neighbors. Then I was stopped after Mass, tapped on the shoulder in the grocery store, and stopped in a parking lot by people who said the message of the column resonated with them deeply. One mom had tears in her eyes as she described how much strife she felt over never being able to visit her mother-in-law because of imposed scheduling. Another told me that she brought her comments to a local school board meeting for consideration. A third photocopied the article and said she was sending it to a local sports organization for which her children play athletics.

    Then, e-mails and handwritten letters started popping into my inbox like Christmas cards in December. What do I make of it all? Let’s read a few comments and see.

    “I honestly believe that many people fell away from all churchgoing partly because Sunday seemed to be the only day to actually rest,” wrote Karen, “(People) just couldn’t face one more day (of) fighting to get children and themselves out of the house in a frantic rush to go to church.”

    Sarah, a mother of young children wrote, “Sundays should not be a day to make these tough choices between a basketball game and dinner at Grandma’s house.”

    Ann, whose husband is a sports reporter quipped, “My husband can tell you that for the past 20 years while he has covered Notre Dame football I have said that Notre Dame will have a winning season once they stop holding Sunday press conferences.”

    So consider this column “Saving Sundays: Part two.” We’ve identified the problem, and most everyone agrees we need to address it. Now let’s talk about a few ways to reclaim the day.

    First, like the Nike commercial recommends, we must just say “no.” We must say “no” to the demands that press for our attention, that steal time from our families. We can find a few like-minded parents to join us in kindly approaching those in charge of scheduling our children’s athletic and academic events. We can explain why we need Sunday to ourselves and ask for cooperation. We can mention that the Church commands us to keep Sundays as the Lord’s Day because on Sunday Christ rose from the dead and on Sunday the Holy Spirit descended upon the Apostles.

    We can point to the biblical quote “Six days there are for doing work, but the seventh day is the Sabbath of complete rest, sacred to the Lord.” (NAB Ex 31:15) We can also just say, “I need a break! My family needs to be together!” If enough people do that, maybe scheduling changes will be made. Besides, the schedulers themselves might even be thinking the same thing.

    Second, we should avoid servile work. Our bodies and minds need rest and refreshment. What is servile work? The Baltimore Catechism states, “Servile work is that which requires labor of body rather than of mind… Servile work is allowed on Sunday when the honor of God, our own need, or that of our neighbor requires it.”

    Third, we must make a conscious effort to make Sunday special. We need to prepare a special Sunday meal, maybe even have a special Sunday tablecloth and use those china dishes sitting in the dining room which are currently just on display. We could play cards, or board games, plan an outing ice skating or sledding in the winter. We could go to the beach in the summer. We could visit relatives or bring cookies and friendship to neighbors. We could participate in a parish activity; invite our parish priest over for dinner and ask him to bless the house. We could ask Grandpa to tell a story. Snuggle with a child and read a story of the saints. The possibilities are endless when we reclaim this day, the Lord’s Day and again, make it our own.

    Posted on March 2, 2011, to: