Not for a Minute

Sundays in November tended to draw very unlikely characters to area churches in town. Congregants were quick to welcome all, for tis the season to give and be generous. Food drives abounded. The little churches in town were no different. On Tuesdays, the Methodist church provided a hot meal. On Thursdays, the Baptist church provided one as well. Sundays nearly every little church served lunch following the morning sermon. It was no surprise when visitors stayed. The generosity of the older members was exceptional. Having lived through the Great Depression, they knew the meaning of need. Always ready to lend a hand. With kind, friendly faces they sat and discussed the weather and other trivial things with the guests.

It was a bit dark. Florescent lighting still loomed above. One couldn’t help but notice the musty smell over the aroma of freshly baked bread. Faded tablecloths, Styrofoam cups, plastic knives and forks. They seemed to match the serving staff’s cast—aged and tired. But willing. Very willing.

His head was hung low. He appeared strong, maybe younger than his features suggested. Scruffy beard. Sad eyes. Worn clothing and shoes. Downcast.

Dorothy

“Excuse me, Mr., um, I’m sorry, I don’t know your name sir. Oh, they call you Thomas. It’s very nice to have you with us today. Please sit down.” Not the usual look of those who frequented the churches for help. He appeared young. Conversation was difficult. The mere mention of family changed his mood. The furrows in his brow told me the talk of it brought pain. He gulped down the food and quickly made an exit. I shivered as I watched him head out into the low temperatures. His arms wrapped around his body to hold in what heat he could. His dark hair whitened from the falling snow as he made his way down the steps onto the parking lot. Perhaps he would sleep under the bridge where a tent was set up. Fires in cans burned to provide heat. A warm bed was not a realistic probability for some. Lists of shelters were provided but transportation was not.

A quick prayer was said for Thomas and the others as we quickly cleaned up the kitchen and made our way home. My mind was unsettled with nothing but the thought of the sad eyes and the mention of family that caused him grief. I said a prayer for the man that left in the cold. Would I be able to forget the melancholy eyes of this stranger? Not for a minute.

 Thomas

The meal filled his stomach. For the time being. Then he would need to find something else. He could count on the Methodist church on Tuesday and the little Baptist church again on Thursday. If they had leftovers, he’d gladly take them. Thomas trudged through the snow to a little rustic building behind the post office. He hadn’t always lived this way. Thomas was a resourceful man. He had worked a decent job before a company buyout changed his life. No need for him. Times were hard. Jobs were few. He was comfortable in the place he lived, but without work, he could no longer afford it. He worked extra hours at the local supermarket to make ends meet. After his mother passed away, he parted ways with his dad. What seemed like a hill to die on then seemed trivial now. Neither would give in. His dad told him to go. Thomas, determined to win, refused to look back. If his father was going to be so hard-hearted, he could live alone. Forever. With that, he left the town. There were times Thomas almost considered contacting his dad but what good would that do? He could not even entertain the thought. Not for a minute. 

Living without a steady job was frightening and depressing. Thomas cleaned the post office and kept the sidewalks cleaned during the snow in exchange for the small shack behind it. The tiny room with a hotplate was sufficient for what he needed. He paid for the utilities. But during slow work times, utilities were a challenge. Thomas lived a cheerless, solitary life. The time he spent at the churches he felt cared for. The people were friendly. There was one church he especially liked. The one with the faded tablecloths, Styrofoam cups, and plastic flatware. He didn’t know why. Maybe it was the way the ladies fussed about him or the way they insisted he eat. The warmth of their hugs. The food that was sent home. It awakened feelings long forgotten—feelings of acceptance and kinship. What had caused such words to rip and tear? How could they have gotten to a place of no return? But years had passed, and Thomas was alone. For all he knew, his father was not even alive. His mother had passed away two years before the end of their relationship. He was left with only memories.

With Thanksgiving quickly approaching the post office would be closed. That meant no work and no pay. Thomas would attend the little church again. They were providing Thanksgiving Day meals! What a great contribution. He ate his regular Sunday lunch at the church. As he gathered his things and headed toward the door, the lady with the big hugs rushed to him. She knew of a place that was hiring. Thomas perked up. He never minded working. Not at all. She scribbled an address on a napkin and handed it to him. He left that Sunday in a lighter mood. A job! A steady job. Perhaps this would be a new beginning.

On Monday, Thomas made his way to the small building on the edge of town. It was a little Assisted Living Center for senior citizens. There was a white fence surrounding it. It looked quaint and happy. The residents were much like him, lonely. Some with only memories to comfort them. Did he question coming? Not for a minute. After all, it was the older people at the church who had taken care of him. The lights were bright and cheery, and he was eagerly welcomed by the staff. He could begin work as soon as possible. The job was fulfilling and he quickly made friends with the residents. It was a great opportunity, and he was invited to eat there any time. Thomas enjoyed his work at the Center. It became apparent that he had an entertaining way about him. He loved playing games with the residents after work. And so, Thomas began to spend more time there. Maybe he could make up for the void in his life—the void left by his father.

As the weeks passed, Thomas began to keep company with one of the workers. She was a delight and so caring. Charlotte loved working at the Center. Being a social worker was a perfect job for her because she genuinely cared for the gentle people who lived there. It was obvious that Thomas enjoyed his time with her as much as she enjoyed hers with him.

Over time, their friendship grew. Thomas shared the heartbreak of losing his mother and father with Charlotte. Compassionate and caring, she hurt deeply for the losses he suffered. After hearing of Thomas’ hurt, her mind was drawn to a resident. Mr. Mac, she called him. He was delightful, though lonely, his days were mostly spent playing solitaire or reading. What a great opportunity! Mr. Mac had no one and Thomas needed a family. She thoughtfully decided to introduce Thomas, or Tom, as she called him, to Mr. Mac. She casually mentioned the idea to both of them and they agreed to meet. Just a simple meeting, that’s all. Charlotte decided a cozy dinner would be best. Mr. Mac was ready and Tom was happy to befriend this older resident. Thomas entered the room with Mr. Mac. The room was delightful. But Thomas did not take notice. He hesitated. Then he stopped. He had to refocus his eyes. Mr. Mac, sitting in his wheelchair, turned to look. Could it be? Could it really be? Tears began flow down Mr. Mac’s face. Charlotte wondered if this was all a huge mistake. But in an instant, she knew it was not. Tom ran to Mr. MacIntire (aka Mac). No words were needed. The fresh essence of forgiveness filled the air. Charlotte knew immediately she had witnessed a miracle. Was there any doubt? Not for a minute!