12May2025
Dear Diary,
The war left the old timber frame of the Miller farm shattered, beams snapping like dry twigs, the whole house ripped apart when a shell hit the village of Littleford. The whole Henderson family perished in the blast, yet little Tom, only five then, lay unharmed in the very centre of the explosion. The elders still talk about how they had to dig through the debris to retrieve the bodies, while Tom emerged with his skin blackened by soot and a fresh cross marked on his bare chest. When they removed the mark it was said to lift the sin. Gran Agatha, a distant relative, took him in.
Ten years later, long after the wars end, a terrible fire swept through the village. A lightning strike hit the mains transformer on the road and set alight the houses on the righthand side of Main Street. Flames devoured everything; people fled, but livestock and outbuildings were lost almost everywhere. The fire brigade managed to halt the blaze, yet half the street remained a heap of ash. When the last sparks were stamped out, the men coiling their hoses were baffled. All the houses in the row were gutted, but one low, squat cottage escaped the inferno. Maybe it was too close to the ground for the fire to catch, they guessed.
The locals werent satisfied with that explanation. It was Gran Agathas cottage, the same place where Tom had lived. Rumours spread that Tom was cursed.
Gran Agatha, a devout woman, taught the boy to pray. Hidden behind a curtained corner of the cottage stood a modest icon, and they whispered secret, private prayers that no one else knew. She baked scones for the parish church in the neighbouring hamlet and often went there herself, taking Tom along. The church gave her a modest stipend for the work, enough for them to live on, and they kept a few chickens for eggs.
Tom was taken to the village school but proved unable to keep up. He would sit motionless at the back, eyes wide, smiling as if delighted by the world, yet he never completed assignments, never seemed to absorb a word. He was blond, his hair forming a jaunty curl atop his head. Gran Agatha would joke that the Good Lord kept an eye on him through that curl.
The summer festival on the River Wye was a highlight for the whole parish. One year a halffinished raft, overloaded with five boys, broke free and drifted downstream. Mothers screamed from the bank while the men scrambled to stop it. Gran Agatha ran after it, for Tom was on that raft. You fool, youve set that raft adrift! shouted one mother. Quiet, Mary, be still, Gran Agatha warned, prayer will keep Tom safe; God will look after him.
The raft capsized. As Tom began to sink, he saw his mothers face rise from the water, smiling and reaching out. He clutched her hand and was pulled to safety, along with the other boys.
Gran Agatha died not long after. Tom stayed in the village, first as a shepherd and then as a night watchman. He spent his wages quicklycandy, crusty rollshanding them out to anyone who asked, buying food for the sick and elderly, and often covering the extra himself. When people asked what he would eat, hed answer, God will provide; I shall not go hungry. And indeed, the community fed him, and he returned the favour whenever he could.
Eventually the parish clerk began giving him his pay in installments, buying his groceries and handing them over bit by bit. Tom still shared what he received. He worked with zeal; when he lay on his back in the field, eyes closed to the sun, he would again see his mothers apparition, whispering, You shall not be harmed, Tom; you are a blessing to the folk.
Word of his steadfast kindness reached the local contractor, Mr. Ivan Carter, who hired Tom to help on a house build, paying in food. The work was grueling; Tom grew gaunt, his skin darkened, his posture hunched. Carter brushed it off, promising to settle the wages later, saying Tom would keep working for the love of labour. One winter night, when the village constable was brought in, they found Tom emaciated and feverish. The ambulance rushed him to the infirmary. Doctors diagnosed severe peritonitis; surgeons saved his life by the skin of their teeth.
A few months later, Carter, trying to fix a jammed combine, was caught in the machinery and survived only as a lifelong cripple. A local drunk, Kolby, once tried to spike Toms drink out of boredom, but the townsfolk scolded him harshly. In the end Kolby drowned in his own drunkenness.
Tom continued as a watchman. One spring, when the winter crops had turned a lush green, a delegation from the district arrived to inspect the collective farms. Tom, nervous and defensive, brandished his stick and banged on a passing tractor, sparking a heated argument. The state farm manager, furious, declared Tom a hindrance and dismissed him. A sudden frost that night killed the winter grains, leaving the village without work.
The parish priest, Reverend William, heard of Toms plight. He was restoring a halfruined church in the adjoining village and invited Tom for confession and penance. Impressed by his humility, the Reverend appointed him as the churchs caretaker. Initially Tom handled odd jobs, then he took charge of cleaning. He scrubbed the walls, polished the stairs, and buffed the stone floor until it shone like a mirror. Reverend William could not have been prouder; such cleanliness had not been seen since the churchs consecration.
Toms prayers were sincere, his gaze fixed on the icons, his whispered words echoing through the nave. His deft hands moved like swallows over the altar, and his bright curl seemed to catch divine light. News of his steadfast devotion spread; folk claimed he was guarded by God, that anyone who harmed him would be cursed. Pilgrims, even wealthy ladies, came to see Saint Thomas and to lay a hand on him for a blessing.
Soon the church was renovated, heated, lit, an alley paved before it, a parking lot addedits appearance altered beyond recognition. Television crews arrived to film. Reverend William thanked the camera, and the reporter asked for a few words from Tom. Just a simple man, the Reverend replied. The reporter insisted, and a crew followed Tom as he tended a flowerbed.
Thomas, say something to our viewers, she urged.
Tom, bewildered, smiled, glanced at the camera, then at the planting soil. He pointed to the neat rows of lilies and announced, Ill plant these lilies now; theyll grow to bring joy to everyone.
He went back to his work, his blond hair now dusted with sun, his beard tinged gold, his skin weathered by toil, his eyes bright with faith. The reporter, flustered, turned off the camera.
Later, his mothers voice seemed to echo in his mind again: You will be a joy to the people, Thomas.
I have learned that true service does not seek applause; it simply follows the whisper of a loving hand. It is the quiet deeds, the unseen prayers, that shape a life worth living.
