This is Thomas.
I’ve written about Thomas before. But nothing quite adequately captures his presence in my life. On our very first date, Mike told me all about his family. I could hear the dedication in his voice—not an unhealthy co-dependency—rather the knowledge that to him, family is the most important thing, and that he would be there for them to the end. And we were.
Shortly after we got engaged, Mike’s dad had barely finished congratulating us when he sat me down and asked me if I was as committed to having Thomas in my life as I was to marrying Mike.
At 24-years-old I barely knew what to say besides “Yes”.
The reality of having an adult non-verbal brother-in-law with Down Syndrome has sunken in over the years, especially as my in-laws health declined steadily, then sharply.
In some ways it didn’t seem like we would ever get to the point of needing to make plans for Thomas. In other ways it felt like a slowly approaching eventuality—my in-laws wouldn’t be around forever to house and care for Thomas. As time went on and then Mike’s parents passed away, the thing we were always hesitant to discuss suddenly became the elephant in the room.
In the end, Mike’s other brother assumed full guardianship. He has Thomas full-time and we jump in whenever we can and are asked. Thomas is staying with us five nights this week.
Mike is working all of those five days, so it’s been the four of us: me, Margaret, Graydon, and Thomas.
In so many ways Thomas is a huge help—today Margaret only accepted assistance putting on her coat from him, and only Thomas’ hand would do while crossing the street.
In so many other ways having Thomas is like having another child—another person to make sure is eating well, sleeping well, and ready on time (though I never worry about that one with Thomas—he’s always ready with military precision, having adopted the Freyman method of laying out everything you could possibly need to leave the house before you actually leave. Meanwhile I’m flying around the house yelling at the kids and looking for my car keys. Still, Thomas never seems exasperated and never utters a word).
And for the most part, he has his own space, his own room and bathroom in our basement.
Until the basement flooded today. Thomas came upstairs signing something about water and it dawned on me that it has been raining hard all day and our basement has a track record of collecting water despite our fairly new gutters. I walked downstairs and sure enough, water had puddled in the bathroom and along all of the walls in his room. I sighed and got out some towels. The old carpet will be ripped up and the walls repaired. Just not tonight.
A few years ago I began thinking about the concept of radical hospitality. What would it mean to welcome someone like Jesus did? What would it mean to use my home—my pride and joy—as a means of welcoming others with opened arms?
Be careful what you pray for, they say.
The truth is, we have Thomas so rarely that I’m reminded when we do have him of the immense responsibility Mike’s brother has taken on in becoming his guardian. And for that I’m grateful.
But when we do have him, I feel a little on edge, stretched. I feel conscious of his comfort, knowing that he lost both of his parents last year, and is most likely grieving in a way that’s different from his brothers’ grief because his parents were the only home he’d ever known. I feel nervous about him liking the food I’ve prepared, yet simultaneously want him out of my kitchen when I’m cooking it. I try to carry on conversation via gestures and sign, but I get frustrated easily when we don’t seem to understand each other. I want him to feel 100% at home here, so long as it doesn’t get in the way of my space and my plans.
Not very radical, I’d say.
But when our basement flooded tonight and my five-year-old quickly offered up his room, telling Thomas where he could lay his things, explaining how comfortable his bed is (“You’ll love it!) and letting Thomas use his prized Star Wars blanket (just like the one Thomas sleeps with at home), I was reminded of the way that radical hospitality is possible. It takes humility and grace and sometimes it’s modeled by the least (or youngest) of these.
Thomas doesn’t fit into the picture of how I thought my life would go. But to be honest, that matters less and less to me these days.
At dinner tonight (post-flood, pre-bedroom swapping), I looked around at my husband and brother-in-law and two children and I wondered, “How did I get here?” And then I quickly thought, “Where else would I be?”
I may always struggle with giving up my space, changing my plans, or living outside of my curated comfort zone. But I recognize and appreciate how God has crafted a life for me that forces me to practice what doesn’t come naturally. And whenever I need reminders of radical hospitality, God gives me a softball, or a five-year-old.
