When the timber snapped, the beams were blown apart and the whole structure ripped to pieces, the blast that killed the whole Hawthorne family left little Thomas standing in the very heart of the explosion. The elders still speak of how the wreckage was painstakingly gathered, yet Thomas emerged whole, only blackened by soot and bearing a small cross etched on his bare chesta cross he later removed as a sign of penance. He was about five years old then.
A distant relative, Aunt Agnes, took him in. Ten years later, long after the war, a terrible fire broke out in the village when a lightning strike hit the lightning rod of the local power station. Flames leapt from the houses on the right side of Main Street, devouring everything in their path. People fled, but livestock and outbuildings were lost in almost every yard.
The fire brigade finally subdued the blaze, though half the street remained a charred wasteland. As the last embers sputtered out, the firefighters coiled their hoses and stowed them in the engines compartments, baffled. How is it, they muttered, that every house in the row was reduced to ash, yet that low, squat cottage on the corner was untouched? Could its humble shape have shielded it?
The villagers werent satisfied with that explanation. The cottage was Agness, where the boy Thomas still lived. Rumors began to swirl that Thomas was cursed.
Agnes, a devout woman, taught the boy to pray. In a corner of the cottage hid icons behind heavy curtains, and their prayers were whispered, secret, and seldom heard by anyone else. She baked scones for the parish church in the neighbouring hamlet and went there often, Thomas always at her side. The modest stipend the church gave her for the work barely kept them afloat, and they kept a chicken for extra eggs.
Thomas was enrolled at the village school, but he did not stay long; his mind seemed unable to grasp the lessons. He would sit at the back desk, eyes wide, smiling as if delighted by the world around him, yet he never completed assignments, never absorbed the teaching.
He was blond, his hair a little whirl on top of his head. Agnes would joke, God keeps an eye on you through that little tuft.
One summer the whole village celebrated a river festival. A halffinished raft carrying five boys broke free and drifted downstream. Mothers screamed from the banks while the men tried desperately to stop the craft and rescue the children. Agnes ran toward the waterThomas was on that raft.
Your idiot let that raft loose! one mother shouted at Agnes.
Quiet, Margaret, be quiet, Agnes warned, Pray instead, and be grateful Thomas is there. God will look after him and will take you in His care.
The raft capsized. As Thomas began to sink, he saw his mothers face above the water, smiling, her hands reaching toward him. He clung to her. The boys were all pulled out of the river.
Agnes died young. Thomas remained in the village, first working as a shepherd and later as a night watchman. He spent his wages quickly, buying sweets and rolls to give away. He visited sick and elderly neighbours, buying them whatever they asked for and often paying from his own pocket. When asked what he would eat, he replied, God will provide. I shall not go hungry. And indeed, the village fed him, offering food and shelter, and he returned the kindness wherever he could.
Eventually his wages were only partly paid; the farms accountant began buying his provisions and handing them to him bit by bit, yet Thomas still distributed most of them to others. He worked with zeal, and whenever he lay down in the field, he would close his eyes to the sun and again see his mothers visage, who whispered, You shall not be killed nor maimed, Thomas. You will bring joy to people.
People in the village were of many kinds. When the local contractor Mr. Whitaker heard of Thomass unfailing generosity, he hired the boy to help on a housebuilding project in exchange for meals. He gave Thomas the heaviest tasks. Thomas grew thin, his skin darkened, his back hunched. The villagers raised alarms, but Whitaker only said, Ill pay him later. He wants the work. Then Thomas vanished. When Aunt Nora dragged the village constable to Whitakers barn, they found Thomas, emaciated and feverish. An ambulance rushed him away.
Whitaker shouted that he was not responsible, claiming he had almost nursed Thomas back to health. Thomas suffered from peritonitis; surgeons performed a daring operation that saved his life.
A few weeks later, Whitaker, while repairing a combine harvester, got his hand caught in the machinery. He survived only thanks to doctors, but he was left a lifelong invalid.
There was also an incident with a village drunk, Tommy Doyle, who tried to help Thomas by giving him alcohol and teasing him. He ignored all warnings that such treatment was cruel. In the end, Tommy drowned in his own drunkenness.
Thomas kept his watchman duties. One spring, when the winter wheat had turned a shimmering green sea, a delegation from the district arrived to inspect the fields. Thomas, nervous, stopped them at the gate, brandishing a stick, banging on a tractor, and a quarrel erupted. The collective farm director was furious.
This is enough! he roared. Hes a fool, a fool! Ill enter him in the competition for a permanent guard post.
My goodness, Ivan Sergeyevich, pleaded his deputy, Valentina Curly, Hes cursed! Since he began guarding those fields, our yields have been extraordinary. Weve been overproducing for four years, thanks to his presence.
Fire him! the director bellowed. This is a fairytale!
Thomas was dismissed. A week later a sudden frost killed the winter crops. With no work, Thomas fell on hard times. The parish priest, Reverend William, hearing of the boys plight, invited him to the nearby village church, which was being restored. He called Thomas for confession and then asked him to stay as an assistant. The reverend proclaimed, Thomas is as pure as a newborn child.
Thomas began as a humble laborer on the building crew. When the church was nearly finished, he took charge of cleaning. He scrubbed the walls, polished the stairs, sanded the floor until it shone like a mirror. Reverend William could not have been happier; such cleanliness had not been seen since the churchs consecration.
Thomas prayed with such sincerity that parishioners stared at him, eyes wide, whispering prayers. His deft hands moved like swallows in baptism, his little tuft of hair bouncing with every bow. Word of Thomass gentle spirit spread through the countryside. People said he was always protected by God, that anyone who harmed him would be punished, that he was almost a saint. Pilgrims came to see Saint Thomas, to touch his hand, to be blessed.
Wealthy patrons arrived, funding the restoration. The church was refurbished, fitted with heating and lighting, a new driveway laid, the grounds landscaped, and even a car park built. The building was unrecognisable from its former state.
When a local TV crew came to film, Reverend William thanked the camera, and the presenter asked Thomas to say a few words. What can you tell our viewers? she prompted.
Thomas, still hairlikeawhirl, smiled sheepishly, looked at the camera, then pointed at the flowerbed he was digging. Im planting lilies here, he said loudly, and theyll grow for everyones delight. He turned back to his work, the wind catching his hair, his beard catching the suns gold, his skin weathered by toil, his eyes bright with faith.
The presenter blinked, unsure, while the cameraman switched off. Thomass mothers voice, a memory from long ago, echoed in his mind: You will be a joy to people, Thomas. He kept working, planting, caring for others, and the village learned that true wealth lies not in riches or power but in the quiet generosity that lifts a whole community.
The lesson is simple: a life lived in service and humility brings light to all, and the smallest acts of kindness can become a lasting legacy.
