Doubting Thomas

​A school teacher, Carole Olsen, was in charge of religious education at Saint Mary’s church in Ottumwa. “You should be teaching a CCD class,” she told me. I was in my early twenties; I was not a teacher and knew nothing about teaching, so I told her no, but Carole didn’t give up.
“You don’t need a degree in education to be a teacher,” she said. “A teacher is someone from whom others learn. A degree just lets you get paid for teaching in the public schools.”
“I wouldn’t know how to go about it or what to do,” I justified. “Thanks for the offer, but I won’t be teaching religious ed.” Carol wasn’t going to give up.
“There is a book for the students and a teacher manual that goes with it,” Carol explained. “Everything you need is in the manual; lesson plans, projects, and such, and plenty of tips on teaching for your age group. You relate well with little kids, so I’ll put you down for the third-grade class. You’ll do fine.” She was very persistent, but I stood my ground, again declining Carol’s offer.
On my first night, after introducing myself to the students, I said, “We’re here to learn about our faith.” A young boy immediately raised his hand. “Yes, James?”
“What is faith?” James was a spirited soul, and I knew he would be a handful, yet he seemed sincere in his question. I had read the manual for the first night’s lesson, and faith was not defined. I knew what faith is, but how would I explain this in a way an eight-year-old would understand? I told Carole I wasn’t a teacher, and now I felt like a deer in headlights. I had to figure this out on my own.
“Faith is believing,” I said. There. A nice, short, simple answer to James’ question. I continued with my opening, but James interrupted.
“What do you mean?” This kid was going to challenge me all year long.  
“You’re in third grade, right,” I asked James. “Where do you go to school?”
“Lincoln Elementary,” James replied.
“How do you get to school in the morning,” I asked, “and how do you get home after school?”
“My mom takes me to school and picks me up,” James answered. “But sometimes my dad picks me up after school.”
“How do you know your dad will be there after school,” I asked.
“He told me he would come get me,” James explained.
I continued, “And do you believe him?”
“Yes,” James said. “He’s always there when he says he'll come get me.”
“Believing he will be there is having faith in your dad, like we believe in God. That’s our faith, which we will learn more about.” James was good with my answer, so I must have replied on a third-grade level.
To this day, I still reflect on and ponder James’ question from nearly forty years ago. It often leads me to think about the story of the apostle referred to as doubting Thomas.
Thomas was not present when Jesus first appeared to the disciples, and he didn’t believe their story: ‘Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands…and put my hand into his side, I will not believe,’ he said. Then, a week later, Jesus appeared to the disciples again, this time with Thomas present.
Jesus told Thomas to put his fingers in his hands and his hand in his side, “Blessed are those who have not seen and have believed.” Because of this story, I have spent much of my life conscientiously trying to believe without seeing. Sometimes, it’s easy to do.
For example, on a cloudy, overcast day, I hear people say, ‘I sure wish the sun would come out.’ “It is out and shining brightly,” I assure them, even though they cannot see it. But I am somewhat a doubting Thomas myself.
On many overcast days, I’ve taken an airplane and flown above the clouds just to see and bask in the sunshine; it does wonders for an attitude that needs adjusting. After landing, I'd assure naysayers, “The sun is out and shining brightly. I just saw it.” This would again remind me: blessed are those who believe but have not seen. Sometimes, it’s not always so easy to believe without seeing.
Living in the Northwoods, there’s a lot of wildlife around our property, and we love it all. Some animals come out during the day, while others prefer the night, like raccoons and bears. I do love watching the bears. Unfortunately, bears and dogs are not friends. Because we have a dog, Nova Mae, who ‘marks’ her domain, the bears tend to steer clear of our yard. I’m pretty sure they still come around. They just wait until the nighttime when the dog is asleep.
Something has been cleaning out the bird feeder on the deck at night. I have no way of proving this; I’ve not seen the bears in our yard for quite a while, but I believe they are the robbers because the noise seems more than a raccoon would make. “It’s a raccoon,” Melissa said. “Bears would have torn down the feeder, and they haven’t touched the hummingbird feeder.” (The hummingbird feeders are hung where the raccoons cannot reach them, but a bear standing on its hind legs could get them.)
Even in the middle of the night, I’ll get up when I hear a ruckus outside in the dark, but by the time I get to the back door and turn on a light, the thief has escaped in the night. “One of these nights, I’m gonna bust you,” I say to the bear that was not there.
A few days ago, it rained just before dark. Not long after the rain let up, Nova Mae ran to the front window barking. I heard some noise on the front porch that sounded like footsteps on steps and assumed it was the UPS guy; they’d been working long hours. I went to the front door, “Stay here,” I instructed my trusty canine to keep the delivery guy from being jumped upon. I opened the door, but no one was there. I stepped onto the porch to investigate.
I had not been out since the rain fell, but I noticed fresh footprints on the steps and a few on the porch, too, but only near the top step. There was no package left on the porch, and I did not see a truck on the street, going down the road, or at the neighbor’s house. Then, it occurred to me that the footprints were not human. “Was it a sasquatch?” I wondered.
I looked around the porch and over the edge of the railing; no creature was on the ground unless it was hiding under the porch. I called my wife outside to have her check under the porch. (Hey, she’s shorter and can look under there more easily than me.) I showed Melissa the evidence of Sassy on the steps.
Melissa noticed wet paw prints on the hand railing as if the animal was reaching for the squirrel feeder hanging from a rod over the edge. “It looks like a small bear,” she said.
Or, a baby sasquatch, I thought to myself. Still, I did not say aloud lest my wife should have me taken in for a psychiatric evaluation. “We haven’t seen a bear around here since last fall,” I said.
“You never know,” she said, returning inside the house. Although I'd not seen them on the back deck if a bear came to the front porch, why wouldn’t they come to the back deck, too?
Last week, Melissa quietly called me to the back door. Two big, fat raccoons were climbing the post on the back deck. They would hold onto the wood post with their back feet while stretching to grab the hanging birdfeeder almost two feet away with their front paws. Then, they would lick the sunflower seeds out of the feeder with their tongues. It was hilarious to watch these little burglars!
The raccoons returned two or three nights in a row, making plenty of noise, disproving my theory of bears being the culprits. Besides, bears are notorious for tearing things up; they pull a bird down with minimal effort and break it open to get the treat inside. Although our bird feeders have yet to be damaged, I still think bears are getting into them. (Or sasquatches, or is the plural sasquatchi?)
The other night, I went outside to get something from my van in the driveway. I took Nova Mae along with me for a potty break. Melissa stood on the front porch, asking, “Is Nova on a leash?” I told her she was not. “Bring Nova inside right now. Do not let her go to the backyard.” When my wife says this, I never question why. I called Nova to come inside with me.
On our way to the front door, I wondered if it was a wolf or a coyote. Had the sasquatch returned? “Come on, Nova. Stay close to me.” It was probably the raccoons again, and Melissa didn’t want Nova to chase them or, worse yet, get into a scuffle. I couldn’t wait to find out what was going on.
“There’s a bear on the back deck,” Melissa reported. When I went to look, there was no such animal there. “He might have run away when I called you into the house,” she said, “but he was out there.”
“Have you been in the gin? I don’t see a bear,” I said. My wife told me to be quiet, and he would probably return.
A few minutes later, we heard the ladder by the deck rattle. Sure enough, a small bear climbed the step ladder and came lumbering across the deck. The bear stood on his hind legs, grabbing the bird feeder with his front paws to keep it from swinging, and he licked the sunflower seeds out with his tongue. “It’s amazing he doesn’t just pull it down,” I whispered as we watched him. When the feeder was empty, the bear sniffed around the deck for something else to eat.
Eventually, the bear came within about three feet of the back door, where we stood watching him. Bears have poor eyesight, so he did not see us, but their hearing and sense of smell are impeccable. I’m sure he could either smell us or hear Nove whimpering in her kennel in the other room. Anyway, he sensed our presence and returned down the ladder.
We watched as he made his way through the yard toward the woods. Before leaving, he laid down in the grass, crossing his front legs like a dog, to rest for a bit. Then, finally, got up and moseyed back into the woods. We haven’t seen him at night again since then, but it was a thrill to have him stop by to visit us.
Several nights since then, I have been awakened by noises from the back deck, but whatever was there left by the time I got there to look. Melissa thinks it’s just the raccoons, but I think it’s the bear.
Finally, last Friday night, I fell asleep in the three-seasons room adjacent to the deck while watching old reruns of M*A*S*H. I woke up at 5:25 in the morning to Nova, making a soft, low, rumbling growl. There was noise on the deck. I got up to see if it was the raccoons. Nope. It was the same black bear, with his brown snout and great big ears. He was cleaning out the bird feeder, but my movement alarmed him. The bear jumped off the edge of the deck, then scurried to the tree line. I like that bear.
I don’t know when or if I’ll ever see that bear again, but I have known the pleasure of watching him, and I believe I will see him again.
Thank goodness for Carole Olsen who talked me into being a religious ed teacher. Had it been any other way, I may never have met James; a third-grade student who taught me more about my faith then I ever realized at the time.
I hope you will get to watch a bear in your yard someday, too. He’s probably there even if you don’t ever see him. You don't believe me? Don’t be a doubting Thomas; remember: “Blessed are those who have not seen and have believed.”