Three Little Words Leave Lasting Impression

DELORES SCHWEITZER, Special Contributor

Published: September 9, 2004

I remember the argument as clearly as if it were yesterday. My mother and I were shopping in the department store, and the subject of controversy was a white T-shirt with different colored letters spelling out the word ESPRIT. I insisted that I needed the shirt for my spring wardrobe. My mother countered by showing me a plain white shirt, identical in style but without the logo and costing $10 less. I was stubborn. I wanted what I wanted, but she did not give in. So I spent some of my babysitting money, and by heaven, I had that shirt.

But the shirt was not all that I thought it would be. For a while, I felt cool and in fashion with my friends, but every time I wore it, it also reminded me of our fight and my mother’s question, “Why do you want to advertise that company on your body?” I think of our debate often when I walk through the mall and see Abercrombie and Fitch tags waving from thongs that peek out over Old Navy low-rise jeans, or when I walk down the halls of the high school where I work and see price tags intentionally not cut off of FUBU jackets. I call it the Minnie Pearl style, but none of the kids get it.

I am amused to discover that, 20 years later, I am very much a plain white T-shirt kind of woman. What’s more, I am a nonpartisan, non-bumper-stickered, non-tattooed, and mostly non-confrontational person. How in the world did I get here?

I got here by discovering that a lot of the clothes with brand names wore out before their plain counterparts. I got here by realizing that a Robert Plant concert shirt was worthy of being turned into a dust rag because I never listened to his music anymore. I got here by seriously considering getting a Winnie-the-Pooh tattoo, then chickening out because of the pain—and being grateful later. I got here by vocally supporting a candidate, and then being sorely disappointed once he was in office. I got here by realizing that conflict and strong-armed confrontation seldom solved anything.

And mostly, I got here by coming so close to putting a Darwin fish logo on my car bumper, only to join the Catholic Church less than a year later.

When I started to attend the church in 1998, I did my best to keep my mouth shut. I observed, took it all in and tried to listen without prejudice. I would talk about faith with my family and close friends, but I didn’t think it was my job to evangelize. After all, I was just learning myself. Plus, ever since some experiences with Bible-thumpers in college, I have been turned off by in-your-face tactics. Subtlety was more my style.

I have to admit, the whole Catholic jewelry thing freaked me out. I generally wear small earrings and maybe a necklace, so I was amazed at the responses to my questions about other Catholics’ signs of faith, “Oh, well, here’s my medal to St. Christopher, and another for St. Anthony, and of course, my crucifix, and oh, ouch, where is it? Here’s my scapular, and I’ve got a rosary in my pocket, and here’s my prayer bracelet….”

And there I stood, with my Tau cross that I bought in Assisi for a quarter, feeling like my faith was significantly diminished because my outward signs of belief didn’t clink or catch on drawer handles or make my pants sag. But it just wasn’t me to rush out and buy a bunch of Catholic paraphernalia. Part of me was probably afraid—that I would be judged or criticized, or more importantly, that this might be just another phase I was going through, like Robert Plant or Winnie-the-Pooh or the Darwin fish. And I thought of my mother’s attitude about branding myself, and I had to ask myself what I really wanted to say, what I really believed.

I thought about it and came to the conclusion that I whole-heartedly believed in the works and ideas of my patron saint, Francis, so I could speak without reservation for him. I chose a subtle approach. I purchased a whole bunch of those 25-cent crosses, so whenever someone asked me about the one I was wearing, I told them what it was and gave it to them. When I ran out, I got a friend traveling to Assisi to buy me more, so my quiet mission could continue.

I also got a cross on a retreat, where I was commissioned with the words, “Christ is counting on you,” to which I replied, “And I on him.” I reminded myself of that prayer every time I slipped that cross over my head and felt the weight on my chest over the course of the day. And it was a call to accountability, to know that my actions in that day were speaking for the God whose emblem I wore. This quiet attitude check worked for me. Again, it was subtle, and it was funny how those crosses stood out really well against the white T-shirts I liked so much, so that people would ask me about them. I didn’t wear them all the time, and I will admit that some days when I put them on, I didn’t carry them in the spiritual sense, but I did try harder on those days, and that was something.

In fact, it was easier for me to wear them when they didn’t clash with the colors and patterns in other garments, and I realized that this was a truth of my life: that I could show Christ more clearly if I could become a blank white page for Him to write upon—to make a subtle, yet strong statement for Him, in my words and in my deeds, so that He would show more than me. And when I discovered this, I knew that I was on to something, and another challenge was coming my way.

This summer, as soon as I pulled it out of the box while setting up for the Steubenville Atlanta teen conference gift shop, I saw that the challenge was at hand. It didn’t say “the devil sucks” or “cool to be Catholic” or “Jesus is fo rizzle.” It was way more subtle, yet far bolder, too. It wasn’t white but RED. Bright red. “Love Connection” red, as my nail polish bottle says. “Pentecost Red” as I like to call it. “Go forth and show what you have learned” red. And the surprise was that I wanted it as badly as I wanted that ESPRIT shirt all those years ago. But could I do it? Could I pull it off? Did I know enough to make that statement?

The answer came back a resounding “Yes!” That this was a brand of which I was confident, and I could not see my opinion changing—ever. This was no longer a phase—it was for real. So I bought the shirt and wore it the next day, and we sold out of that design. It seemed like a good omen. But this was also in the confines of an energetic Catholic community, where certain ideas are a given. The challenge was to take it to the world.

Two days after the conference, I prepared for my last trip of summer vacation, and as I pulled the shirt over my head, I was reminded of St. Paul’s words to the Colossians after he tells them to be compassionate, kind, humble, gentle and patient, “And over all these, put on love, that is, the bond of perfection. And let the peace of Christ control your hearts, the peace into which you were also called in one body. And be thankful.” Suddenly, I felt like I was physically becoming the Gospel as I put on the love transcribed in this shirt. After putting on this armor of sorts, nothing bothered me that day because I approached every encounter with an attitude of “What is God trying to teach me?” Not the late start, or the traffic in Knoxville, or the flat tire on I-75 in Kentucky, or getting to the campground after dark and finding my brand-new propane lamp broken. Because of the shirt, I felt a responsibility to not embarrass the gas station attendant who gave me too much change but just happily give it back and go on my way. And I listened attentively to the wife of the man changing my tire as, out of the blue, she started to tell me about her faith in God while caring for her chronically ill grandson. And I was grateful for the grandfather and grandson in the campsite next door when they offered me dinner and a lantern for the evening.

Was it me? Was it them? Was it really this easy all along? Three little words to prick an interest, start a conversation, and leave a lasting impression, definitely on me, and I hope on others as well. In two days, I will put that shirt on again to travel 15 hours back to Marietta and see what new challenges await and what the Lord has to teach me. And when strangers see me coming, I hope that my smile or my kindness or my helpfulness will generate some curiosity in the statement that my very red shirt with rather small, white letters declares, “God exists.” (Don’t you just love that period?) But more importantly, I hope that our encounter will strengthen my own resolve and encourage them to consider my humble request when they read the one word on my back, for it is a prayer within my heart for all of us:

“believe”