Meet Dr. Dave Hollensbe. I just always call him “Doc”. Doc is a big fan of words like “hyperoxaluria” and “lithogenic”. With his tongue firmly planted in his cheek, the Doc says “big words and doctor talk makes me feel so smart.” He needn’t waste so much energy convincing me. I already knew he was deeply sagacious. See what I did there in your honor, big guy?
In all seriousness, Dave Hollensbe is both knowledgeable and prudent. He’s a brilliant Urologist to whom I owe the last four kidney stone free years, the only 4 in a row of my entire adult life. He’s a beast breaking rocks up with a laser too. Also, his wise and timely aid is largely responsible for saving the life of my Dad, who became quite ill a few years back.
Doc is the father of three adult sons he’s crazy about and the husband of Teresa, a wife he quite clearly adores. He’s a faithful Catholic man with a tough looking exterior, but try as he might with his quick wit and sarcasm, he’s unable to hide from this particular patient that underneath lies a teddy bear.
When my oldest college boy had a kidney stone incident a year or two ago, Dr. Hollensbe rang my cellphone and asked to talk to the kid while we were on the highway (from the Cincy ER) and headed home– to tell my Nick to come by his office at 7am the next morning. We later found out it was his day off. I can’t imagine how many of his urologic oncology patients and their families who have been treated with similar kindness over the years.
Rumor has it that Doc is a big fan of both golf and cigars…and he knows how to work the beads on a rosary. Here are two things I know for sure. First, for the generous and compassionate human being that he is, I truly love this man. Second, If the old song holds true and “they’ll know we are Christians by our love”, then this guy, Dave, is going to be convicted.
Good-natured, charismatic, and amiable are three words that come to mind when trying to describe Jake Labus. He’s a 19-year old college freshman with friendly smile and a winning disposition.
What makes Jake incredibly special is that he is so darn gracious. A faithful young man who has long served his church and community in a variety of impressive ways, Jake takes the time to smile and greet everyone in the room and he has a wide ranging friend group as a result. Several of his peers called him “the most likeable guy I know” when I asked them to describe him. When you are an incredibly bright college athlete like Jake is now for the DePauw University football team, or a popular standout in multiple sports in high school who also sings like an angel, it would be easy to fall into the “I’m kinda a big deal” trap. Luckily for him, the good Lord gave him two older brothers and a younger sister who all have certainly helped… to keep him humble?
One day a year or so ago after mass, I ran into Jake’s pretty terrific mom, Deedy and his sister, Olivia, at a breakfast spot near church. We sat down next to them as they were nibbling on a little something and chatted for a moment before a text came in to Deedy from her son Jake. He wondered where they were, as they should have been home from church by then. You see, Jake was at home and had a surprise breakfast waiting for them upon their return. I’m pretty sure the Labus ladies had two breakfasts that day, and I know my own similarly aged kiddos couldn’t believe it.
That’s just Jake. He’s sunshine wherever he goes. This summer I hear he’s thinking about using those vast talents at St. Meinrad to be a retreat leader at the southern Indiana Seminary. I can’t imagine he didn’t nail that interview.
There is much more that I could share about this fine young man, but I’ll just say one more thing. This likable and grace-filled kid is the face of Jesus to all in his path. Truth.
Thanks, Jake, for sharing your sunshine with the Thieme family. You make us all want to smile at the world just a little more generously!
Meet Edie. She’s a proud mother of two daughters and a son, all grown, and she lives on the east side of Indianapolis in the Twin Aire neighborhood. That’s where the new prison is being built, she tells me. She also thinks a savvy investor would put a fast food place in near her home, since there are plenty of customers but no place to buy a quick sandwich. Until recently, Edie had one grandchild. Now, she suddenly has 3 with one on the way. You see one of her children recently adopted two kiddos who needed a family, and her daughter who has been struggling to get pregnant announced at Christmas the joyous news that she and her husband are expecting. What lucky little ones to have such a welcoming and lovely woman as a grandma!
I’ve been calling her “Evie” by mistake for years. She cheerfully waved off my apology, but she figured I’d want to have it correct. She’s right.
Edie manages the Classic Cleaner location on Hazel Dell Parkway at 131st near my home in north east Carmel. Since my CPA husband goes through dress shirts pretty quickly, I see her quite often. Here’s what makes Edie special. She ALWAYS greets me with a smile. She asks about my kids, who have occasionally stopped in with me over the years. I’m not particularly notable as customers go. It’s simply what Edie does with ALL HER CUSTOMERS. Edie is unfailingly sunny, and incredibly friendly and kind. She’s a pro at what she does, but a hero for who she is.
Thanks for making my neighborhood a little brighter everyday, Edie!
Happy New Year! Holy cow, it’s 2019. I have this idea, and we’ll see how things develop, but it seems to me the world needs just a lot more love. So, for this coming year I’d like to try and be the reason someone believes just a teeny bit more in the goodness of people. That’s a rather vague and hard to measure resolution, huh?
What if I spend a few minutes each day typing up a little love bomb about a terrific person and point them out to you? Could I perhaps even come up with a different one to share everyday this year? That seems like a long shot for a girl with my utter lack of discipline and perseverance in most things…but that’s the goal. It’s my column, so the rules are all mine, but my intention is to choose 365 people that I know and people that I don’t, but who somehow stand out in my day. Maybe, you’ll be inspired by the awesomeness of one of them, or perhaps you might read and start looking for people that shine in your little circle and find your heart feeling much more full of all things good and holy? Would that make the world just a little brighter in 2019?
Let’s give it a whirl.
Day 1 of 365: MAD FOR….TOM
I don’t usually write about my husband. The reason is that he doesn’t like it. The thing is, if I am going to start a year long column highlighting the goodness of ordinary people and I don’t choose him today, then that is a flagrant foul on me.
You see, Tom’s been home for a week. He’s an antsy sort of human. Most of the year, the need to “do something” is satisfied on the golf course. Unfortunately for him, it’s December in Indiana, so that’s not an option. Instead, he used his culinary talents to smoke us beef tenderloin on Christmas, and he snuck $100 bills into the stockings of three young men who were thrilled to receive the unexpected windfall. He spent a day cooking Ina Garten’s jambalaya (OH MY GOSH YUM) and then followed it up with a tailgate food fest fit for a basement full of Boilermakers (RIP, Purdue).
He wrapped up his laptop and put my name on the box for Christmas, a symbolic gesture to let me know he wanted to gift me new computer of my choosing. He called me out for frowning as we attempted to return an ill-fitting sweater, but forgave me, when I was way too cranky anyway at the Castleton Square Mall– a place I have sworn to never visit again. Based on that experience, I’ll call the time of death on retail shopping…but I digress.
Tom labored over homemade chicken pot pie, and he played 20 rounds of Wizard with me and Zach. He made sure the tuition bills at Xavier and Purdue were handled. He went to Kroger. There were multiple trips. Did you catch that last one? HE WENT TO KROGER. Do you have any idea how much I loathe Kroger and their assumption that I want to be an employee of their grocery establishment? If you know me at all, then you know how happy I was to skip even a single trip to that god-forsaken place. Yeah Tom!!
This evening, we’ll be holding the 5th annual “OCTAGONATHON”. It’s a family tradition instituted by my husband. I think. If he isn’t the creative genius behind it, he is certainly the presenting sponsor! There are 8 events ranging from Ping Pong to Jenga and the Thieme men take it very seriously. There are also serious prizes. My personal goal is to not finish last.
The point of my tribute today is to just say this. Tom Thieme wins PLAYER OF THE WEEK honors here at 5350 Randolph Crescent. We are blessed to call him ours.
I love you, Tom. Happy New Year!
P.S. Live Tweeting (@shellythieme) is a thing for the Octagonathon for those of you who enjoy following along from home.
I am what my Dad’s friend, Ed, calls a “creeper”. Apparently, this is a quality dreaded by persons with whom the offender cohabitates. You see, evidently there is an invisible line of demarcation on a bathroom counter. One ought not to cross said line for any reason. “Creeper” is the official term used for repeat offenders of this “law”.
Last week, Tom and I were in a small territorial war it seems. I would place my oversized bottle of Scope over the “Mason-Dixon” line, and then when I was not around he would place it back on my side of the counter. This went on for several days until he placed my Sam’s Club sized bottle of mouthwash as far as he could place it away from his side, all the way in the far left corner of my sink.
Arriving home Friday night, he noticed that the offending antiseptic was nowhere to be seen. VICTORY was his! I had seen the light and put the bottle away under my sink as he had been hoping I would! Sheepishly, as he changed for our dinner out with friends, he mentioned to me about our little passive-aggressive counter top battle and how happy he was that I had seen the light.
This story came to my mind after my Election Day experience on Tuesday. You see, I went to my polling place at the Carmel Fire Station on 131st St. and I encountered a fairly lengthy line of folks snaking around the fire truck waiting their turn to vote in the mid-terms. That gave me time to make a friend. Just in front of me our good and gracious God placed a friendly woman with whom I quickly struck up a conversation. She told me she was a Jewish woman from Iran and that she had moved to the US when she was 14. She marveled at all the things that make America “the greatest country on earth” (her words) not the least of which is the remarkably civil way we treat others who are on the other side of the aisle from us—who have a different perspective. I’m pretty sure I crinkled my nose about that last part. Does this gal not own a TV? She further explained that she knew to me that must sound crazy as we have lost our way a bit with all the over the top yelling at each other and mean TV ads. “But at the end of the day, if the current leader loses the election, he will call to congratulate the winner. Then, he will give him the keys to his office peacefully and without incident. In my old country, if you lose the election, they kill you.” Yikes. How do I take back my crinkled up nose?
She went on to explain that she misses the civil discourse she used to see here a bit more regularly. We discussed the concept of “agreeing to disagree”. She said the “your side vs. my side” stuff was tiring and that we definitely should put our phones down and quit making comments on Facebook and Twitter that we wouldn’t dream of saying in person. She expressed her deep desire that we remember what it is to speak face- to- face about what is bothering us. “It just works better,” she added “but democracy is amazing and I could never dream of skipping the opportunity to vote!” AMEN.
This leads me back to our territorial battle over the bathroom counter at the Thieme house. Here’s the rub. I had NO IDEA what Tom was talking about when he thought I had seen the light and corrected the error of my “creeper” ways. In fact, when I realized what had been going on under my nose, I just looked up at him with very genuine confusion, followed quickly by a great big belly laugh. Then, he shook his head and started laughing too. I mean, good grief! It’s been 24 years of marriage. Despite the genius of his patient and repeated witness on this concept, one would think by now my remarkably intelligent husband would grasp the fact that I simply do not speak passive- aggressive? Nevertheless, my face, as it often does, told him the full story. I just had genuinely missed the entire week of counter wars. I had no clue he was bugged by the Scope and zero idea there was a “thing” happening. His frustration was completely lost on me. I’m just authentically not that into worrying about where stuff is on the counter. This explains why the “house” part of “housewife” gets me every time. It was at that moment he saw it too and we both began to look at each other and really laugh.
At the end of the day, Tom and I did one thing right. We realized we are living in the same house and we were able to laugh about how differently we think and navigate life. Discussing our disagreements rationally and with an open mind is virtually always more effective than engaging in civil war? I am never going to care about where the Scope is stored. Tom is never going to be happy living with a creeper. Chances are good we can negotiate a solution here that is good for us both.
Compromise, agreeing to disagree, laughing with each other despite differences— these are all simple concepts worth revisiting.
No tennis shoes on the bed in exchange for the Scope under the sink…..what do you say, hon?
No matter who you were for this election season, I hope you voted!
In loving memory of my peculiar, imprudent, silly and utterly amazing great aunt Helen Lammers…
On left, my photo from inside San Luigi dei Francesi, “The Calling of St. Matthew”
Allow me to introduce you to my Aunt Helen. To merely describe her as a colorful figure in my childhood would do her a tragic disservice. Aunt Helen always wore a wig and whatever was trending in the juniors department at Kmart. I recall quite a few long, bold fish necklaces paired with stirrup pants, big sweaters and those plastic shoes we called “jellies” on her feet. Her gifts at the holidays were always my favorite, despite being the least expensive of all the offerings, because they were so obnoxiously wrapped, one inside the other. The unwrapping lasted a long time…which I found incredibly fun! Inside, there would inevitably be some vibrating or glow in the dark plastic trinket mostly likely purchased at Spencer gifts.
If you could hum her a few bars, she could play absolutely any song you wished on her piano. She rarely, if ever, used sheet music. She liked us to sing along with her to songs like “Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better”, and she always insisted I sing it in an octave a little higher than my alto voice wanted to go. “It sounds prettier,” she’d whisper. She wrote a little song about me as a small girl, the chorus of which included my entire proper name, which somehow rhymed the way she sang it. Phonetically, it sounded like “ME-SHEL-LIN DIE-Q-ZIN… is a very pretty girl.” There were verses too, but I don’t remember them now. I do, however, remember that chorus and how she made me feel when she sang that song.
Aunt Helen was the sister of my grandmother, Pauline. That made her my great aunt, in reality. She had one beloved son who had long since moved to Florida when I was coming of age, and he was unmarried. That made my sister, Robin and myself her adopted grandchildren. Since Mom was a young student at Purdue when she married my Dad, Aunt Helen was a frequent babysitter. I spent a lot of time at her little house on 27th Street, just a block from Columbian Park and with a backyard that virtually backed into the front door of the old Home Hospital. We made tents out of the sheets she hung from her clothesline in the backyard and spent whole afternoons pretending to hold an imaginary circus, making a palace for our dolls, or trying on her closet full of high heels. It didn’t matter that we were without a swimsuit. If it was hot and we wanted to run through her sprinkler, she just told us not to worry about a silly problem like swimsuits and she let us run through in our underwear. We’d break pieces of bread and toss them back into their bread bags and take them to the park to feed the ducks. The larger, more aggressive among the flock terrified me not just a little, and my running from them made Aunt Helen cackle with delight on many occasions.
As I grew older, we remained close. She was my confirmation sponsor. When Tom and I were in high school and then in college, we would stop in to visit my Aunt Helen (and Uncle Charlie) to play euchre. It was always girls vs. boys and I really have no recollection of who won or who lost. I just remember my quirky Uncle Charlie always slow playing his 1 beer and 3 oreos, which by the way, was the same pace at which he played euchre. We always left there smiling and feeling like it was time well spent. I loved Tom for all the hands of cards he played with me and my grandparents as well as Aunt Helen and Uncle Charlie.
When she passed away down in Florida, where she went to live with her son Johnny at the end of her life, I recall feeling robbed of the opportunity to properly mourn someone I loved so deeply. All those years later, I honestly still feel that way. Here’s the utterly inappropriate and yet awesome gift Aunt Helen gave me. I knew I was her favorite. She was embarrassingly open about the fact that she liked me just a little better than everyone else, and in fact it got her into some trouble with my grandmother as well as my parents. “Helen, you can’t ask the girls what they want for dinner and then ALWAYS make what Shelly asks for,” my grandmother would scold. As a parent myself, I know I would be vocal about this kind of favoritism when it comes to my boys. It was wrong….oh so wrong….B-U-T….I always felt beloved by her.
When I was in Rome very recently, I found myself in the very front left corner of a church called “San Luigi dei Francesi” which translates “The Church of St. Louis of the French” and it is not far from Piazza Navona. One of the side chapels in this beautiful church contains some spectacular paintings by the baroque master Caravaggio. This includes a world renowned canvas of “The Calling of St. Matthew”, the seeing of which rather took my breath away. It has long been a painting I consider a favorite for spiritual reasons I don’t think I can convey adequately here. To look up, though, and see it in person felt a whole lot like being that 8 year-old girl who knew she was Aunt Helen’s favorite. In that instant, a certain feeling of belovedness which often eludes me, just washed over me.
For just a moment, I nearly drowned in it.
Writing about a moment of divine intimacy, or of spiritual consolation is often said to be a poor idea, as it’s very giving away can serve to minimize or trollop on the moment which was perhaps meant to be a private gift between one soul and it’s Creator, among other reasons.
Here’s the reason I’m doing it anyway. The thing that had long prevented me from growing closer to God was a disordered view of myself. Like A LOT of people I know, I had been Matthew with my head on the table. I am quick to believe all criticism and remember all failure, and loathe to believe in my goodness. I long felt like Matthew with his head on the table saying “not me, Lord.” He was a hated tax collector, he was all things unworthy. Yet there was Jesus pointing at him saying, “Come follow me.”
We think we are so darn smart, but our self-knowledge and ingenuity are utterly insufficient, and they certainly won’t effectuate union with God. What we really need is a supernatural faith. We need a faith that understands God loves His children more than we love ours. We need to know that we are worthy, our lives priceless, simply because WE ARE HIS.
If you are reading my words today, I want you to know something. YOU ARE LOVED. YOU ARE NOT ALONE. YOU ARE WORTHY.
This summer, my cousin took his life and that of his family. This fall, a young college senior named Evan, who was the very picture of goodness, took his life. Last week, the nephew of a church friend, a young man named JJ, the only child of his parents, took his life. In the last year alone, my pastor has buried 5 of his parishioners after the same tragedy. Folks, this must stop.
I’m not quite sure how but we must help and it must begin with being unafraid to love others. That means EVERYONE. ALWAYS. You and I maybe aren’t mental health professionals. We are just regular people like my Aunt Helen. What can we do about it, right? I mean who are we to solve such a big problem? I’m not sure.
However, I do know this. Aunt Helen was divorced at a young age, a thing about which she never spoke. She liked her cocktails a little too much. She thought iodine and baby oil was the nectar of the Gods and should be slathered upon the human body whenever the sun peaked out. She seemed to believe pimento cheese and fried chicken were both food groups unto themselves. Also, in her quirky and ordinary life, she was the face of Christ to me. Despite her flaws, God used her to teach me that I am beloved. She was a person who seemed to see the butterfly wings I couldn’t spot because they were behind me. So, when God came close to remind me, I remembered the feeling as I gazed at the beauty of the Caravaggio painting and He drew me in.
I left there thinking about how very much I love Him, and that I can do more for the Lord.
The beautiful senses God has given us can help us grow in holiness. I feel His love at mass, in the Eucharist and when Tom kisses me gently on the forehead. I feel it when a friend sends me a sweet card or when the sun sets over Lake Michigan—and apparently in the corners of dusty old churches in Rome I discover with Mom.
This week, we celebrated the feast day of one of my favorites, St. Theresa of Avila. She said this. “The important thing is not to think much but to love much; and do that which best stirs you to love.”
I don’t know how to fix so many problems I see in this world, but I think it starts there.
He Never Misses 