Columnist’s new shirt elicits reactions
When Jerry Davich purchased a black shirt through an online catalog, he didn’t notice the blurry details of a word written vertically on the front. He figured it spelled out a fancy brand name. But he soon realized it did not.
When I purchased the black shirt through an online catalog, I didn’t notice the blurry details of a word written vertically on the front. I figured it spelled out a fancy brand name.
I also didn’t notice the holy imagery of its white styling. It simply looked like a flashy design, though not too flashy for me to wear in public. My oldest rule: Don’t wear any fashions that draw attention from others. Most days, I look like a walking hamper in public. I have one overused windbreaker — a free gift from a distant 5K race — held together with safety pins and stubbornness.
Two weeks later, when my new shirt arrived, I noticed the surprising word adorning it: “Faith,” written in cursive, and in the shape of a cross. I shrugged in disbelief, disappointed for not seeing it when I ordered the shirt through my phone.
Although I’m a man of deep faith, it’s not Christian faith.
I tried on the collarless shirt anyway to see if it fit. Ordering clothes from online catalogs can be a mystery deeper than faith itself. What looks amazing on a 29-yearold male model doesn’t look so amazing on a 59-year-old doughy columnist. Still, the shirt fit me fine — loose, light and dark, my holy trinity of fashion — so I decided to keep it.
Plus I figured it would come in handy for the scorching heat in southern Texas, where I visited last week. There, I first noticed my new shirt was attracting unusual attention from strangers. Typically I’m as visible as a molecule. Not that day.
“Hey, nice shirt,” a male server at a restaurant told me.
I assumed he was flattering me for a larger tip until I looked down at my new shirt. I wasn’t wearing my faith on my sleeve but it was close enough, near my heart. I looked back up to thank him before I ordered my breakfast. I rarely receive compliments about my clothing choices.
“God bless you,” another guy told me after noticing my new shirt. People don’t tell me “God bless you” in public unless I just sneezed.
This is when I again realized I was being treated a differently by strangers, solely because of my shirt and its blessed message. A similar reaction took place that night in a hotel restroom when a man washing his hands caught the reflection of my shirt in our mirror. “Cool shirt,” he said before exiting.
I stared at myself in the mirror, feeling like the newest member of a hallowed club that I never properly joined. The last time I prayed was in the 1960s, at bedtime. I’ve been questioning the existence of a higher power since that time of my life.
This attitude has been more of a blessing than a curse in my life. I discovered years ago that I’m not complacent or hypocritical or didactic about the complexities of faith. My search will continue, intentionally, until I enter a cremation urn or I enter the afterlife. I’m constantly seeking … something.
Religious imagery jumps out to me. It always has. On my drive to Texas, I passed a white vehicle with red words written on its back doors: SEEK JESUS — HE’S ALIVE — NOT CHURCH, NOT RELIGION. I tried to get a look at the driver but the sun’s glare was too bright. Hell, maybe it was Jesus.
I also passed a towering metal cross alongside an interstate. It was a monument of some kind, with tens of thousands of vehicles passing it every day.
I can only assume it provokes solace to believers and shrugs from atheists. For me? It prompted only fascination. I’m just as captivated by all the roadside memorials where someone was killed in a traffic crash at that exact spot, typically marked by a small cross. The handmade ones are the most poignant, sometimes outliving the short life span of the victim.
There’s something about driving for long distances that gets me thinking about mortality. I literally dodged, avoided, or passed hundreds of vehicles during my 2,300-mile round-trip excursion through six states. As a veteran columnist, I’ve learned that all it takes is one stupid mistake to turn a hopeful vacation into a tragic funeral.
In a severe rainstorm just outside of Dallas, I drove past a multivehicle pileup with motorists still looking stunned long after police, ambulances, and tow trucks responded to the scene. You can bet that prayers were uttered afterward. Faith, I’m told, is always behind the wheel for true believers. My faith sometimes hides in the trunk.
The last time strangers assumed I was a man of traditional faith, strictly by my appearance, was when I dressed as a Catholic priest for a Halloween party. A kindhearted priest from a local church allowed me to borrow one of his
garments, complete with his collar and dangling crucifix. My black notebook looked like a worn-out Bible in my right hand. My performance was quite convincing, getting second looks from strangers on the street.
At first, it felt amusing. “Father Davich” and all that. By the end of the night, I felt like a fraud. This is how I eventually felt wearing that collarless “Faith” shirt on my trip. I’m not sure if I’ll ever wear it again in public. It’s physically comfortable but emotionally uncomfortable.
“Maybe God is trying to tell you something,” a reader told me after reading my social media post about that shirt.
Yeah, maybe this is how God works — one article clothing at a time. Or one “coincidence” at a time.
While writing that previous sentence, I received a text from a friend who’s a church pastor. He also saw my Instagram post, writing to me, “P.S. — nice shirt.” Another friend who’s celebrating Orthodox Easter this Sunday, just sent me this message: “Love the shirt!”
Are these “God wink” moments in action, or just random coincidences?
I hung up my new shirt in the closet and quietly stared at its Faith.