The Weight of What’s Taken

The Hard Truth: The Weight of What’s Taken

An Article by the Toledo Tribune

It begins with something small. A loaf of bread, a shiny trinket from a market stall, a handful of coins left on a counter. Theft is as old as humanity itself, as ingrained in our history as storytelling and song. In some places, it was a matter of survival—a thief in the night was a hero if they brought home food for a starving family. In others, it was a grave dishonor, a betrayal of the unspoken trust that held neighbors together.

No matter the time or place, theft carries a weight far heavier than the object taken. It disrupts the fragile web of trust that connects us, leaving behind suspicion and resentment.

Here in Toledo, that web is what holds us steady. We’re not a perfect town, but we know each other—by name, by the way our boots hit the pavement, by the smiles exchanged in the grocery aisle. When someone steals, it’s not just a violation of the law. It’s a violation of honor.

At its core, theft is an act of selfishness. It’s taking something that isn’t yours without asking, without considering the impact. And the impact is always greater than the thief imagines. A stolen wallet means more than a loss of money—it’s the sudden fear that someone was close enough to take it, the bitter taste of betrayal when you realize someone valued their gain over your peace of mind.

Communities are built on trust. Trust that your neighbor will return what they borrow. Trust that the local business will be there tomorrow because it wasn’t robbed blind today. Theft erodes that trust, one act at a time, until the whole community starts to crack under the weight of suspicion.

But broken things can be mended. Trust, like any bond, can be rebuilt—but only with effort, accountability, and a willingness to look beyond the act itself to the person behind it.

In some cases, that might mean a thief returning what they took, offering an apology, and committing to change. In others, it’s about restorative justice—bringing together the person harmed and the person who harmed them to find a way forward.

Honor isn’t something you’re born with. It’s something you earn, piece by piece, through your actions. And restoring honor after it’s been lost is no small task. But it’s possible, and it’s necessary if we’re to remain a community.

If theft is born of silence—needs unmet and unspoken—then the solution is openness. It’s the courage to ask for help and the willingness to listen when someone else does.

Take, for example, the Elks Lodge Christmas program. Every December, children in Toledo write letters to Santa, asking for gifts big and small. The volunteers at the lodge read these letters with care, then do everything they can to fulfill the requests.

On a Saturday morning, those children come for breakfast with Mrs. Claus. They laugh, eat pancakes, and eagerly wait to meet Santa himself. And when Santa calls their name, he doesn’t hand them just any toy. He gives them their toy, the one they asked for.

There’s a lesson in this simple act of generosity. The children weren’t afraid to ask. The volunteers weren’t too busy to listen. Together, they created a moment of trust, honor, and joy—a reminder that when we meet each other’s needs, we all grow stronger.

And so, we find ourselves at a crossroads, as communities often do. Do we let selfishness and silence pull us apart, or do we lean into the strength of asking and listening? Do we allow theft—the taking of what isn’t freely given—to define us, or do we work together to restore what’s been lost?

Because here’s the truth: when we help others, we help ourselves. And that, dear readers, is the kind of magic that doesn’t fade with the season.

But let me leave you with this thought, the kind your grandmother might’ve shared over coffee and a slice of pie: just because something isn’t nailed down, or might seem like it has no great value, doesn’t mean it’s yours for the taking. If you take it, you might not see the consequences right away, but mark my words, you’ll feel it.

You’ll carry it in your heart like the brand of a scarlet T—a thief’s mark—not visible to others, perhaps, but heavy all the same. And it will weigh down your soul, little by little, until trust and honor feel too distant to reach.

And that, my friends, is the true weight of what’s taken.