The Master of Gloss

This is a memory of Thomas Alvin Petitt Jr.

This is a story about a man who knew how to find the light—whether it was reflecting off a freshly waxed floor, the glow of a CRT television in the eighties, or the quiet conviction of his faith.

​The Master of the Gloss

​The smell of a Thomas Petitt house was always the same: it smelled like the future. Back in the eighties, when the world was still analog, Uncle Tommy was the man you expected to see building a Radio Shack TRS-80 or unboxing a robotic arm kit. He was a tinkerer, a man of gears and gadgets, whose home was a treasure trove of "neat stuff" that made a kid’s eyes wide with wonder.

​In those days, Illinois felt like a kingdom of adventure. While the adults talked, "Little Tommy" and his cousin would huddle in front of the TV, the flickering blue light of the screen illuminating their faces. They watched Cloak and Dagger, lost in a world of secret codes and hidden maps, unaware that the man in the next room was beginning to map out a very different kind of life for himself.

​Back then, he wasn't yet the man of the Ministry. He was just Tommy—working hard, navigating the complexities of several chapters of family, and always keeping his hands busy.

​The Rhythm of the Machine

​Years later, the "neat stuff" of childhood had been replaced by the heavy-duty machinery of the janitorial trade. By 2009, Thomas had built a reputation in the Southern Illinois and Missouri area for one thing: the Perfect Floor.
​He was a man who lived by a code of blunt honesty. If you didn't want to work, he’d tell you straight—perhaps you’re better off at home. But if you were willing to stand beside him, he’d give you the shirt off his back and a steady paycheck to get your life on track.

​For six years, the Big Lots floors became the canvas. There is a specific kind of meditation that happens at two in the morning in a silent department store. Thomas would take hold of the buffer, the machine humming a low, electric growl against the tile. He’d let his mind go, his thoughts running deep into the scriptures he loved or the history he’d read, his face settled into a permanent, easy smile.

​Even when the pain started to creep into his joints—the physical toll of decades of labor—he kept that smile. There were nights when the pain was visible, and his nephew would step in, taking the handle of the buffer to give the old man’s weary bones a rest. It was a silent passing of the torch, a moment of mutual respect between two men who knew that a job worth doing was worth doing until it shone.

​The Final Shine

​Thomas Petitt Jr. didn’t just clean buildings; he built a community. He took the same pride in his ministry as he did in his floor care, traveling to congregations to give public talks with the same precision he used to strip and wax a hallway. He wanted everyone to see the "beautiful, shiny" version of the world that his faith promised.

​Toward the end, when the machines were quiet and the Big Lots nights were a memory, the setting changed to a hospital room in Cape Girardeau. The man who had once been the high-tech uncle with the gadgets was now the elder statesman of the family, resting.

​But the "neat stuff" was still there—it just looked different now. It looked like a carton of ice cream, brought by a nephew who remembered the Illinois summers and the late-shift lessons. As Thomas enjoyed his favorite snack, the blunt honesty remained, but it was softened by a
lifetime of grace.

​He passed away in 2023, leaving behind twenty-nine nieces and nephews, a legacy of hard work, and floors across the state that—for a time—reflected the light perfectly because he was the one who steered the machine.