Just toTalk

By Timothy Asher

            "Hello."

            "Yes, Mr. Asher, please.  This is the police department calling."

Slight pause.  Instant paranoia.  I began to check off a little list in my head. Had all the traffic tickets been paid?  How about that rented hand tool I'd returned one day late?  Then a clever ploy came to mind.

            "Mr. Asher isn't home.  I'm his son Tim; may I help?"

            "Yes, Mr. Asher, you are just the person I am calling for."  The law gets its man!

            I confess I have a low threshold when it comes to telling nothing but my name, rank, and number.  No need to shine the light in my eyes.  I started rattling off every pencil I'd ever taken, every library book overdue.

            Finally, the officer cut me off.  "Mr. Asher, I am sure every citizen at one time or another has torn up a parking ticket.  That is not why I am calling you today.  You see, sir, the police department's boys team is selling tickets for its baseball league.  Now how many boys would you like to sponsor?"

            "How many are going?"

            "Two hundred."

            "Are you sure this is the only reason you are calling?"

            "That is the only reason, sir."

            "I'll take all two hundred!"

            "But, sir, that will cost ---"

            "I don't care. Send me a bill. Goodbye." Slam! I stood there with beads of sweat standing on my forehead.

            Later that evening the phone rang once again.

            "Tim?  This is Pastor Martin calling.  Hope I didn't catch you at a bad time."  Panic!  Find a calendar.  What month is this?  Is it time for Ingathering already?  No, it's only May and the church does not start hounding you until July.  In that case...

            "Hello, pastor!  Good to hear from you."

            "Well, Tim.  I hate to impose, but we need someone to teach in the junior division and feel you would be just perfect for the job." What he's telling me is that he has been turned down by everyone else.  Funny how he never calls unless there is money or work involved.  Perhaps I could refuse gently by offering him my Ingathering goal early.

            Ring!

            Not again!

            "Timothy."

            "I don't want any!"

            "Oh, my son, I'm not selling anything.  I just want to talk a few minutes."

            "I don't know your voice.  You are not my dad."

            "Not your earthly father, my son. Your heavenly one. Remember? The one you keep telling people that they should get closer to?"

            "You're kidding."

            Silence.  Paranoia sweeps over me again.  What have I done now?  But He said He just wanted to talk!  Why am I feeling guilty? Afraid?  Cold beads of sweat form on my forehead.  I've got to squeeze out something.

            "I'm sorry, Master!"

            "Why"—the voice on the phone sounded perplexed—"I'm not here to judge, son, just talk."

            "But everyone wants something."

            Suddenly I wake up. Just a silly dream, of course.  God does not call up on the phone.  Silly dream. No meaning whatsoever.

            Then why can't I go back to sleep? Funny how we sort of relate to our Father as a cop or maybe as the pastor who has time to call only when he needs help.