“G’night. Oh, wait! I just forwarded a voicemail down to your phone. It’s from a guy named W* down at the motel. He needs some kind of help.”
That’s the last thing I want to hear.
It’s late on a Sunday afternoon. I’m ready to go home after a long day of doing the usual Sunday things a minister not of the “Senior” designation does at the church.
I really don’t want to listen to that voicemail. I’m looking forward to…I don’t know what…probably sitting back in my chair and firing the remote at the television in search of…I don’t know what. It doesn’t matter. There’s a brand new box of Cheez-Its in the pantry!
“He sounded kind of distressed…”
Gee, thanks. Why did you feel it necessary to tweak me that bit of information?
I really don’t want to listen to that voicemail.
I turn left down the hall that leads toward home, my chair and the TV remote…and the Cheez-Its.
There’s a satisfying sh-THunk! as I hit the crash bar on the exit door and feel the cool freshness of late fall.
Dead stop. The battle is engaged.
Ahead lay the long anticipated short stroll home, the chair, the remote…and the Cheez-Its. Behind rises a light, flashing on my desk phone.
Voicemail waiting. Voicemail waiting. Voicemail waiting.
I wonder if there’s anything worth watching tonight.
A half a dozen steps forward. The hydraulic closer pulls the door shut with a firm click-THump.
I pull up short.
Man that breeze feels great. It’s a great night for a walk.
A half a dozen more steps.
With a long, blowing exhale, I turn toward my office and that dreaded flashing light.