My mom has one of the LIFE-ALERT buttons should she fall. St. Mary’s hospital had been hosting the service, but decided to divest itself of that service, so as to better fulfill its primary mission. Vicky Hohl, the woman who oversaw the program, sent a note with the necessary information for the changeover. In additions, she sent a lovely personal note, as well as a lovely story that has stayed with me. I share a slightly abbreviated version of it with you today.
When I was quite young, my father had one of the first telephones in our neighborhood. I was too little to reach the telephone, but used to listen with fascination. I discovered that somewhere inside the wonderful device lived an amazing person – her name was “Information Please” and she knew so much! “Information Please” could supply anybody’s number and the correct time.
My first personal experience came one day while my mother was visiting a neighbor. Playing at the tool bench in the basement, I hit my finger with a hammer. The pain was terrible, but there didn’t seem to be any reason in crying because there was no one home to give sympathy. Then I thought: “The telephone!” Climbing a footstool, I said, “Information Please,” into the mouthpiece just above my head. A small clear voice spoke into my ear. “Information.” “I hurt my finger. . .” The tears came readily, now that I had an audience.
“Isn’t your mother home?” came the question.
“Nobody’s home but me.” I blubbered.
“Are you bleeding?” “No,” I replied. “I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts.”
“Can you open your icebox?” she asked. I said I could.
“Then chip off a little piece of ice and hold it to your finger,” said the voice.
After that, I called “Information Please” for many things. I asked her for help with my geography, and she told me where Philadelphia was. I asked, “How do you spell fix?”, and she told me.
Then, there was the time Petey, our pet canary died. I called “Information Please” and told her the sad story. She listened, and then said the usual things grown-ups say to soothe a child. But I was unconsoled. I asked her, “Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all families, only to end up as a heap of feathers on the bottom of a cage?”
She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, “Paul, always remember that there are other worlds to sing in.” Somehow I felt better.
All this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest. When I was 9 years old, we moved across the country. I missed my friend. But “Information Please” belonged in that old wooden box back home, and I somehow never thought of calling her from my new home. As I grew up, I thought about how kind she was to have spent her time on a little boy.
Years later, on my way west to college, my plane put down in Seattle. Without thinking what I was doing, I dialed my hometown operator and said, “Information, Please”. Miraculously, I heard the small, clear voice I knew so well. “Information.” I hadn’t planned this but I heard myself saying, “Could you please tell me how to spell fix?”
There was a long pause. Then came the soft spoken answer: “I guess your finger must have healed by now.” I laughed. “So it’s really still you,’ I said.” “I wonder if you have any idea how much you meant to me during that time.”
I wonder”, she said, “If you know how much your calls meant to me? I never had any children, and I used to look forward to your calls.” I told her how often I had thought of her over the years and I asked if I could call her again when I came back to visit my sister. “Please do,” she said. “Just ask for Sally.”
Three months later I was back in Seattle. A different voice answered “Information.” I asked for Sally.
“Are you a friend?” she said. “Yes, a very old friend,” I answered. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” she said. “Sally had been working part-time the last few years because she was sick. She died five weeks ago.” Before I could hang up she said, “Wait a minute. By any chance, is your name Paul?” “Yes it is.” “Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote it down in case you called. Let me read it to you.”
The note says: “Tell him I still say there are other worlds to sing in. He’ll know what I mean.”
I thanked her and hung up. I knew what Sally meant.
Today, on All Souls Day, we remember that there are indeed other worlds to sing in. Our loved ones who have gone before us are gone from our sight, but not from our lives.
In our second reading, St. Paul says this important sentence: “I would not have you grieve as those who have no hope.” The message is not that we would not grieve. Of course we would. When someone we love dies, our world is changed forever, and there is an empty place no one else could fill. Yet we do not grieve “as those who have no hope”.
For it is our faith that there is a life beyond what we can see, and we have a deep connection with our loved ones who have died, even now. And somehow, like that little boy and that woman on the other end of the phone, God gives us each other along the way.
Together, as fellow travelers on the way, we remember that there are other worlds to sing in.