The First Phone Call From Heaven by Mitch Albom

Author:Mitch Albom
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Sphere
Published: 2012-12-31T18:30:00+00:00

The Thirteenth Week

A heavy snow descended on Coldwater and by sunrise on Thanksgiving morning, the streets were coated in a thick white layer. All around town, people stepped outside to grab a newspaper or shovel the front walk. They breathed in the cold, silent air, a balm to the hysteria of the last few weeks.

Inside her house on Cuthbert Road, Tess tightened her robe and came into the kitchen. She hoped the snow would send the people on her lawn someplace else, and in fact, many had left for the shelter of Coldwater’s churches.

Still, when Tess opened her front door—the sunlight bouncing brightly off the fresh white powder—at least thirty people remained, covered in blankets or cramped inside tents. She saw a baby’s crib, empty, its bottom covered in snow, the mother and child peeking out from a tent flap.

“Good morning, Tess.”

“God bless you, Tess.”

“Pray with us, Tess.”

She felt her chest well up as if she were going to cry, all these people in the cold, all these people who weren’t getting calls, who held their phones in hopes of having happen to them what was happening to her, as if miracles were contagious. She thought about her mother. The open-house Thanksgivings.

“Come inside,” she said suddenly. Then louder, “Please! All of you! Come inside and get warm!”

At Harvest of Hope Baptist Church, the smell of fried potatoes laid claim to the kitchen. Turkeys were being cut and distributed. Gravy was ladled from a stainless steel pot.

Pastor Warren moved among the strangers, pouring them iced tea, offering them encouragement. Most of the volunteers were his regular congregants, who had delayed their own Thanksgiving meals to serve others. The snow had brought in more outsiders than they’d expected. Folding chairs were carried from the storeroom.

Earlier, Warren had a phone call from Katherine Yellin. They hadn’t spoken in weeks.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Pastor.”

“Yes, Katherine. To you, too.”

“Are you well, Pastor?”

“The Lord got me up this morning—against all odds.”

It was an old line, but he heard her chuckle. He’d almost forgotten how, before all this started, Katherine had frequently visited him—to grieve for her sister, yes, but to also seek his counsel, to study Scripture. She’d been a loyal churchgoer, and she doted on him like a family member, even drove him to the doctor once when he stubbornly fought a head cold.

“Pastor, I’d like to help with the meal today.”

“I see.”

“Do you think that’s OK?”

Warren hesitated. He’d witnessed the commotion Katherine now caused. The protesters. The TV crews.

“Of course, my dear, we’d welcome your help normally. But I think . . .”

A pause.

“Never mind, I understand,” she said.

“It’s difficult—”

“No, no, I—”

“Maybe we—”

“It’s all right. I just wanted to wish you a good holiday.”

Warren swallowed.

“God be with you, Katherine.”

He heard her breathe out deeply.

“Yes, Pastor. God be with you, too.”

All blessings do not bless the same. While the other so-called chosen ones felt a healing glow each time their loved ones spoke from heaven, Doreen, regrettably, no longer did. Her initial elation had given way to something unexpected: a heightened sadness.

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