Oh Lord, Why Hast Thou Forsaken the Forest City?
Finally got the new Bell Canada phone book the other day. Did the usual, looked up my own name to reaffirm that I actually exist. Looked up a few people from high school that I haven't seen in years. Yep, that cheerleader I once had a crush on still lives in Masonville. But is no longer married to the captain of the football team I couldn't help but notice.
And then on impulse I looked up someone whose acquaintance I had made a few years ago. And there was no listing. I'm talking about God. There was a time that you could pick up your phone book and be comforted by the fact that God was listed and living on a small street off Hamilton Road in east London. There it was right there in black and white type. Right between 'Gocon, Letty' and 'Godarn, R.'
I don't mind telling you but at that moment, I kind of panicked. I retrieved the 2006 phone book I had just tossed in the blue box and was astonished to see that God wasn't listed in that one either. Well, that explains a lot. But it doesn't explain enough. Because I know for a fact that God was listed in the 2005 and the 2004 books. It was in 2004 that I had first found God in the white pages.
It had been a rough night at the slots. And the hydro bill came the next morning. On a whim, I dialed 'directory assistance' and asked if they had a local London listing for God. It's not like there's something like the Bat-signal to get His attention.
"Yes, we have a God living on Delaware Street," came a surprisingly blase reply from the operator.
"Is that God with a capital 'G' or a small 'g,' I asked. I wanted to talk to the big Gahuna himself, not some minor-league deity. I was assured it was the Big 'G' and given a phone number.
You know, it's a bit intimidating to just call up God out of the blue. What if He mistook me for a telephone solicitor? A sure ticket to Hell if there ever was one. What if I woke Him from a nap? What if He was in the can? What if I got Him out of the shower?
And just what do you say to The Supreme Being when you finally do get Him on the phone? Do you blurt out what you want right away? Or do you act polite and all as if it was a letter to Santa Claus and so you first enquire about His health and how's Mrs. God? And what if there isn't a a Mrs. God? Or that God was a woman? Do you ask for Miss God? Ms. God? The Goddess of the house? The Bible is pretty vague on that kind of stuff.
I needed a good opening line because everytime I pray, it seems that I'm asking for something. A new bike. A new toy gun. A million dollars. Jessica Simpson's home phone-number. That kind of stuff. I didn't want it to seem so obvious that I was only calling to ask a favor - like winning the jackpot that night at the slots. No, it would be best to play it low-key. It was December and nothing would seem more natural than to call up and ask if He had any ideas what His Son might like for a birthday gift. Then just casually mention that I couldn't spend too much this year due to my poor cash-flow situation. Hint, hint.
So I made the call. And got a busy signal.
Then it occured to me, Maybe this wasn't the God. Wouldn't the real God at least have call-waiting?
I was about to redial when another thought occured to me. Maybe there was a good reason why the line was busy. After all, the world was going to Hell in a handbasket. War in Iraq. Church attendance was at an all-time low. TV-evangelists were embarrassing Him on a daily basis. And the Earth was due to collide with Planet X.
Maybe God was a bit too busy to to be concerned about my insignificant problems. If I needed money, I should be able to figure out a way to get it myself. Isn't that what the gift of free will and independence was all about when He kicked Adam and Eve's bare asses out of that garden in the first place and told them to get a job?
A few days later my cash-flow problems were solved thanks to some nice Christians working in the city's welfare office. Once more, all was right with the world and I called up God again to say thank-you. And when She answered (that's right, 'She,' - God sounded like a young woman in her early 20s,) well, She told me that's why the phone had been busy the day I first called - because She wanted me to figure it out for myself. "You know, I'm not Santa Claus," is the way She put it. And because She had been on hold for twenty minutes waiting to talk to someone at Rogers to arrange a time for Her cable hook-up.
We had a few good talks on the phone after that and then I stopped relying on Her so much for free advice. So it was a shock to see that She was no longer listed in the phone book. Or hadn't even been around the past couple of years. Or even said 'Goodbye.'
Where has She gone?
God only knows.
Should we be afraid? Should we be very afraid?
I don't think so. One of these days, I'll pick up the latest new phone book and there She will be. Just like She never left.
And then on impulse I looked up someone whose acquaintance I had made a few years ago. And there was no listing. I'm talking about God. There was a time that you could pick up your phone book and be comforted by the fact that God was listed and living on a small street off Hamilton Road in east London. There it was right there in black and white type. Right between 'Gocon, Letty' and 'Godarn, R.'
I don't mind telling you but at that moment, I kind of panicked. I retrieved the 2006 phone book I had just tossed in the blue box and was astonished to see that God wasn't listed in that one either. Well, that explains a lot. But it doesn't explain enough. Because I know for a fact that God was listed in the 2005 and the 2004 books. It was in 2004 that I had first found God in the white pages.
It had been a rough night at the slots. And the hydro bill came the next morning. On a whim, I dialed 'directory assistance' and asked if they had a local London listing for God. It's not like there's something like the Bat-signal to get His attention.
"Yes, we have a God living on Delaware Street," came a surprisingly blase reply from the operator.
"Is that God with a capital 'G' or a small 'g,' I asked. I wanted to talk to the big Gahuna himself, not some minor-league deity. I was assured it was the Big 'G' and given a phone number.
You know, it's a bit intimidating to just call up God out of the blue. What if He mistook me for a telephone solicitor? A sure ticket to Hell if there ever was one. What if I woke Him from a nap? What if He was in the can? What if I got Him out of the shower?
And just what do you say to The Supreme Being when you finally do get Him on the phone? Do you blurt out what you want right away? Or do you act polite and all as if it was a letter to Santa Claus and so you first enquire about His health and how's Mrs. God? And what if there isn't a a Mrs. God? Or that God was a woman? Do you ask for Miss God? Ms. God? The Goddess of the house? The Bible is pretty vague on that kind of stuff.
I needed a good opening line because everytime I pray, it seems that I'm asking for something. A new bike. A new toy gun. A million dollars. Jessica Simpson's home phone-number. That kind of stuff. I didn't want it to seem so obvious that I was only calling to ask a favor - like winning the jackpot that night at the slots. No, it would be best to play it low-key. It was December and nothing would seem more natural than to call up and ask if He had any ideas what His Son might like for a birthday gift. Then just casually mention that I couldn't spend too much this year due to my poor cash-flow situation. Hint, hint.
So I made the call. And got a busy signal.
Then it occured to me, Maybe this wasn't the God. Wouldn't the real God at least have call-waiting?
I was about to redial when another thought occured to me. Maybe there was a good reason why the line was busy. After all, the world was going to Hell in a handbasket. War in Iraq. Church attendance was at an all-time low. TV-evangelists were embarrassing Him on a daily basis. And the Earth was due to collide with Planet X.
Maybe God was a bit too busy to to be concerned about my insignificant problems. If I needed money, I should be able to figure out a way to get it myself. Isn't that what the gift of free will and independence was all about when He kicked Adam and Eve's bare asses out of that garden in the first place and told them to get a job?
A few days later my cash-flow problems were solved thanks to some nice Christians working in the city's welfare office. Once more, all was right with the world and I called up God again to say thank-you. And when She answered (that's right, 'She,' - God sounded like a young woman in her early 20s,) well, She told me that's why the phone had been busy the day I first called - because She wanted me to figure it out for myself. "You know, I'm not Santa Claus," is the way She put it. And because She had been on hold for twenty minutes waiting to talk to someone at Rogers to arrange a time for Her cable hook-up.
We had a few good talks on the phone after that and then I stopped relying on Her so much for free advice. So it was a shock to see that She was no longer listed in the phone book. Or hadn't even been around the past couple of years. Or even said 'Goodbye.'
Where has She gone?
God only knows.
Should we be afraid? Should we be very afraid?
I don't think so. One of these days, I'll pick up the latest new phone book and there She will be. Just like She never left.
posted by Sonny Drysdale at 2:36 AM
2 Comments:
God may still be around town, H.P. you would have to check old phone books from the library. She's in there. Honest.
Dianne Haskett is God. If she decides to leave London, we're screwed.
She was at city hall last night and held out her hand to me to be shaken. I licked it instead and said, "Dianne, please know that Londoners want you to stay in town. Now kick off your shoe. I want to lick your feet."
She scurried away to sit next to Police Chief Murray Faulkner, as if that was meant to scare me away.
She kept eyeballing me for the rest of the meeting. Everytime she turned her head my way I licked my lips.
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