Night of the Intruder

At home alone with a violent storm brewing, she hears someone in the hall way…..

By Betty Waldron Davis

HAVE YOU EVER FELT so frightened you experienced a frozen, peaceful calm?

That’s how I felt recently.

My husband was in Montana, preaching a revival. Chuck, our seventeen-year-old son, was out of town spending the night with a friend.

The house was quiet. I was doing all the things I enjoyed doing when I had plenty of time and no schedule.  I ate meals at a different time, played the piano, listened to my favorite music, and read in bed until late Saturday night.

The weather was gloomy, rain and thundershowers.  That didn’t dampen my cheerful spirit. My home was warm and secure.

The lightening became close and worsened as the night wore on.

I turned out the light.  Hananiah, my cat, and I snuggled down for a restful sleep.  I was praying and fellowshipping with the Lord.

Suddenly, the doorbell in the garage rang.  I sat up and the cat literally stood at attention, nose pointed in the direction of the garage at the other end of the house.  Every hair on his body stood out.  For a few seconds, neither of us moved.

Who could be out in this weather?  I thought. If there was car trouble, both of my close neighbors would be more able to help someone than I.

I lay back down, wondering if I’d really heard the bell or just imagined it.

I didn’t hear anything else, so I assumed whoever it was had gone to another house.  But sleep was out of the question.  My heart was racing.

I strained to hear any unusual sounds.  If someone was taking something out of the garage, it was without noise.

The hall closet light streaming through the shuttered doors made the entrance to the bedroom visible.

I was about to decide I had not really heard the doorbell when I heard the dialing of a phone.  My fears grew as my imagination ran wild.

Someone dialing the phone….Someone was definitely inside the house and using the phone.  Then in a few seconds, I heard a door open.  I could not run, hide, or lock the bedroom doors without exposing my whereabouts.

I lay there, the covers up to my neck, straining my eyes toward the hall light.  A flash of lightening lit up the room for an instant, sending chills trough my whole body.

Again, my heart raced as though I’d ridden my exercise bike for an hour.

A second later I saw a man’s shadow creeping slowly toward my room.

Assurance.  Trust.  Faith.  I was crying out to God to supply them.  I was depending on God’s protection.  A childhood verse came to me: “What time I am afraid, I will trust in thee” (PS. 56:3)

A peace came over my whole being just an instant before I recognized my son.

“Chuck!” I gasped.

“Mother, I’m sorry, I didn’t want to wake you.”

This is what happened: Chuck got back from the concert in a nearby town earlier than he thought he would and decided to come home.  He chose not call because he didn’t want the phone to wake me up.  When he got to the door, he realized I had the dead lock bolt on and his key wouldn’t open it.

After ringing the doorbell once, he decided to brave the rain and run to the front door. But I had locked the screen door.  He remembered that he had left his bedroom window unlocked.  After reassuring and quieting the dogs in the backyard, he came in through his window.

His friend was expecting a phone call to know that he made it home safely, so he dialed the friend’s number.  Then, he opened his bedroom door to see if I was sleeping.  My sudden gasping of his name even startled him.

We talked for a long time.  Neither of us was sleepy, and he had a lot to share about his trip.

From now on, Chuck will remember these words: PHONE HOME—NO MATTER HOW LATE YOU PLAN TO RETURN.

Despite the scare, it’s wonderful to have a sweet, thoughtful teenager these days.

Taken from Home Life 1987

PAGE 37

 

THE OLD PHONE (This came from the internet)

When I was quite young, my father had one of the first telephones in our neighborhood. I remember the polished, old case fastened to the wall. The shiny receiver hung on the side of the box. I was too little to reach the telephone, but used to listen with fascination when my mother talked to it.

Then I discovered that somewhere inside the wonderful device lived an amazing person. Her name was "Information Please" and there was nothing she did not know.. Information Please could supply anyone's number and the correct time.

My personal experience with the genie-in-a-bottle came one day while my mother was visiting a neighbor. Amusing myself at the tool bench in the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer, the pain was terrible, but there seemed no point in crying because there was no one home to give sympathy.

I walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger, finally arriving at the stairway. The telephone! Quickly, I ran for the footstool in the parlor and dragged it to the landing Climbing up, I unhooked the receiver in the parlor and held it to my ear. "Information, please" I said into the mouthpiece just above my head.
A click or two and a small clear voice spoke into my ear.

"Information."

"I hurt my finger..." I wailed into the phone, the tears came readily enough now that I had an audience.

"Isn't your mother home?" came the question.

"Nobody's home but me," I blubbered.

"Are you bleeding?" the voice asked.

"No," I replied. "I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts."
"Can you open the icebox?" she asked.

I said I could.

"Then chip off a little bit of ice and hold it to your finger," said the voice.

After that, I called "Information Please" for everything. I asked her for help with my geography, and she told me where Philadelphia was. She helped me with my math. She told me my pet chipmunk that I had caught in the park just the day before, would eat fruit and nuts.

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 things grown-ups say to soothe a child. But I was not consoled. 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, "Wayne always remember that there are other worlds to sing in."

Somehow I felt better.

Another day I was on the telephone, "Information Please."
"Information," said in the now familiar voice. "How do I spell fix?" I asked.

All this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest. When I was nine years old, we moved across the country to Boston. I missed my friend very much. "Information Please" belonged in that old wooden box back home and I somehow never thought of trying the shiny new phone that sat on the table in the hall. As I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversations never really left me.

Often, in moments of doubt and perplexity I would recall the serene sense of security I had then. I appreciated now how patient, understanding, and kind she was to have spent her time on a little boy.

A few years later, on my way west to college, my plane put down in Seattle. I had about a half-hour or so between planes. I spent 15 minutes or so on the phone with my sister, who lived there now. Then 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 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 call 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, did you say your name was Wayne?" "Yes." I answered.

"Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote it down in case you called.

Let me read it to you."
The note said, "Tell him there are other worlds to sing in.
He'll know what I mean."

I thanked her and hung up. I knew what Sally meant.

Never underestimate the impression you may make on others.

Whose life have you touched today?