Storymania - God'S Messenger by Tom Di Roma

God's Messenger
Tom Di Roma

The first time I saw Mr. Moody I totally freaked!
It was last year, the day Mom began her new job as chief chef at the Tip Top Diner. I had just stepped off the school bus and had gone inside to wait for her shift to end so we could walk to our apartment together. That's when I saw him sitting alone in his booth.
Even though Mom had warned me, I could still feel my eyes get as big as doughnuts and my jaw drop practically to the floor. I didn’t know what to do. This was so unbelievable! I mean, how could anyone not move, or talk, or even breathe and still be alive?
“He’s frozen in time,” replied Gus to my question. Gus was Mom’s boss at the diner.
“What does that mean?” I asked him.
A short, balding, fat man in his late sixties, Gus formed a triangle with his stubby fingers. “Have you ever seen those things in stores?” he asked. “They’re clear plastic blocks or pyramids, and they got stuff encased in them like coins, or flowers, or bugs?” I nodded.
“Well, that’s sort of what happened to old Moody here. He’s got this invisible thing around him that keeps him frozen in one position all the time.”
My eyes grew even bigger than before. “You mean he’s got an invisible force field around him?”
Staring at Mr. Moody, I tried to see if I could detect any sign of an invisible beam or whatever it might be that was holding him, but I couldn't see anything, not even a glimmer of light.
“How did a force field get around him?” I asked. I was intrigued. This was like something out of Star Trek!
Sliding into an empty booth in front of the one Mr. Moody sat in, Gus smiled and said, “I’m glad you asked that, Little One.”
That was the first time Gus called me “Little One.” He gave me that nickname, he said, because at the time I looked younger than my twelve-years-old. I didn’t mind being called “Little One.” Girls are supposed to look young ... until they get their boobs. At least that’s what Ginny, my new friend at school, said.
“The day this all happened,” explained Gus, “it was bright and sunny, much like today! And like today, it was about the middle of the afternoon, only a lot more crowded. That’s because, back before they built the freeway, we used to get a lot of tourists and traveling salesmen, as wellas many local farmers.”
I took a seat in the booth opposite Gus as he continued to talk. “As for old Moody here,” Gus gestured, “he was not one of our regulars, but he used to show up occasionally for coffee, or try one of our specials. His favorite was what you see in front of him, meat loaf and mashed potatoes.”
I glanced at the partially-eaten meal on the table in front of Mr. Moody and noticed it looked as fresh and inviting as if it had just come out of the oven.
“I found out later,” said Gus, “everyone assumed old Moody had come to town like always to try our special of the day. But I knew the real reason he had come to town.”
“What was that?” I asked.
“He was here for the special, alright. But it was going to be his last meal. That’s because, after he ate, he said he was going home to commit suicide.”
I gasped and glanced at Mr. Moody. “He was going to kill himself?”
“Well, he didn’t actually say he was going to kill himself.”
I sighed relieved.
“What old Moody said was that he was going home to finally put an end to it all. At first, I thought he meant he was finally going to sell his farm. But by the time it dawned on me what he really meant, it was too late.”
“Why, what happened?”
“I was in back washing dishes. Earlier I had been waiting on tables. In those days, I used to do a little bit of everything. Suddenly, I realized it had gotten awfully quiet up front. I knew right then something must have happened. So, I came out to see. When I opened the swinging doors from the kitchen, I saw a crowd of people gathered around the booth where old Moody had been quietly eating his meatloaf and mashed potatoes. When I got up close, I saw Moody like you see him now--stiff as a mannequin in a store.”
I looked at Mr. Moody with his blue denim overalls and his deeply-lined, sunburnt skin and thought he did kind of remind me of a mannequin, but not the kind you see in stores; more like the kind you see in museums.
He was sitting with his left arm bent and his fork, spearing a piece of meat loaf, was held halfway between his partially open mouth and the plate of food on the table. I looked closely but couldn't even detect a tremor in his eyes, let alone his hands. It really was like staring at a statue.
“At first,” said Gus, “I thought he had a heart attack, so I tried feeling his pulse. That’s when I discovered the invisible whatever it is around him.”
“You mean, you can touch it?” I asked, a shiver running through me.
Gus pointed. “Yeah, go ahead, it won't hurt you. Feels sort of like glass.”
I glanced over at Mr. Moody, then down at my hand and shook my head. I decided I didn’t want to go anywhere near him. Gus’ fat face broke into a grin. “I don’t blame you, kid,” he said. “It frightened the heck out of me, too, but you get used to it.”
I wasn’t sure I could ever get used to something like this. But, of course, I have.
“Anyway,” said Gus. “I knew I should call the police or someone; but back then, we had only the sheriff and his one deputy. And I knew Sheriff Cowlings was out of town that day, which meant I had only his deputy, Wally Jenkins, to call on.
“Now, I liked Wally well enough. Heck, we had grown up together. Went to the same high school. And I’m not really bad-mouthing him, but Wally was the type of lawman who couldn’t find a corn field if he was standing in it. And as for those federal boys--I didn't trust any of them since I was a kid and saw the hell they gave my father over his whisky still.
“So, not knowing what else to do, I told everyone to go back to their seats, then I went back to washing dishes. I was sort of hoping whatever happened to Moody would go away by itself. But as you can see, it hasn’t.”
Again I glanced at Mr. Moody and wondered what it must be like not to be able to move. Did he ever get tired or have to go to the bathroom? Was he ever frightened, especially at night when the lights were out and no one was around? Didn't he ever wish he could just get up and go home? But then I remembered the reason Gus said Mr. Moody had come to the diner and I asked, “Why did Mr. Moody want to kill himself.”
Gus replied, “Because Matilda had died.”
“Who was Matilda?” I asked.
“His horse.”
My eyes got big again. “Mr. Moody was going to kill himself because of a horse?”
Gus nodded, then explained, “You have to understand something about Matilda. She was more than just a horse to him.” Gus waved his hand. “She was family. He had no one else, especially after his wife died. He used to bring Matilda out to the fields with him and talk to her all day, when he wasn’t using her to help him plow. I think he even brought her into his house and slept with her at night in his room.”
That image made me smile.
“When he came into town,” said Gus, “he’d have Matilda pull him and his wagon. Used to tie her up outside by the gas pumps. Of course, in those days, we only had one pump.”
Picturing the twelve gleaming pumping stations that stood like soldiers in a parade at the fuel depot next door, I wondered how long ago it was that they only had one pump.
“Sometimes when old Moody came by for one of our specials,” said Gus, “I’d sit and talk with him. He liked me. He had seen me play baseball. Back then, I used to pitch for a local team, The City Gas Pumpers. We competed against teams from other towns. It was sort of like little league for grownups. No big deal, but we did play hard ball instead of soft. Moody said I had a lot of talent. He said I should have tried out for the majors.”
“Did you?”
“Maybe I should have, but,” Gus waved his hand like he was shooing away a fly, “I didn’t think I had that much talent. And besides, as it turned out, I had other things to do.” He made another gesture that seemed to include the entire diner, including Mr. Moody.
“Anyway,” he continued, “it was during one of Moody’s visits that I noticed he was looking real down in the dumps. So, I asked him what was wrong? That's when he told me about Matilda. I thought, this poor old bugger! First his wife the year before, now his horse.
“Right after Matilda died, old Moody started showing up more often, almost three or four times a week. That meant he had to walk the two miles from his farm and then back again. His truck hadn’t run in weeks.
“I’d sit with him as much as I could. We'd talk about a lot of different things. Often the conversation turned toward Matilda.
“One time, Moody surprised the heck out of me by asking if I wanted to own a farm. I looked at him like he was crazy. What would I do with a farm? I asked him.
“‘You could work it,’ he replied.
“Even if I wanted to, where would I get a farm?
“He said, ‘You can have mine.’
“That really surprised me, but then I asked him where would I get the kind of money I would need to buy his farm?
“He said, ‘You wouldn't need money; I'll put you in my will.’
“Why?” I asked him. “Are you planning on dying any time soon?”
I was only joking, but without even a grin, he said,
‘Maybe.’
“That’s when I started to worry about old Moody, but like most people, I didn't do anything. Looking back, I probably should have. But then, the next time he showed up, he threw me a curve by saying he was seriously thinking of selling his farm and moving to Florida. That’s why the day this happened, I thought he was talking about selling the farm and not suicide.”
I glanced at Mr. Moody and asked Gus, “Are you sure he's even alive?”
Gus shrugged, “To be totally honest with you, I'm not 100% positive. But then, why would God do something like this to a man if it was going to kill him?”
“You think God did this?” I asked.
“Who else?” replied Gus.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Aliens?” Once again, I was thinking of Star Trek.
Gus shook his head. “No, this has God written all over it.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
Gus pointed to me. “You go to church, don’t you?”
I nodded. “A lot more now than when my dad was around. He hated anything that had to do with church. That’s why mom and I went only when he was away driving his truck.”
“Well, then you must know the story about Lot's wife.”
“Yes,” I said.
“What about Noah and the Ark?”
I nodded again. “Both are familiar stories,” I told him.
“In each incident,” said Gus, “a warning was given but ignored.” Gus gestured toward Mr. Moody. “Well, that’s sort of what you have here with old Moody. God is using him as a warning to people.”
“About what?” I asked.
Gus pointed toward the ceiling. “About not making the Big Guy upstairs mad at you.”
“Who’s going to listen to someone who can't talk?”
Gus replied, “Oh, you’d be surprised who has listened over the last 40 years.”
“FORTY YEARS!” I exclaimed, my mouth almost hitting the floor again. “Mr. Moody has been like this for FORTY YEARS!”
Gus nodded. “Yep! And in those forty years, there have been hundreds of people whose lives have been changed by what has happened to Moody.”
“Like who?” I asked.
“Oh, like people who cheat or rob or kill, kids and grownups on drugs, or maybe running away from their responsibilities, corrupt people who corrupt others. All kinds of nasty and some just troubled individuals.”
“And how do you know about all these people and what they have done?” I asked him.
Gus smiled. “Ahhhhhh! That’s the other half of this little miracle,” he said.
I looked at him, my eyebrows squeezed together in curiosity.
“Old Moody wasn’t the only one who had something happen to him that day,” said Gus. “Something happened to me, too.”
“What?” I asked.
“I became a messenger for God.”
My eyebrows shot up and I looked at him as if he had just done something weird like bark or make mooing noises. Gus ignored my surprised expression and said, “I don’t know if God sends them to me, or I just pick them.”
“How?" I asked.
He gestured with his palms up. “It’s sort of a feeling I get,” he said. He pointed toward the front entrance. “A stranger walks in that door and before you know it, I sense that God wants me to talk with them.”
“Oh, yeah!” I said, skeptical.
Gus continued. “Usually, our conversation starts with a question about Moody, then after I’m done with my explanation, I’ll see a light go on in their eyes. It’s almost as if someone has turned on a flashlight and shined it in their faces. That’s when I know they’ve gotten God’s message.”
“Which is what?”
“Which is: stop doing whatever it is that you have been doing that is sinful, or hurtful to yourself or others, otherwise ...” His voice trailed off.
“Otherwise what?” I asked.
“Otherwise you too could end up like Moody here--frozen in time, trapped in an invisible ... ‘force field,’ as you call it, maybe alive, but who knows for sure. But just think.” He pinched his right thumb and forefinger together and held them up in front of me to emphasize what he was saying. “If he is alive and aware of everything around him, can you imagine what it must be like not to be able to move or make contact with people, yet be aware of every second of every day, for the last 40 years?”
The thought made me shiver. “It sounds horrible,” I whispered. For some reason, I couldn’t look him straight in the eye.
“Of course,” said Gus, “at the time I’m talking with these people, I don’t know what their exact situation is. I just know God wants me to speak to them. So I say what he wants me to say. It’s not until later, when I receive letters from them telling me how much our little talk changed their lives, that I discover how convincing a messenger for God I've been.”
I stared at Gus, my eyebrows knitting themselves together.
I wasn’t sure what my feelings were about what he had been telling me. Could this all be true about him becoming a messenger for God, or was he just crazy?
Suddenly a question entered my mind and I asked him. “Why are you telling me this, especially the part about being God’s messenger? Don’t you realize how crazy you sound?”
Gus looked at me, his head turned slightly, a smile on his face. “I’ve told you this, Little One,” he said, “because the moment you walked in that door, I knew you were next in line to become one of God’s messengers.”
That’s when I thought for sure he was crazy.
Of course, that was last year, when I first met him. Since then, I’ve changed my mind, especially after what happened to me last week.

I was in the cafeteria at school having lunch with my best friend, Ginny, when I heard a noise like a whisper next to my right ear. It grew louder until it became a woman’s voice telling me that my friend was a shoplifter and needed my help.
I gasped.
Ginny, who was seated across the table from me eating pizza, looked up and asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I told her.
“Then why did you make that noise?”
Fanning my mouth, I said, “My spaghetti and meatballs are hot.” I felt weird lying to her, but I didn’t know what else to say.
Ginny nodded and took another bite of her pizza, while I sat totally stunned. If anyone had been watching, they would have thought I was waiting for my food to cool off. Actually, I was too freaked by what had just happened to move. Finally, after the shock wore off, I glanced around to see if anyone else had heard what I had. Everyone was eating or talking like nothing had happened. Turning back around front, I wondered what could I do to help? The answer, of course, was simple: get her to the diner and introduce her to Mr. Moody.
But how? Even though we went to the same school, Ginny lived two towns away in the opposite direction. I thought about it and decided the best way was to invite her over for the weekend.
“We could stay up all night and watch videos,” I said. When Ginny didn’t respond right away, I added, “Saturday, Mom’s baking pies for the charity sale at our church on Sunday. I’ll bet we can get her to let us have a whole pie just for ourselves.” I Licked my lips, “She makes the best pies and cakes you’d ever want to eat, especially when you have them with ice cream on top.”
“I don’t know,” Ginny said. She sounded reluctant. I was surprised. Ginny loved eating desserts more than anything else. “It might be hard to talk my mother into driving me over to your apartment; you and your mom live so far away.”
I wondered if what I had said about church had made her uncomfortable (Ginny’s parents weren’t religious), or was it really concern about her mother taxieing her around?
“You won't have to bug your mother,” I told her. “If you bring your clothes and stuff with you to school tomorrow, you can ride home with me on the bus.”
Ginny still looked unsure, so I added, “I just have to warn you about something.”
“What’s that?”
I wanted to pique her interest so I told her, “At the diner where Mom works, there’s this weird old guy. He sits in a booth by himself; he doesn’t talk, or move, or even breathe.” I hoped this would get her curious.
“What’s the matter with him?” she asked. “Is he dead?”
“No, he’s alive.”
“Then how can he not breathe?” She asked skeptical.
“It’s hard to explain,” I said. “You'll just have to see for yourself.”
Ginny grabbed my wrist across the table. “Tell me now,” she insisted.
“You’ll see tomorrow,” I said.
The bell rang. Gritting her teeth, Ginny made an irritated noise. She hated surprises, especially ones she had to wait for, but she had no choice. So, hurrying to dump our trays and garbage, we headed for our next class. On the way, she bugged me to tell her more about “the weird guy.”
“Not now,” I said to her, walking fast. “Come on, we’ll be late.”
Trying to keep up with me, Ginny replied, “You’re mean!”
“No, I’m not,” I said, “Just in a hurry.”
Actually, the reason I didn't want to tell Ginny about Mr. Moody until I got her to the diner was because last year when I met Gus, he told me not to go blabbing to everyone I see about Moody until I knew the moment was right.
“Well, how am I supposed to know when that is?” I asked him.
“You’ll know,” he said.
He was right; I did.
The next day, after the school bus dropped us off, Ginny, anxious to see Mr. Moody, ran inside the diner. I followed close behind.
Coming to a halt in the aisle next to his booth, she asked,
“Is this the weird guy?”
“Yep, that’s him!”
“Wow! Cool!” she said, staring at Mr. Moody like he was some kind of giant ice-cream cone or something.
“You were right,” she said. “He does look like he came out of a wax museum.”
Carefully extending her finger, Ginny tried to poke Mr. Moody in the arm. I guess she wanted to see what he felt like. When her finger struck the invisible barrier, she squealed and jerked her hand back, shaking it as if she had been burnt by a hot stove.
“What was that?” she asked, her eyes wide with surprise.
“It’s an invisible force field.” I told her. “It’s what keeps him from moving.”
“How did something like that get here?” she asked.
That was my cue.
I glanced around to see Gus standing by the cash register. Mom was still in the kitchen cooking. The rest of the people in the diner were busy with their meals or each other. No one seemed to be paying much attention to me or Mr. Moody. That's because they were regulars and were used to seeing us. When Gus saw me look in his direction, he smiled and nodded, as if to say go ahead. He knew what was about to happen. He should; he had predicted it.
“Sit down,” I said to Ginny, “and I’ll tell you the story about Mr. Moody and what happened to him on that fateful day forty years ago.”
Ginny slid into an empty booth and stowed her backpack stuffed with clothes and things for the weekend underneath the table. I stood in the aisle next to the booth and began to recite the story as close to the way I had heard Gus tell it at least a dozen times over the last year. There would be differences in my version, of course. I’d have to use different examples of sins Ginny may have committed, but in general, the words would be the same.
I began by jerking my thumb toward Mr. Moody. “You see this guy here?” I said to Ginny, “His name is Silas Moody. He used to be a farmer before this happened to him. He was hard-working and dedicated and loved three things more than anything else: his wife, his horse, Matilda, and farming. After his wife died, Silas had his horse and his farm to keep him company. But after Matilda died, not even his farm could prevent old Silas from going off the deep end.
“Unable to stand the loneliness and grief, he decided to commit suicide. But first, he chose to come here to the diner, as he often had, for one last serving of his favorite meal.” I gestured toward Mr. Moody. “As you can see, though, he never finished it.
“That’s because old Moody has been frozen in time for the last forty years. He doesn’t move, talk, or even breath. All he does is sit here like you see him now.”
I noticed a curious expression come over Ginny’s face.
“You’re wondering how did he get like this, right?”
Ginny nodded.
“Well, you could say little green men from outer space made him like this, but I don’t believe that; because if that was the case, why didn’t they take him with them? Why did they
leave him here?”
Ginny shrugged.
“No, I honestly believe God did this to old Moody.” I saw her eyebrows bunch up. “I know, you don’t believe in God, and that’s fine for you. But I do, and what I believe is that God is using old Moody here as a warning to us not to make him angry--which is what Moody was about to do when he decided to commit suicide.”
I took a deep breath and hoped everything I was about to say would come out right.
“Most people will tell you that suicide is just as bad as committing murder, or stealing another person's entire life’s savings. But it doesn't have to be one of God’s major rules you breakbefore he gets mad at you. It could be one of the littlest ones, like the rule against telling fibs, or bad-mouthing people. You never know what could get him riled, then look what might happen!”
I pointed toward Mr. Moody. Ginny’s eyes followed.
“I bet you’re wondering if he is alive, aren’t you? Well, to be totally honest, I’m not 100% sure; but if he is, and he’s aware of everything around him, can you imagine what it must be like not to be able to move, or speak, or make contact with people, yet be aware of every second of every day, year after year? Talk about torture!
“And yet, old Moody was lucky. He had this happen to him while he was sitting here happily enjoying his meal. Suppose this happened to him while he was, say ... on the toilet? For that matter, imagine it was you on the toilet. Think of the embarrassment you would feel knowing that everyday people were going to see you sitting there with your butt hanging out and your pants down around your ankles.”
Ginny wrinkled her nose. “That’s gross!” she said.
“Yeah, but it could be worse. Picture yourself in an accident. You’re hurt. You’re feeling horrible pain. It’s at that moment God decides to freeze you. Imagine continuous, terrible pain forever and ever?
Ginny made another face. “Why would God want to do something like that?” she asked.
“Because you've been making him mad,” I said. “You’ve been doing stuff he doesn’t like. It could be anything from cussing at your parents, to cheating on tests, to stealing items from stores without paying for them.”
Her head jerked up and Ginny's brown eyes locked on mine. I knew she was expecting me to say more about her shoplifting. Instead, I continued talking.
“Whatever it is you've been doing,” I said. “It doesn’t matter, because the problem is you don’t care. As long as you don't get caught, you don’t care.
“But one of these days, you’re going to get caught; not necessarily by the law, or a friend, or even family member, but by him.” Again, I gestured toward the ceiling.
“He’s going to get tired of looking the other way, while you continue to mess up. He’s going to say to himself, ‘You got me angry because you wouldn’t heed my words, so now, I’m going to do something about it.’
“And what that something may be could be this.” I pointed toward Mr. Moody. “Or it could be worse.”
I paused a moment to let what I had been saying sink in.
“But it doesn’t have to be,” I said. “There is a way stop anything from happening. All it takes is a desire on your part to want to change, to open up your heart and mind to HIS message. And that message is: treat everyone the same way you would want to be treated, with kindness and respect. Don’t bad-mouth them; don’t steal from them--anything--emotions or property; don’t kill the spark of life in them with your anger and selfishness.
“Instead, feed them with kindness and love, and you will feel that love come back to you ten times over. For in reality, that love will be coming from God himself.
“He cares about you deeply, even though he knows you've been too afraid or too stubborn in the past to open your heart to him. Open your heart now! Say to him with prayers, both silent and aloud, that you're tired of the way your life has been going, that you've been powerless to change it on your own. That's why you need his help.
“Really open yourself up to him! If you do, he’ll show you a peace of mind and spirit like you’ve never imagined. I know it sounds unbelievable, but that’s why he’s guided you here to this place, at this point in time, so you could see for yourself what is possible and make your decision. It’s the only chance you've got if you ever want to find meaning and purpose in your life. Otherwise, you will spend the rest of your life and beyond in misery."
Ginny sat still, her eyes, sad-like, focused on the floor in front of her. I could see she was in deep thought about many things, but exactly what, I couldn’t tell for sure. So I said to her the last thing Gus always says to people whenever he gives this little speech.
“Think of it this way,” I said. “If you had a broken toy, or an appliance, or maybe a car that didn’t run, and you couldn't fix it yourself, wouldn’t you call a mechanic? Well, a part of you is broken and God is the mechanic. Call him now and get fixed, or forever stay broken and get thrown away with the rest of the trash.”
After that, Ginny didn't say anything or even move. Instead, she continued to look down at the floor as if she was waiting for the answer to some pop quiz to suddenly appear there. Except, I knew the only answers she would find were going to have to come from inside her, not on the floor--so I waited ... and waited ... and waited...
As the seconds ticked by, I couldn’t help but wonder: had I said everything correctly? Did I leave anything out? Would Ginny get God’s message?
Behind me, the diner was strangely quiet. I should have heard dishes and glasses clinking, or tableware clattering, or food sizzling on the grill--at least a piece or two of conversation. Instead, the whole place was spooky quiet as if everyone was holding his or her breath waiting to see what was going to happen next.
More seconds ticked by. I was beginning to think nothing was going to happen. Then, I saw the light in Ginny's eyes, just as Gus said I would. It was weird, because it really was like someone had turned on a flashlight and was shining it in her face. It only lasted a few seconds, but that was enough to let me know I had done it. I had gotten through to her with a message from God.
Behind me, someone had begun to applaud. When I turned around, I saw it was Gus. I could feel my face turning red as I watched him walk toward me, flashing a smile as bright as the sun.
I guess his clapping influenced the others in the diner; they too began to applaud. I felt weird listening to all of them clap like that. It wasn’t like I had just won a contest or anything. All I did was deliver a message to a friend. But it was an important message, and they knew it. Most of them had heard and seen Gus do this dozens of times. Some of them had even been where Ginny was now, but none of them had ever seen me do it. Now they had.
After the applause died down, I heard Ginny behind me say, “I have to go to the bathroom.”
I watched as she walked slowly up the aisle past a couple of people sitting in booths and other booths that were empty. She looked a little shaky, almost as if she had just awaken from a long sleep.
I couldn’t help but wonder if she was going to feel nervous using the bathroom now after what I had just told her about being frozen in time?
A smile touched my lips as I remembered that several of the people I had seen Gus preach to this last year had also claimed to have to use the bathroom afterwards. I wondered if there was a reason?
As soon as Ginny disappeared through the side doors that lead to the rest rooms, I said to Gus, “You were right.”
“About what?” he asked.
“At the moment I had to come up with examples of sins Ginny may have committed, besides the shoplifting, the other stuff--the cussing at her parents and cheating on tests--the words
just popped into my mouth without me having to think about them.”
“I told you,” said Gus, smiling. “It’s been like that for me for the last 40 years, ever since this first started. Whether I’m talking to a liar, or a wife beater, or a drug dealer, or a horse stealer, I never have to think about what to say. The moment I need examples, they just pop into my head. It’s like there's a path straight from God to my mouth.”
“Except there’s one difference this time,” I said to Gus.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Instead of just sensing that Ginny needed me to talk to her the way you get messages, I heard a voice tell me Ginny was a shoplifter.”
Gus’ eyebrows shot up. “You heard a voice?” he exclaimed. I nodded. A look of confusion came over him. His chubby fingers massaged his forehead and he shook his head, as if he, too, was trying to wake up from being asleep.
“You heard a voice?” he asked, again.
“Yes,” I repeated, more insistently.
Gus hesitated then shrugged and said, “I don't know. Maybe it means someone upstairs likes you better than me, or maybe it means the rules are being changed.” He sounded disappointed. “Either way, you are now officially a messenger for God.”
“Okay, if that’s the case,” I said. “What happens if Dad finds me and Mom again and we have to move? Will I still be able to do this somewhere else without Mr. Moody?”
Gus got sort of a thoughtful look on his face then shook his head. “Sorry, Little One,” he said. “Only God knows for sure and he ain’t talk’n ... at least not to me.”