Winter Sunshine

It is not a particularly good time in my life, in case you haven’t figured this out already. Out of desperation—certainly not out of choice—I have taken a job selling meat and deli products over the telephone. If you live in certain parts of the Midwest, it’s entirely possible that that cut of beef you picked up last night made it to your fridge because I sent it on its way to the corner store.

This achievement, however important a link in the food chain, is not doing it for me right now. I am depressed at being reduced to working in phone sales; doubtful that I’ll ever make a name for myself doing something more worthwhile; and completely frazzled by the constantly ringing telephone.

It’s no wonder that on day fourteen, I pause during my phone call to Jack.

“Hey,” I say to him. What else is there to say?

But Jack surprises me. “Lisa!” he cries. He sounds genuinely glad to hear from me. He goes on. “I know your voice now. You don’t even have to say it’s you!”

Jack’s own voice is full of delight, like a kid who’s just spotted his long-lost playmate across the park.

That’s when I realized that I *have* made a name for myself. Literally speaking, anyway. I’ve made a name for myself because there are meat cutters across the Midwest who know me. They know who I am and why I’ve called. They know the distinct timbre of my voice, enough to recognize me before I even say my name. And they are gladdened by it.

Let me tell you, it was a healing moment when Jack called. It was a moment that made me think twice about the meaning of the ringing telephone.

I thought of what I long for most in this life, which is to be recognized, known and cherished. And I looked down at my call list and saw the names of over thirty people that know me. People that were once strangers but that aren't any longer. People whose voices light up when they hear my voice on the other end of the line.

I thought about voices and how intimate they are. Even more so than our names, voices are part of our created beings--like the hairs on our head, each one of which God has personally counted. To know someone’s voice is to know something not insubstantial about them. By the end of my time at Roundy’s, I think that my customers and I knew each other’s voices nearly as well as the voices of our family, friends, and lovers.

I looked at the telephone again and thought about the notion of calling, but this time in terms of calling forth, as in creation. Here it was, day fourteen in the bustling world of Roundy’s warehouse, and God was still busy creating. In Michelangelo’s fresco of the "Creation of Eve" on the Sistine Chapel ceiling, God calls forth Eve from the body of Adam. Eve emerges as if from slumber, her whole body leaning towards her maker.

On the fourteenth day, Jack the meat cutter picked up his end of the phone and called me out of my discouragement and despair. It was, in many ways, like hearing the voice of God.

“Lisa!” he cried, his voice full of delight.

And what he said in those two syllables was, I know your voice. I have called you by name. I tell you the truth, when you hear it from the least of these, you hear it from me.