As I was walking Frankie this morning, my cell phone rang from deep in my pockets. The number displayed was unfamiliar, but it was 7 am on a Sunday so maybe it was important. After I said hello, the woman’s voice on the other end was cracked and old as she asked to speak to Ann.

“I’m afraid you have the wrong number,” I said to her.

“Oh, I’m so sorry to have bothered you so early. I am trying to call my granddaughter.”

“It’s okay. Perhaps you are just one number off.” Then I prattled off my number for her so she could check what she had typed into the phone.

“Well, that’s the number my daughter gave me to call her, so she must have the wrong number, too.”

“Well, I hope you find her. I’m sure she would love to talk to her grandmother.”

“She’s in trouble. She needs the Lord, and I want her to go to church with me today.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. When you find her, I hope she goes to church with you and accepts your help.”

“Thank you, sweetie, and may God bless you.”

“May He bless you as well.”

 

An hour after that phone conversation, I was digging through an old dresser for a favorite missing sweater, and I found a small box with my grandmother’s handwriting on it. Inside the box there were paycheck stubs from the Dan River Cotton Mill from the years 1944-1946. Her War Ration book was also folded up inside the stubs. And as I unfolded it all and read the tiny cursive handwriting, I thought of how hard she worked for her family, and how I would give anything to go to church with her today so she could tell me all about it.

 

I hope that woman found her granddaughter.