I am sharing my rebellious life with a friend from church. We are pleading for God to show me how to heal my depleted body and provide me with lucid direction. As we talk and pray, the telephone rings. “Hello.” I say. 

It is the police, and they want to talk with my parents. The officer asks deferentially, “Is Mr. or Mrs. Turner in?”

Although the caller’s voice is calm and business-like, the tone is somehow foreboding. I reply, “No, but can I take a message?”  

The officer will not explain why he is calling, which is an ominous clue. 

“No,” he says, “but we do need to talk to them right away. Can you have them call this number as soon as possible?”  

He gives me the number and I write it down in the air using my new “visual chalk board.” 

I think, worried, “Something is wrong, very, very wrong!”