Falling Into Grace. Michelle Stimpson

behind his desk surfing the Internet, browsing Facebook profiles, basically doing what she did at work. So why couldn’t he take her call?

      “Hi, Mr. Shepherd, my name is Camille Robertson. I joined church Sunday and I’m anxious to get busy ministering through song. Could you please return my call at your earliest convenience?” She left her number and tacked on, “Have a blessed day,” for good measure.

      Dang! Now she’d have to write down her story so she could remember it whenever Mr. I’m-too-busy-Web-surfing got back with her.

      Camille activated the “vibrate” option on her phone and placed it right next to her keyboard so she wouldn’t miss his call. At lunch, she checked again to make sure she hadn’t accidentally enabled some feature that might have blocked her phone’s reception. She asked Janice to dial her number.

      The signal came through, no problems.

      By quitting time, Camille was furious. How dare he not return her phone call by the end of the business day? Even if he wasn’t in the office, didn’t he check voice mail remotely? Even if he wanted to call her today, he couldn’t now because of midweek service.

      Anger at Ronald’s brush-off fueled her workout. She probably burned an extra hundred calories because of him.

      Drenched and sore, Camille returned home from the recreation center to find a yellow note taped to her door. Am I being evicted? Couldn’t be. She’d paid her rent and the late charges. Plus it wasn’t pink.

      She snatched the note from the door, inadvertently ripping off a smidgen of the underlying paint. Not my fault.

      The paper read, YOU HAVE A UPS PACKAGE AT LEASING OFFICE. CLAIM BY 7 OR COME BACK AT 9 TOMORROW.

      She checked her phone. Six fifty-four. She could make it. With gym bag still in hand, Camille cut across the center courtyard where a cluster of unsupervised elementary-age kids were flinging empty swings so high the seats wrapped around the top bar, elevating the swings to a height that none of them would be able to reach if they kept it up.

      She shook her head. Kids today are so destructive.

      Up ahead, the main office parking lot was mighty desolate. Camille glanced at her phone again. Six fifty-seven. Twenty feet later, it was pretty clear that these people had vacated the premises. Are you kidding me?

      Nope. Lights out, doors locked, curtains closed.

      “I can’t believe this.” She grunted. She walked around the building to a side entrance. A sign listing the maintenance man’s number was her only hope. Camille called, tried to explain the urgency of her situation, but the complex’s answering service informed her that an unclaimed package from UPS did not fall under the category of “emergency.”

      “But I need that delivery.” Camille added a tearful twang.

      The responder wavered. “Is there medication in the box?”

      “Yes.” Why didn’t I think of that?

      “Hold on a second.”