First thing Monday morning, I hobbled on crutches toward the telephone in my apartment. A broken ankle had sent me to a Manhattan emergency room on Friday night, and now I needed to make an appointment with an orthopedist. And I needed food.
I picked up the receiver to call for a delivery—only to discover the line was dead. I panicked. Neighbors had already left for the day. Without a phone I would be alone and hungry, trapped in my apartment for who knew how long. Every 30 seconds, I checked for a dial tone. It was no use. In tears, I began to pray.
For the longest time, nothing happened. Then I felt an overwhelming certainty that I was going to be okay. There was no real cause for alarm. My ankle hurt, but I could wait another day to see a specialist. I wouldn’t go hungry because I had some fruit and leftover soup in the refrigerator. The response to my prayer was the absolute assurance that I should put aside my hysteria and react to my situation with quiet dignity.
Later that night a friend arrived unexpectedly, bringing a lovely, home-cooked meal. When he checked my phone and announced it was back in working order, I smiled. Because on the deepest level, I knew I had never been disconnected.
