I want to pass on one of these story as it was told by a man named Paul.
Paul was a child in the days when telephones were a brand new thing.
But his words speak of things which are timeless.

When I was quite young, Paul said,
my father had one of the first telephones in our neighborhood.
I was too little to reach the telephone,
but used to listen with fascination when my mother used to talk to it.

Then I discovered that somewhere inside the wonderful device lived an
amazing person - her name was Information Please and there was nothing
she did not know. Information Please could supply anybody's number and
the correct time.

My first personal experience with this wonder came one day
while my mother was visiting a neighbor. Amusing myself at the tool
bench in the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer. The pain was
terrible, but there didn't seem to be any reason in crying because there
was no one home to give sympathy.

I walked around the house sucking my
throbbing finger, finally arriving at the stairway - The telephone!
I moved a chair and picked up the phone: Information Please I said into the mouthpiece.

A click or two and a small clear voice spoke into my ear. "Information."

"I hurt my finger. . ." I wailed into the phone.
The tears came readily enough now that I had an audience.

"Isn't your mother home?" came the question.

"Nobody's home but me." I blubbered.

"Are you bleeding?"

"No," I replied. "I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts."

"Can you open your icebox?" she asked. I said I could.
"Then chip off a little piece of ice and hold it to your finger."

After that I called Information Please for everything.
I asked her for help with my geography and she told me where Philadelphia was.
She told me my new pet chipmunk which I had caught in
the park just the day before would eat fruits and nuts.

And there was the time that Petey, our pet canary died. I called
Information Please and told her the sad story. She listened, then said
the usual things grown-ups say to soothe a child. But I was unconsoled.
Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all
families, only to end up as a heap of feathers, feet up on the bottom of a cage?

She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly,
"Paul, always remember that there are other worlds to sing in."
Somehow I felt better.

Another day I was on the telephone. "Information Please."

"Information," said the now familiar voice.

"How do you spell fix?" I asked.

All this took place in a small town in the pacific Northwest.
Then when I was 9 years old, we moved across the country to Boston.
I missed my friend very much. Information Please belonged in that old phone
back home, and I somehow never thought of trying the tall, shiny new phone
that sat on the hall table.

Yet as I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood
conversations never really left me; often in moments of doubt and
perplexity I would recall the serene sense of security I had then. I
appreciated now how patient, understanding, and kind she was to have
spent her time on a little boy.

A few years later, on my way west to college, my plane put down in
Seattle. I had about half an hour or so between plane, and I spent 15
minutes or so on the phone with my sister, who lived there now. Then
without thinking what I was doing, I dialed my hometown operator and said,
"Information Please".

Miraculously, I heard again the small, clear voice I knew so well,
"Information." I hadn't planned this but I heard myself saying, "Could
you tell me please how-to spell fix?"

There was a long pause. Then came the soft spoken answer,
"I guess that your finger must have healed by now."

I laughed, "So it's really still you," I said. "I wonder if you have any
idea how much you meant to me during that time."

"I wonder, she said, "if you know how much your calls meant to me. I
never had any children, and I used to look forward to your calls."

I told her how often I had thought of her over the years and I asked if
I could call her again when I came back to visit my sister.

"Please do, just ask for Sally."
Just three months later I was back in Seattle. . .
A different voice answered Information and I asked for Sally.

"Are you a friend?"

"Yes, a very old friend."

"Then I'm sorry to have to tell you.
Sally has been working part-time the last few years because she was sick.
She died five weeks ago." But before I could hang up she said,
"Wait a minute. Did you say your name was Paul?"

"Yes."

"Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote it down.
Here it is I'll read it. 'Tell him I still say there are other worlds to sing in...
He'll know what I mean.'"

I thanked her and hung up.
I did know what Sally meant.

And I know what Paul had experienced: it was the communion of saints, living and dead. Angels and archangels and all the company of heaven know what Sally meant, and theyıll be singing the song forever, world without end. The children we will baptize today join an unbroken chain of faithful people, connected by water, words, faith and love. This company includes famous men and women, whose names are emblazoned in the bible, but it also includes Sally and all the everyday saints who make Godıs love real to the children of the world.

Amen