So I told Mr. Darling that I’m just not interested in selling the place!” Chelsea said. “Not yet, anyway. I mean, we made half of this month’s tax payment in one day. One day! We even ran out of coffee. I actually had to unplug the router to get people to go home!”
Tony and Sara sat opposite Chelsea and the kids, two open pizza boxes courtesy of Dennis Darling between them. “By the way, you guys should talk to Dennis about your house. He seems like the go-to guy in real estate these days.”
“Actually,” Sara said, a smile breaking onto her face, “we accepted an offer this afternoon!”
“Congratulations! We have so many reasons to celebrate today!” Chelsea exclaimed. “Did I tell you there was a thousand dollars in the tip jar? Can you believe it?”
Tony cleared his throat. “It certainly is hard to believe,” he ruminated, planting a firm gaze on his sister-in-law. “I’m all for marketing the place, Chelsea. But this idea of yours . . .”
Chelsea sat up straight. “I didn’t make this up, Tony. Come on, let me show you.” She ushered her family inside the supply pantry. “I just plug it in, and it starts glowing.” Chelsea wrangled the cables. “Like this.”
The room filled with blue light. Tony ventured a closer look at the glowing router. “No brand name. No numbers. Nothing. Where did you say it came from?”
“No idea. I assumed the company info would be on the router, but it’s not.”
“So when people come to the café, there’s only one site that works?” Tony asked.
“Yep.”
“And when people ask a question, someone answers?” Sara asked.
“Why don’t you see for yourself?”
Sara read aloud from the blog’s headline: “Go ahead, ask me. I will answer.”
“That’s it? And people fall for this?” Tony said, peering over Sara’s shoulder.
“Apparently.” Sara swiped through the entries on her tablet screen.
Question: You aren’t for real, right? If you were for real, you would have heard my prayers weeks ago. Since the mill closed, I still have no job, no interviews. I have sent hundreds of résumés. My wife is worried. I have kids and a mortgage, and I have many, many doubts.
Answer: Suppose your child said something similar to you. “You aren’t my real dad. I’ve been asking for a new bike for a month. A real dad would give me one.” Is the real dad the one who does what the child wants? No, he’s the one who does what is right for the child.
That is what I do. I know you are tired. Just be patient. I hear your prayers. And I know the foreman at the other plant.
Question: I have trouble sleeping at night. I can’t get my mind off of all the challenges I will face the next day. Why can’t I sleep?
Answer: Your nights are long because you carry too much fear. I’ve been watching you. Why don’t you give those fears to me? Stop trying to fix everyone (including your husband) and figure everything out. And I haven’t heard you laugh in quite a while. Lighten up. I love it when you are happy. Remember, come to me when you are weary and tired. I can help you.
Sara looked up from her tablet. “Can’t say I disagree,” she said.
“But still, replying to someone’s questions, saying you’re God? That seems like a crass way to market a website,” Tony added.
Sara continued reading the questions:
Why can’t I make sense out of my life? My husband neglects me. How can I get his attention?
“Here’s one that’s really profound,” she said.
“God, are you really there?”
“Yes, I am.”
Chelsea laughed. “At least whoever’s answering these has a sense of humor.”
“Dear God, money’s been real tight for Carla and me with all the medical bills. I got $800 left in savings. Any chance you could give me a hint at what slot machine to play tonight? I promise to give you half! Love, Bronson.”
“Dear Bronson, Instead of gambling away the last of your savings, why not use it to pay your mortgage and whittle down the debt? Trust me. Seek wisdom. Give me a chance to provide. And please tell Carla I said hello. It makes me happy to see her recovering from surgery. Love, God.”
“Wow. That’s pretty strong,” Sara commented.
“And specific,” Chelsea said.
“Does God know everything?” Emily asked.
“Of course he does,” Tony answered. “But he wouldn’t be answering people’s questions on some silly blog.” Tony turned to Chelsea. “It’s got to be an algorithm. Someone could be stealing your customers’ information, using Internet cookies or something.”
“But why would anyone do that here?” Chelsea added.
“Look, Tony! It’s from Miles,” Sara said.
“On the off chance this isn’t some scam, here goes . . . Dear God, I feel so distant from my son. He’s obsessed with video games. I got so mad at him the other day, I threw all his games into the pool. He actually said he hates me, and he’s threatening to run away. Help. Miles.”
“Dear Miles, Why worry about the video game in your son’s eye, but not the laptop in yours? Hang out with Matthew. He just wants your attention. You might be surprised at how much he longs to spend one-on-one time with you. And now that I’ve mentioned it, the same applies to me! Hope to speak with you soon. Love, God.”
“So how many questions can you ask?” Hancock seemed eager to try the God Blog for himself.
“Just one. According to the customers.”
“Okay, so what if I asked a question on my phone, and then borrowed my friend’s phone to ask another?”
“Lots of people tried that,” Chelsea said, “but it didn’t work. It’s like . . . somehow the blog knew.”
Tony clicked off the tablet and tucked it away in a tight-fitting case. “Okay, shoot straight with us. Who’s writing these?”
“It’s just me and Manny here. You really think it’s one of us?”
“Obviously it’s someone in the café,” Tony said. “That’s the logical explanation!”
“Well, you could just . . . try it,” Chelsea said.
“Good idea,” Sara said, grabbing the tablet from Tony. “C’mon, this’ll be fun. Who has a question?”
Emily and Hancock had lots of ideas.
“Ask about the tooth fairy!”
“No, dinosaurs. Or aliens. No, wait! Do you care if we go to school?” Hancock asked.
“That’s not a question,” Chelsea said.
“I have one,” Tony said. “If this is really God, then why speak through a blog?”
“Good one!” Chelsea said.
“All right, Tony’s question wins.” Sara clicked away on the tablet screen, posting the question to the mysterious blog. The entire gang gathered around, anticipating the reply.
“There it is!” Hancock yelled.
Sara pulled the tablet close and read aloud.
“Dear Tony, Have you ever wondered why I answered Gideon with a fleece and Balaam with a donkey? Why did I speak to Job with a strong wind and Elijah with a still voice? I directed Moses with a cloud and the Magi with a star. Why? Answer those questions and you’ll find the answer to yours.”
“Wow,” Sara said as she put down the tablet. “How’s that for an answer?”
“Anyone coulda written that!” Tony said.
“Maybe. But it was your question that I typed. And it answered with ‘Dear Tony’! How could it possibly know?”
“Because it’s my tablet. Like I said, it’s an algorithm or something.”
But Hancock had the simplest explanation of all. “Maybe it’s God.”