“In the Hands of Titans” by Joe Richardson

I remember when God left. For those of you waiting eagerly for Armageddon in all of its glorious, trumpet blaring, foot stomping wonder–I have some bad news.  The world didn’t crumble around us, thunder and lightning didn’t rend the sky, and the earth wasn’t consumed by fire. It was a Tuesday night a few years ago.

I was a college student living in a one bedroom, one window, one miserable excuse of an apartment. In the early days of the building it must have been a closet. My books and writing implements took up more room than anything else. They piled up on the floor to such a degree that it was useless to try tidying up. Other than my cot, which I bought on the cheap from my landlord, my small writing desk and chair were the only pieces of furniture I owned. The tiny kitchen could only accommodate an ancient, noisy refrigerator and a stove that wouldn’t heat. My closet-apartment froze in the winter and blazed in the summer.

There was a soft knock on my door that Tuesday. I tried to tidy up a little, but I abandoned my efforts. I threw it open and Diana was there. She was all big, bright eyes and a big smile. Before I said anything she wrapped her arms around my waist. Her head pressed into my chest. She then pulled away from me, stood on her tiptoes and gave me a passionless peck on the cheek. She smelled like strawberries.

Diana was my oldest friend, a stalwart Christian, and the love of my life.

Unfortunately Diana fell for some preacher’s kid. He was destined to lead a flock of believers to judgment day. He was an aggressively nice guy and he made it his business to ensure that everyone felt loved and welcomed at all times. He was perfect for her.

I hated him.

“Notice anything different about me?” she asked as she sat on my cot.

I slipped on an old pair of shoes, “Well, you don’t have a grinnin’ preacher boy on your arm so I can only hope y’all broke up.”

“Very funny,” she said. “I can’t understand why you don’t like him.”

I focused on my shoelaces, “Guess the chemistry just wasn’t right.”

“You better change your attitude,” she said. ”I would hate it if you said stuff like that at our wedding.”

I looked up. A diamond-encrusted ring seemed to engulf her hand. She laughed and said, “I know. I probably had the same expression on my face when he asked me.” She turned her hand and stared at the rock.

Vow of poverty my ass, I thought. I searched my vocabulary for something, anything. Don’t. Disaster. But all I could get out was a halfhearted “Congrats.”

I can’t remember walking out of my apartment, down the stairs, or out onto the street. The only thing I do remember about our walk is that she talked about her fiancé the whole damn time. Based on her description, she was marrying Jesus Christ himself.

We eventually found our way into a bar. It smelled like feet and cigarette smoke. It was dark, and I could barely make out her features.

She sipped coffee while I downed glasses of Wild Turkey. I don’t even like bourbon that much. She yammered on more about her beau—how sweet he was, how holy he was, their plans for worldwide mission work. I paid more attention to the baseball game on the TV set behind the bar. I hated baseball–still do.

“So?” she said.

“So what?” I said.

“What’s wrong with you? It’s like you haven’t been here all night,” her lips curved into a gentle smile.

She said something else—probably about the unsaved denizens of distant slums. But a strange thing happened on the small television screen behind the bar. The game was gone. A modest podium was set up in front of a crowd of reporters at the bottom of large, granite stairs. The words “Breaking News: God to leave” scrawled across the bottom of the screen.

After several minutes an old man shuffled quickly to the podium. He was stooped but there was an air dignity about him. He wore a dark suit and had no shoes on his feet. He wore a pair of large sunglasses and the shadow of a wide brimmed hat obscured his face. Two tall, severe looking men accompanied him. Their skin was a deathly pale in comparison to the sunglasses and dark suits they wore.

He stared into the sea of reporters. “My children,” he began. His melodic but strong voice echoed. “We have watched you all since the beginning. Since we scraped together mud and blew life into you. Since we gave you the earth, we have felt your joys and your sorrows. Even when you didn’t see us, didn’t believe in us, didn’t love us, we comforted your poor and broken, punished the wicked, and loved the forgotten.

“When we began this experiment so many years ago, we fell in love with the weak little things we made of clay,” he took a deep breath and sighed like the collective exhale of every mountain, tree, ocean, wind, bird and beast. “When you turned against us, we loved you even more. When you fought your brothers, we watched in horror. When you killed innocent men, women, and children in our name we wept angrily and bitterly. When you created devices that would clear entire civilizations off the planet we gave you, we were furious.

“The tiny beings that we once loved have given us nothing but worry. We discussed destroying you all and starting over again,” lights flashed from the reporters’ cameras, briefly illuminating the face underneath the hat. “But how long would it be before those creatures also began destroying themselves.

“It would be a waste of energy to destroy you. You will eventually cause your own end, and we can no longer bear to watch. We now leave the world to you. Do with it what you will, but never again turn to us,” when the old man finished, the screen flashed back to the game.

“So what’s wrong?” Diana’s voice unnerved me. The people around us went about their business, swilling or serving booze.

“I need some air,” I said. I threw money on the table and hustled outside. It was hot. I was drunk. God abandoned us. Or maybe he didn’t. I sucked in gasps of air. My head spun.

An arm around my waist steadied me. She smelled so good. She always did. She put my arm around her shoulders. “Let’s get you home, buddy,” she said.

She guided me through the streets, led me upstairs into my apartment, and laid me on my cot. She brushed my hair out of my face. “I’m glad you’re my friend. I love you, buddy,” she pressed her lips to my forehead, and I heard her walk out the door before sleep took me.

I woke up the next morning feeling nothing but pain. It started in my head and ran over my body.

I climbed off my cot and looked for word of the press conference in the newspaper. Nobody wrote about it. I flipped on the TV. There were no reports on it. I looked out my window to see if the end had come. It hadn’t. It was dark and gloomy. Rain fell down my one window in jagged lines. People wandered the streets. Armageddon was televised and the whole world missed it but me.

I stared out the window and had visions of our creators and saviors hopping in cars and onto trains, taking boats or planes, or just walking down the dusty highways and dirty alleys. I laughed at how ridiculous it all sounded. Years after that night, I only remembered it as a brief mental lapse.

I eventually found a job, moved out of my closet, and settled into a life of debt, uncertainty, and fear. You know–normal.

Diana married the preacher’s son. It was a nice enough wedding. He immediately whisked her away to Africa to do the Lord’s work. She wrote me a letter a year back. She talked about the good things her husband was doing, building churches and schools and hospitals. They had a few kids. They were real, bona fide Christian soldiers.

“I miss you,” she said at the end of the letter. “I can’t wait to see you again. I love my family so much, but sometimes I feel anxious and lonely. I guess I’m just a little homesick,” she ended it with a “Much love and God bless.”

I never wrote back. I tried. I stared at a blank sheet of paper intending to write something meaningful to her. It never came out. I kept the letter. To this day it is in a special place, tucked away in my copy of Milton’s Paradise Lost.

She loved that book.