Terminal

“Look, I’m too young to die, God. I want to be with my family. I want to watch my son grow up. I want to see him play football and go to college and get a chance to have all the things I never did. I want to grow old with my wife. I love them so much and I don’t want to be separated from them. I just want one more time around. That’s all I’m asking for. Just a little more time to spend with them. A little more time to live. Please! I don’t want to die. I’m so fucking scared of dying. Please . . .”

I wasn’t aware that I was crying until the first hot tears hit the railing.

“Please! Please tell me. I don’t understand. What’s it all about? You give us this nice planet and people go around fucking it up, and You let them get away with it. You let them slide. You give us war and famine and poverty and disease and racism and serial killers. Your followers fly airplanes into buildings and send their own children into shopping centers to blow up Your other followers, and You don’t do anything about it. You could stop it. You could stop it so easily, but You don’t. Why? Why don’t you step in?

“Why? Why do You put us through this shit? Why did You give me cancer? Did I break the rules? Do You sit up there on Your cloud with a pair of measuring scales, balancing out the good and bad deeds we’ve done in our lives? Is that what it’s about? Or is it simpler than that?

Maybe I was right before. Maybe You’re just pissed off that I don’t believe in You. Maybe that’s where You get your power— from belief. And if enough of us don’t believe in You, then You’ll just fade away, the same way the old gods did. Is that what happened to Zeus and Odin and all the others? You cease to exist if we don’t believe? And since I don’t believe, You’ve got to put a stop to that shit?

“If You wanted me to believe in You, then You should have been there for me. You should have given me a reason to believe! Showed me that You really do exist.”

My tears fell like rain, and the lump in my throat strangled my words. With the tears came blood, trickling from my nose. I smeared them across the polished banister and raised my head, looking Jesus in the eye.

“Help me. Show me that You exist. Save me and I promise that I’ll never doubt You again. I’ll go to church. I’ll start living right. I’ll quit drinking down at Murphy’s Place and smoking weed and watching porn. I’m willing to do whatever it takes. Whatever it takes. Just take it all away. Take away this pain You gave to me. All You have to do is show me. I don’t understand what it is You want from me. How am I supposed to know unless You tell me?”

The figure on the cross didn’t answer. Instead, He was silent, looming over me.

“Give me some proof. That’s all I’m asking for. Give me a sign— one single, simple sign.”

Silence.

“Cure me,” I whispered. “Make this cancer go away and let me live.”

I still felt sick. I was still dying. I’d become what I hated in other people by giving in to the culture of blame. It was time to move on. I stood up and wiped my bloody nose on the back of my hand.

“Then fuck You. I knew You wouldn’t help. You can’t help me because You don’t exist. You’re not real. You’re just another fairy tale, like the Easter bunny and Santa Claus. You can’t help me. I’ll do this my way.”

There was no lightning bolt or angel with a flaming sword. God didn’t show up and smite me down for my sacrilege. Jesus didn’t climb down from the wall and bash my head in with His cross. The priest would have probably said that was because He was a loving God, a forgiving God, but I knew it was really because He didn’t exist. I’d given Him a chance to prove me wrong, to show me that He was there for me, for all of us.

I’d gotten nothing. Nothing from God. Nothing from the government. Nothing from my doctor or the medical establishment or my employer.

The only person I could rely on to take care of my family was me. And pretty soon, I’d be gone.

It was time to get on with it.

It was raining when I walked outside. While I’d been inside the church, the beautiful, warm weather had vanished, replaced with dark, ominous clouds. I welcomed them. The downpour washed over me and it felt like a baptism. Dying, I was reborn.

I got back in the truck, and drove home— feeling more alone and depressed than ever before. But I was also beginning to feel something else. Something new. Determination. A feeling of peace settled over me, and I liked the way it felt.

Then the fear set in once again, washing it all away.

TEN