God Isn't Here Today

The note was posted on the door. It was scratched out in ink that faded near the end, like the pen had decided to dry up at just that moment. You could see the swirling lines where a heavy hand had tried to force more ink out, then gave up in an indented trail that petered off the edge of the page. The note itself was taped up in a tilted line, as if the taper had done so in a hurry and only as a last-second precaution in the unlikely event a person, like myself, bothered to show up at the door. I gently peeled the note off the white wood, brought the paper up to my face, and rested the tip of my nose against it, to study the words of God closer.

The letters were shaky, as if written by a trembling hand. The ERE all blended together in a mess of lines. The Y longer than all the other letters, stretching halfway down the page. I knew there was a branch of science you could take that analyzed writing, could let you know if someone was a serial killer, a mom, a firefighter. But since God is all of these things, I guess the handwriting meant nothing more than what is said: God isn’t here today.

But the note didn’t say anything about tomorrow. That could mean God would be in. Or it could mean God wouldn’t. Or maybe God would come back someday, but not in the near future. Or God could have written the note years ago, and just never bothered to come back. Or it could mean that today really just meant the today that found me standing in front of the door.

The only day I’d ever bothered to go down to God’s office.

The only day I’d ever actually needed God.