Grief made me so crazy I prayed to God for help.
I prayed for two years after my wife died. There is some unfinished business I need to talk to her about, to explain, to apologize for. I sat in the dead room in the house we lived in, the house she died in, and waited for a sign, a signal, a beep, a bop, a ping, a bing, a ringadingding, anything to indicate receipt of said prayer.
Beep! Your prayer has been received and will be duly considered. Due to the large number of prayers received every nanosecond we cannot guarantee a response in your lifetime. Your prayer is number nine hundred and ninety nine godzillion in the queue. We appreciate your patience.
You feel like saying fuckyou but you don’t because you don’t want to aggravate the Supreme Bozo in Charge of Prayers. Even thinking that might be enough to put the kibosh on your prayer. So you play along with the beatific bureaucracy — I’m sorry I called you a bozo, your Sublimeness, just kidding, you know me, just foolin’ around, I’ve always been a kidder, me and Margot.
Me praying for two years is nothing. There are untold millions of people who pray all their lives, years and years without an answer. Even their dying breath is a prayer. And then it’s too late. Then it’s just a deep dive into darkness.
I’m done. I am all through praying to God. It’s a waste of time. Does “He” take me for a fool? Well, I’m not a fool. I can be foolish and I can act like a fool and be guilty of tomfoolery, but when it comes to native intelligence I’m a regular aborigine.
From now on I will address my prayers to someone I have more faith in, someone who is actually visible and whose achievements are a matter of public record, and who, in fact, is almost as powerful as God, with super powers that include creating life. Check them out.
I am referring of course to the Silver Surfer.