The Devil Wasn’t Even There That Day
My father was a loud man. A booming sort, the kind whose laughter filled the whole room before he even stepped into it. He drank coffee like it was keeping him alive— always too hot, always too much, like he trusted the beans more than sleep. He believed in the Lord. Not with soft whispers and folded hands, but with the reverence of a man who had been kept alive by grace more times than he could count. He thanked the heavens when life was kind. But he never forgot his own hands had done the work. He knew the difference between a blessing and a result. Still, when the car swerved, he’d cry out, “Jesus!” Not because Christ was expected to grab the wheel, but because calling on heaven was better than sitting frozen in fear. A reflex of hope, not helplessness. And when people blamed the devil— for missed buses, bad breakups, burnt rice— he’d raise his brow, chuckle deep in his chest, and say, “The devil wasn’t even there that day.” Because sometimes, we are the storm. We pick the wrong par...
