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 partner,

hit snooze too many times,

forget the pot on the stove.

We mess up,

then look to the skies

and ask why lightning struck.

But he didn’t mock belief.

Not once.

He simply found it funny

how quick we are

to outsource our own lives,

to make God the architect

but never the inspiration,

to blame the devil for chaos

we ourselves set in motion.

My father believed in balance.

That faith without works

was like praying for rain

and never planting a seed.

That the devil may tempt,

yes

but we must still choose.

That God may bless,

but we must still build.

So when good things came,

he’d lift his cup to the heavens

Thank you, Lord.

But he never forgot

who had stayed up late,

who had made the call,

who had kept going

when it would have been easier to stop.

And when bad things came,

he didn’t ask, “Why me?”

He asked,

“What now?”

He never discredited the holy.

He just refused

to discredit himself.

So when I stumble,

or rise,

or find myself lost in between,

I think of his voice:

bold, amused, unwavering,

reminding me

that sometimes,

the good Lord had everything to do with it.

And sometimes,

the devil wasn’t even there that day.