Un-Raptured

Saturday, May 21st, 2011
6:42 p.m.


Jordan stands at the gas pump in sunglasses and skinny black jeans, cell phone to her ear.


Dad:  "Hello?"


Jordan:  "Hey Pops, just calling to see if you'd been raptured yet."


Dad (laughing):  "Not yet!"


It isn't like the time she was fourteen and truly thought he'd been raptured since he wasn't in the basement on his computer.  She isn't lying on her green comforter with her Bible or anything this time.  She doesn't really believe those billboards in fiery reds and oranges telling her to "cry mightily unto God," because...she doesn't believe in God like that any more.  But, in any case, her father would be the first one she would expect to be gone in a sudden spiritual occurrence, his smudged DU cap atop a pile of jeans and a button-up shirt, his white socks still inside his sandals, all dropped mid-stride in his daily walk around the lake.


Not yet, Dad, not yet.  More people to connect with first.  More time to meditate in Daniel's big green chair.