God Doesn’t Eat at Applebee’s

Allie Tubbs

Sat at the end of a sticky Applebee’s table. My family’s boisterous laughter bouncing off the walls.

Lazy smiles stretched across faces as stomachs lowly grumbled. But those smiles slowly slipped from eyes and faces.

A chilling shadow draped the table as footsteps sluggishly approached. An aged hand gripped my shoulder with yellow jagged nails. Dark purple veins shone brightly through thin translucent skin. Taut skin contrasted sharply with sunken eyes.

My body froze as if my blood turned to concrete. My family exchanged exasperated glances because this happened too often. My mom’s body fell with a heavy sigh and my brother’s eyes rolled in his head. But my heart got trapped in my throat as warm breath whispered in my ear.

“May I pray for you?” the figure croaked. “We have a woman at our church.”

“Her arms have been Healed.”

“Maybe we can do the same” “for you?”

A quaky “sure” fell from my lips. That must have been enough for the figure as they slowly slinked away determined that their prayers would be the magic elixir. But I would have said anything.

I would have told the figure anything to make them go away. To make them stop believing that I needed to be healed. To make them stop believing that their God made me wrong. To make them stop believing that prayer could fix my pain.

I would have said anything. Because I don’t believe that my God made me wrong. Because I don’t believe that I was born into a body that wasn’t meant for me. Because I don’t believe that my God eats at Applebee’s.