I can see the face of God. I no longer believe in Him.

Mary-Anne, my girlfriend of three years, climbed into bed after a very long night. She looked worried. And she should be. She was fighting to save her job, they were in an unusually tight position financially, and it was enough to keep her up worrying about it for nights on end. I certainly couldn't help, I was of no use. A layabout, more than anything. My own life was nothing at all. Barely any job. No family or friends. What few friends I had left me a long time ago. It happens, and I didn't hold it against them. It's just that I don't talk very much, I don't have any hobbies, I don't do anything. But I can see the face of God. On occasion. I never told Mary-Anne, and I never told anybody. They would just think I was crazy. Imploring me to find a way to speak with some local pastor or shaman or some other type of spiritual leader. When I had no intention of doing so. I had no interest in God at all. I did not see this face of God on any particular day or at any specific times. I couldn't control it. If it was angels or mystical forces that allowed me to see God, they were not keen on speaking to me, nor did I want to talk with them. In fact, I would avoid church, and I'd never go to any place of worship or study. But I could see the face of God. Why did I wait so long to tell this story, you might ask? I think I just wanted to know what would happen next. You see, when I was younger, I could see only His face, and not hear anything. But for the first time in my life, I heard God speak to me. I'm glad I waited, because if I had written this yesterday, the story would have taken a very different path. I'd always been the type of person whose imagination would run away with them. It did not help that my life was so stagnant, with few friends, few jobs, and the same surroundings since I was 18 years old. So, I had to create things for myself. For example, I had the first real distinct memory of seeing God at the age of 5. Or so I thought. Sometimes, when you're a child, you can't think of anything to say. You just can't. And you need to say *something.* So you just make something up. I'm not sure if I had some horrible life before the age of 5 that I just made up this story to forget. I remember it so well, that I'm not sure if I should question it, or not. But I'd been watching a puppet show with my dad. I can't remember my mom ever being involved. It was my first time watching it. The premise was simple. Two people controlling two hand puppets. One was a man. One was a woman. It was a show aimed at young children. After watching that episode for about 15 minutes or so, I finally got my first look at the face of God. Up above me, way up high, was a third puppeteer. I know because I could see its giant hands. We were in a small room, but I could tell that God's hands were very large in comparison. The puppeteer itself was a cement wall with no visible face or features. But I knew it was there. It was God. That was my first memory of seeing God. By the time I was 10, I figured out that the face of God was everywhere. I didn't really know what it meant, or how it worked. But I knew this was God, and that I could see a glimpse of Him, whenever I wanted. I wasn't sure why this was. I didn't think about it for a long time. I didn't have to. One night, Mary-Anne went to bed early. That's why I say she climbed into bed. She was already there when I came into the bedroom, and she had just laid down. I don't know how much longer she'll have the energy to go through this, even if they do figure something out. The government was always trying to do something about it. But they never could. I looked over at her, and she was already asleep. Her breathing was erratic and stressful. I felt awful. I thought of the face of God. I always thought of it when I was stressed. Just to look at it. I tried to remember if I ever told her about it. I'm sure I did. But I couldn't remember her response. I looked at the ceiling and closed my eyes, and that was it. God, in all His glory. I could see His face. His large hands were gripping something, but I never saw what. All around Him was a room of people crying and screaming, and the sound of shattering glass and crumbling concrete. His face was peaceful, and in my mind, He was just watching me. I loved Him. And He was beautiful. But then I heard a voice. And it wasn't His voice. It was a girlish voice. "Aren't you going to tell her?" It said. I ignored the voice. "Aren't you going to tell her?" She repeated. "Who are you?" I asked. "I don't know." She said. "Why don't you ask God?" I didn't want to, but I had to. As if He had been waiting for my question, He said, "Who am I?" God sounded angry! I was terrified. "I can see your face." I said. "Why is that?" He said. "I don't know." "And do you still love the face of God?" He said. "I don't know." I answered. "Well," He said, "I think you do. You wouldn't be here right now if you didn't." I didn't know what to say. "I didn't know you were so scared of Me," He said. I didn't know how to respond. "I guess that's just the way it is," He said. I did know one thing. "Do you believe?" I asked. "Yes," He said. "I do." "And I no longer do. But I still love you." I said. Finally, He spoke. "I no longer love you." He said. As he said that, the cement on His face started cracking and crumbling. I opened my eyes, and I was back in bed. I looked over at Mary-Anne, and she was still sleeping. I looked at the ceiling, and I could no longer see the face of God. I turned to Mary-Anne and kissed her forehead. "I love you," I said. "I love you too," She said. She was crying. "What is it?" I said. "You still love me, right?" She said. "Yes," I said. "I do." "Do you believe in me?" "Yes," I said. "I do." "I no longer love you," she said. I looked at her face, and I could see the pain in it. "What do you mean?" I asked. "You didn't even say 'I love you'! You just said that you still love me. You didn't even say it back." She yelled. "You didn't say it back either," I said. "I did. I said I love you too." She said. "Then what did you mean?" "You gave up on me." She said. But I didn't give up on her. Imploring her to find a way to speak with some local pastor or shaman or some other type of spiritual leader. When I had no intention of doing so. I had no interest in God at all. "I don't want to lose you," I said. "You already have. Goodbye." She said. She climbed out of bed. Did I really say that I didn't want to lose her? I have been losing her for years. Why did I say that? "Do you still love me?" I asked. "No." She said, "I no longer love you." She walked away. She turned to me before leaving. "By the way. I never believed in your story," She said. I watched her leave. I sat in bed, feeling defeated. I should have told her my story. Why didn't I? Did I think she would believe me? I didn't know. But I knew one thing. I no longer loved her. And she no longer loved me. I looked at the ceiling, and once again, I could see the face of God. The cement was now gone. He looked just like... me. His large hands were gripping something, but I never saw what. All around Him was a room of people crying and screaming, and the sound of shattering glass and crumbling concrete. His face was peaceful, and in my mind, He was just watching me. "It worked," He said. I didn't know what He meant. But I did know one thing. The face of God was gone.

I can see the face of God. I no longer believe in Him.

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