Maybe God Needs an Assistant: Thoughts Over Coffee That Tastes Like Regret

So I’m sitting here at the kitchen table, drinking black coffee that tastes like regret, bad decisions, and a little bit like it was filtered through disappointment and loose change. No cream, no sugar—just hot liquid judgment straight to the soul.

You know the kind. The kind of coffee that makes you sit up, stare out the window dramatically, and start asking life’s Big Questions.

And somewhere between sip three and a mental spiral about my Amazon cart, I suddenly think:

“Did God ever get back to that one prayer I sent?”

Not the dramatic “split the sea, heal the world, make me go viral” kind of prayer. I mean the casual, humble, probably-too-vague 2 a.m. whisper:

“Hey God, just… help. Like, with everything. Thanks. Amen.”

You know, the spiritual version of sending a text that just says “u up?”

But I never heard anything back.

No divine response. No lightning bolt. No goosebumps. Not even a cloud shaped like a thumbs-up.

Which leads me to a very reasonable, caffeine-fueled conclusion:

Maybe God’s just… overwhelmed.

Think about it. There are eight billion people down here sending up prayers like He’s running celestial tech support.

And you know people aren’t being specific. Some poor angel is probably sorting through stuff like:

• “God, please make him text me back.”

• “Fix my life but don’t make me uncomfortable, okay?”

• “Can I get a sign? Not like a big one. Maybe a song lyric. Or a squirrel.”

• “Dear Lord, if you exist, please let me get Chick-fil-A on a Sunday.”

• “God, am I the main character or just a very dramatic side quest?”

Imagine the pressure. God’s up there, robe wrinkled, hair in a messy bun, 42,000 browser tabs open in the Book of Life, trying to answer prayers while fielding questions like, “Why is Mercury always in retrograde?” (Spoiler: He’s tired of explaining it.)

He’s probably scrolling through the inbox like:

“Karen wants another promotion… again. Chad’s praying for biceps. Oh look, someone wants world peace, finally. Oh wait—it’s a typo. They meant ‘more pizza.’ Of course.”

And that’s when it hit me.

God needs an assistant.

He needs someone to help with inbox management, divine calendar scheduling, and perhaps run interference on ridiculous requests like, “Please help me lose 15 pounds overnight without changing anything, ever.”

I could do that job.

I’ve got the qualifications:

• I’ve managed group chats with 14 emotionally unstable friends.

• I once survived a work potluck where two people brought the same pasta salad and a third brought an actual shrimp cocktail.

• I know how to mute someone without them knowing it.

• And I’ve sent professional follow-up emails that include the phrase “just circling back” while internally screaming.

I’d walk into the heavenly office with a clipboard, messy bun, and three highlighters. I’d organize the prayer inbox like:

• “Genuine” – Forward to God

• “They said ‘manifest’ but it’s clearly a prayer” – Sort accordingly

• “Asking for an ex back for the 4th time” – Send auto-reply: “No.”

• “Chick-fil-A on a Sunday” – Mark as high priority but low chance.

And I’d definitely install a voicemail:

“Thank you for calling Heaven. Your miracle request is important to us. We are experiencing higher-than-average prayer volumes. Please remain faithful and do not hang up. You will be blessed in the order received.”

Honestly, I think I’d thrive in that position. I’d host a daily debrief with Jesus over holy coffee. I’d update Moses’ LinkedIn. I’d put glitter on the rainbows and rename plagues to something more PR-friendly, like ‘aggressive weather experiences.’

Because even the divine needs help sometimes.

And maybe, just maybe, that one prayer I sent?

It’s not lost.

It’s just in the “pending approval” folder next to “coworker karma” and “emotional growth I didn’t ask for.”

So here I am.

Still sitting at the kitchen table. Still sipping my regret roast.

Still waiting.

Still hoping.

Still ready to take the job if Heaven’s hiring.

God, if you’re reading this—send a burning bush. Or like, a strongly worded Post-it.

I’m available. I have Wi-Fi. I work weekends.