What If God Was Your Ride-or-Die Best Friend?

An Article About Coffee, Faith, and Unexpected Divine Vibes

It started with coffee.

Not just any coffee—dark coffee. The kind of roast that tastes like it was brewed during a thunderstorm in the Old Testament. The kind of coffee that doesn’t ask how you’re doing because it already knows. As I sat at my kitchen table, staring into this caffeine-induced abyss and trying to silence the existential scream inside my soul, a ridiculous, wonderful thought came to me:

What if God was my best friend?

And I don’t mean the polite, well-mannered Sunday school version of God. I mean your actual best friend. Hoodie-wearing. Meme-sending. Always-has-snacks kind of best friend. The kind who doesn’t just tell you everything will be okay, but actually shows up at your door with tacos and divine energy.

Now, you’d think this was just a caffeine-fueled fantasy—until there was a knock at the door.

I opened it, and there He was. God. Not glowing. No thunderbolts. Just a chill guy in joggers, Crocs, and a hoodie that read “Jeremiah 29:11—but make it fashion.”

Without missing a beat, He looked me in the eye and asked, “You good?”

I wasn’t. I spilled my trauma-roast all over myself. He handed me a Tide pen from His hoodie like it was part of His eternal supply chain of grace. Then He said, “Come on. Let’s ride.”

What happened next felt like the most healing road trip of my life.

God called shotgun. Of course He did. I went to turn on the GPS and He stopped me: “I got it.”

Then He took over the aux and queued up early 2000s hip hop like He was trying to reverse years of corporate burnout through nostalgic beats alone.

As we drove, I started venting—about ghosted applications, rejection emails, and the time a recruiter asked what kind of cereal I’d be and judged me for saying Raisin Bran.

God shook His head. “That job didn’t deserve you. Their office smelled like broken promises.”

We stopped at a taco truck. He ordered three carne asada, tipped 200%, and somehow caused a woman nearby to get a surprise Venmo of $500. I didn’t ask. He just nodded and said, “Miracles.”

We sat under a tree eating tacos. And we talked. Really talked. About life, purpose, and how people keep tagging Him in tweets they definitely didn’t mean to send. (“If I had a dollar for every ‘Not to get religious but God got me’ tweet, I’d… well, I already own the cattle on a thousand hills, but still.”)

Later, back at my apartment, we sat on the couch. I opened LinkedIn. He groaned.

“Why are you torturing yourself with this? That site is just The Hunger Games for résumés.”

I sighed. “I feel behind. Like everyone else is moving forward and I’m stuck marinating in my own failure.”

And then He hit me with something that stopped time.

“You’re not behind,” He said. “You’re just marinating. You wanna be instant ramen, or do you wanna be slow-cooked brisket?”

Reader, I said brisket.

He threw a blanket over me like a divine burrito and whispered, “Rest. I got the night shift.”

And as I drifted off, I heard Him mutter, “Still can’t believe this man said Raisin Bran. I gave him imagination and he picked colon health.”

Conclusion?

Maybe God is your best friend. Not in the lightning-bolt, thunderclap way. But in the “let’s get tacos and talk about why you feel stuck” way.

Maybe He’s not waiting for you to get it together—maybe He’s riding shotgun, fries in hand, saying, “You don’t have to figure it all out today. I’m here. We’re good.”

Best friend status? Eternal.

Would ride again? 100%.

Five stars. Miracles included.