End times

Last night I rode my bike in the moonlight to check on my old parents. When I arrived around 9 p.m., the house was all lit up and they were eating enchiladas with rice and beans from Rob’s or Ruben’s. No doors or windows were open, and it felt like stepping into a sauna. My dad was engrossed in a lively conversation with my brother-in-law about end times, the signs of the times, the rapture, and the infinite wisdom of our heavenly father.

My mom had a dubious look on her face; she was leafing through the September issue of National Geographic on “What’s Up with the Weather”—all about record floods, endless drought, and “snowmageddon.” There was also a feature on Yemen entitled “The Days of Reckoning,” with horrific images of war. My mom stopped turning the pages . . . we saw a photo of a 12-year-old boy cradled by his mother. His eyes were not closed; he had no eyes, just sewn slits where once his beautiful, miraculous eyes had gazed out. He had lost his eyes to a sniper. I no longer ask my earthly father why our heavenly father allows this. Instead I found my mom’s walker and nudged her outside to look at the moon.

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