I Broke Up with Reality on a Tuesday

It's been three years of the same routine. But I’ve been turning to God lately. Not in the usual grand way where angels would sing "hallelujah", but more like in the late-night, mindless-scrolling, "Dear God why am I like this?" faith you find deep in a TikTok rabbit hole. It started a few weeks ago when my For You Page suddenly decided I needed saving. One second I was watching a guy deep-fry ice cream, the next it’s a preacher shouting, “You are lost because you forgot who’s steering your ship!” And I thought, “Damn. That’s specific.” Now, I’m deep in it. Christian TikTok. I quote verses. I comment “Amen” on videos of pastors crying under ring lights. I even fought my sister over Messenger last week. She said something about trusting the process, and I hit her with a Romans 12:2. I don’t even remember what it says, but it sounded like a finisher move at the time. I’ve become that guy. The one who sees meaning in coincidences, who calls every minor inconvenience “a test.” I’ve been praying every night, mostly vague, desperate prayers that start noble and end pathetic. “Lord, give me strength.” “Lord, please make my crypto recover.” "Lord, I want more money." And I guess He answered. Just… not in any way I had expected. It was another dull Tuesday. We were doing supply inventory, the kind of job that makes you want to smash your head against the Bosn's locker whenever you lost count. The storeroom was hot, the fluorescent light flickering like it was having an existential crisis of its own. I was counting ration boxes when my boot hit something under one of the shelves. I bent down, moved a dusty crate, and there it was... A thick, rolled-up bundle of cash. Wrapped in a rubber band so tight the paper looked like it was about to tear. I froze. And slowly looked around. Everyone else was busy pretending to work. My brain started splitting into two departments immediately: Morality Division: “This is a test from God.” Survival Division: “And you’ve been praying for something, haven’t you?” I picked it up. It wasn’t much. Maybe more or less ₱15,000. But out here, that’s gold. That’s 30 packs of pancit canton and a new pair of running shoes. That’s calling-my-mother money. That’s proof-that-prayer-works money. I stared at it like it was glowing. And for a moment, it did feel holy. Like divine intervention wrapped in rubber band. I put the cash in my pocket, told myself I’d report it after lunch. Then lunch came. Then inspection. Then evening watch. Then somehow it was midnight, and the money was still in my locker, folded neatly inside my Bible. Yeah. Inside my Bible. Because I figured if it’s a sin, at least let it marinate in holiness. Guilt showed up, fashionably late. I couldn't sleep that night. I kept wondering if this was how God actually answered prayers. Not with miracles or speaking through your dreams, but with obvious moral traps. I thought about telling the officer. But the thought of explaining why I was praying for money in the first place felt more humiliating than keeping it. So I rationalized. “God helps those who help themselves,” I whispered, conveniently ignoring that it’s not even in the Bible. By the third day, paranoia set in. Every announcement over the PA system sounded like judgment. “ATTENTION ALL PERSONNEL—” I froze. “—report for maintenance inspection.” Oh. Not me. Still, my heart sprinted faster than our morning cleaning stations. Until I finally confessed… not to an officer, but to God again. In the empty galley, middle of the night, staring at that same flickering light. I whispered, “If this is a test, I failed. But thank you for the opportunity.” Then I decided I’d return it first thing in the morning. Except the next day, when I opened my locker, the money was gone. I stared at it for an oddly long time. ​I stared at the empty spot where I'd stashed it, right next to a damp rag I used to wipe engine grease and a Tupperware container I'd been afraid to open since August. This locker wasn't just messy. It was a memorial to dead snacks and questionable life choices. The smell alone usually kept people two feet away. ​Which means someone actually put their hand in there. Willingly. The world is a sick place. Honestly, I dont know if I should laugh. I'm really at the point in believing that even divine tests get outsourced to karma. So now I’m back to scrolling TikTok. Another preacher popped up yesterday saying, “If you lost something, it means God never meant it for you.” I commented “Amen,” but honestly at this point, I think He’s just trolling me.