On a whim…

The internet says the rapture is scheduled for tonight, September 23, 2025. Fine. I’ve heard wilder.

During the ‘60s, in high school, Mother drove us to our youth group meeting. Beside her sat Lou—the girl of my dreams. Just being in the same car with her was a thrill.

They were talking about a rumor: that very night all virgins would be whisked away to Mars.

From the back seat, eager to sound witty, I quipped:

“Well, Lou, you don’t have anything to worry about!”

Dead silence. Lou gasped, turned, mouth open in disbelief.

Then my mother—never one for cushioning a blow—delivered her judgment:

“It’s best to keep your mouth shut when you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

And she was right. I had no idea what I was talking about. At that age, plenty of my classmates were already exploring things I hadn’t even begun to imagine. My understanding of “virgin” went no further than Mary, mother of Jesus.

Mars never filled with teenagers that night. Lou stayed lovely, and I stayed innocent—bewildered at why everyone in the car was staring at me.

So when I hear predictions that tonight’s the night—that the skies will split, the chosen will vanish, and the rest of us left behind—I just smile. I’ve been through this drill before. The world didn’t end then, and odds are it won’t tonight.

And if by some miracle the virgins really do take off for Mars this evening?

Well—don’t bother saving me a seat.