It Already Done Happened

Back by popular demand, here's Sister Velma’s Folding-Chair Prophecy Talk: “It Already Done Happened”

Velma stood at the front of the room, still wearing her apron after an afternoon of Lysol-based combat with microbes, with her Bible open.

“Now y’all sit down, quit swattin’ each other, and hush your gum before you swallow it. I don't want to have to perform the Heimlich in a church again. Listen, because I’m only gonna say this once—unless someone brings banana pudding, in which case I’ll preach it twice and louder.

I know a lot of folks get worked up about prophecy. They hear ‘tribulation’, and next thing you know they’re gluing locust wings on their nephew’s drone and flyin’ it over the Wal-Mart because they saw a YouTube video called ‘Revelation Decoded by a Guy Named Chad. Some of them are tellin’ you not to get gas on Tuesdays ‘cause it might be the Mark of the Beast. I ain’t mad at ‘em—I just want ‘em to open their Bibles and maybe a history book once in a while.

See, here’s the truth, and it might sting like peroxide in a skinned-up world view: most of the prophecies in this book already came true. Yep. Fulfilled. Past tense. Checked off of God’s divine to-do list.

Jesus said that ‘this generation’—not some far-off one with hoverboards and plague monkeys, but that generation He was talkin’ to—would not pass away before all those things happened. Honey, when the Romans came stompin’ through in 70 A.D. and tore down the temple stone by stone like Jesus said they would, I think we oughta consider that prophecy fulfilled.

If the Bible was a wedding registry, then God already delivered the towels, the crockpot, and the As-Seen-On-TV bug zapper. What we hold in our hands ain’t a book full of cosmic cliffhangers—it’s a book full of kept promises. And if He kept those, what makes you think He won’t keep the rest? We are onto something with Jesus, and people that read the Bible honestly can see that.

Y’all, the Book of Revelation was written to a real group of churches about real persecution and real problems like Romans burning the Temple. It’s not about your Aunt Carol’s Facebook warning about how barcodes and gluten-free Oreos are preludes to the apocalypse.”

Scattered applause broke out from the gluten-tolerant.

“Now does that mean God’s done workin’? Of course not! He’s still savin’ folks, still comfortin’ the brokenhearted, still puttin’ the lonely in families—just like He said He would. We’re not sittin’ here in prophecy purgatory waitin’ on Him to act—we’re livin’ in the beautiful echoes of what He already did.

So when you see all them prophecies, don’t panic—praise. That’s God showin’ you He’s trustworthy, reliable, and the kind of God who doesn’t ghost you after the honeymoon phase.

If somebody tells you the locusts are helicopters and the antichrist is whoever made their coffee wrong that morning, you are free in Christ to just smile, nod, and maybe steer ‘em to the Wikipedia about Roman emperors (if they’re the type to accept new information). As always, do things gently, with grace, and possibly with a muffin.

Around here, we ain’t waitin’ on horses and hailstones. We’re walkin’ in the light of promises already kept, and that’s more exciting than any Left Behind novel with a Kirk Cameron cameo.

Alright. That’s enough theology for today.”

The Wednesday night Bible study was wrapping up. Sister Velma was refilling the decaf pot for the overtalkers when the church doors exploded open like they’d been kicked by Samson after a double espresso.

In ran a barefoot, wild-eyed man wearing nothing but a wild-eyed expression that screamed either “the end is nigh” or “I lost a bet.”

“THE BEAST IS COMING!” he shouted. “AND IT LOOKS LIKE A SELF-CHECKOUT MACHINE!”

Folks screamed. Mrs. Eloise, who hadn’t moved that fast since the Clinton administration, flung herself behind the snack table.

Sister Velma blinked, blinked again, and then calmly wiped her hands on her apron and stepped down the aisle like Wyatt Earp walking into a saloon. There was a murmur. Sister Janine fanned herself like she was in a Tennessee Williams play.

“They’re after me!” he said. “The cops, the lizard people, the guys who run Olive Garden—it’s all connected! I seen it in a dream and a YouTube short by a guy named ProphecyJoe_777!”

Velma narrowed her eyes.

“Darren James Petty,” she said slowly, “It is as if I have known you since you ate paste and called it pudding. Now unless the Book of Revelation mentions poopin’ on the new carpet of the school administration building, a stolen lawnmower, and a fireworks mishap behind the Sonic, you better start talkin’ plain.”

“Do not be alarmed, brothers and sisters!” the man hollered, arms outstretched. “The Lord hath spoken! Just as Isaiah walked three years naked and barefoot as a sign—so I—”

“—have lost your dang mind,” Sister Velma cut in.

He paused, mid-gesture. “What?”

She marched right up to him, hand on hip, the way only someone with years of custodial authority and two hip replacements can. “Isaiah 20:3, right? I know the verse. But here’s the thing, Mr. Crazy Nekkid Man: Hebrews 1:1-2 says—” she cleared her throat for maximum effect—“‘God, who at sundry times and in divers manners spake in time past unto the fathers by the prophets, hath in these last days spoken unto us by His Son.’”

Darren took a breath. “I had a vision during a three-day fast—”

“From what? Common sense?” Velma interjected.

She gave him a squinty glare. “Since He hath in these last days spoken unto us by His Son, that means we don’t need no more of this, thank you kindly. What you need to do is put on some pants and go get a job!”

The man blinked like a busted LED. “But—but I was doing what the Spirit—”

She reached into the church Lost & Found—a plastic tub labeled “This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things”—and pulled out an old emergency Vacation Bible School towel with “Jesus is My Lifeguard” written across the rear. She gave it to him.

Sirens howled in the distance like a volunteer choir trying to harmonize.

“I’ll admit,” she continued, her voice dropping into Sunday School mode as the rest of the congregants cautiously emerged from behind folding tables and potted plants, “there was a time when God sent prophets to act out wild stuff—layin’ on their side for a year, cooking over cow chips, preachin' with their pickles in the breeze near playgrounds, etc. But, that was to warn Israel of what was coming.”

She turned to address the room, like she was on a very special episode of your favorite ‘90s sitcom. “But guess what? It done come. The temple was destroyed like He said. Judgment fell on that generation just like He told ‘em it would. He ain’t sendin’ extra prophets to defile school administration building carpets in His name. That ain’t prophecy—that’s just gross.”

“Now hold on, ma’am,” the alleged defecator stammered, trying to stand with some dignity despite being wrapped like a terry cloth burrito. “You saying there ain’t no more prophecy?”

“Oh no,” she said, waving a hand. “There’s still prophecy. Revelation 19:10 says prophecy is just giving a clear witness for Jesus Christ. There’s some foretellin’, too, like when I tell my niece her ex is gonna come crawlin’ back once his ‘Christian EDM ministry’ flops, and then he does. However, keep looking at Jesus. He’s the final word. That’s what Hebrews 1:1-2 is sayin’. The last days of the Old Covenant were their last days, not ours. We’re in the new thing now. Full access. No temple curtain, no need for goat blood or weird naked warnings.”

“Now,” she said, patting him gently on the arm, “you got a choice. You can repent, put on some pants, and maybe help me mop the foyer—because I saw the foot-tracks you left, and I’m not happy about it—or you can try to outrun the Popo.”

He burst through the door and fled into the evening, not long before the sirens stopped outside as tires crunched on gravel.

Velma turned back to the church and muttered, “If I see one more end-times TikTok prophet without pants, I’m startin’ a boot camp. Alright! Back to snackin' and chattin', but don’t nobody touch anything he touched until I Lysol it.”

Weeks later, after the sanctuary carpets had been steam-cleaned and the foyer had been Lysol-ed to OSHA satisfaction, the church bulletin included a new line item under Prayer Requests: “Please lift up Brother Darren (formerly Mr. Crazy Nekkid Man) as he embarks on his new court-ordered custodial apprenticeship under Sister Velma’s intense supervision.”

It turned out Darren wasn’t crazy—just unemployed, spiritually confused, and extremely bad at interpreting prophetic symbolism. After a few hot meals, some hard truth, and an “I will duct tape you to that mop handle” moment, he came around.

“Velma,” he said one afternoon as they refilled the paper towel dispensers, “I think I’m starting to understand what you meant about Hebrews and the prophets.”

“Mmmhmm,” she said, without looking up. “It’s amazing what clarity can come when you’re not streaking.”

“But also,” he added sheepishly, “how’d you know the cops were chasing me for that thing at the school? You called it before they even got here.”

Across the sanctuary, Sister Eloise, who had just finished arranging the fake tulips, perked up like a prairie dog. “Yes, Velma! I’ve been wondering that too. You prophesied!”

Velma gave them both The Look™. Then she muttered, “I knew this was gonna come up.”

She sighed and turned slowly, like a gunslinger who knows her bullets are labeled “context.”

“Alright. You ever heard of a fella named Agabus in the Book of Acts? He shows up, warns Paul he’s gonna get tied up and arrested if he goes to Jerusalem, and even uses Paul’s belt like some kind of holy object lesson. And y’all know what? He was right. That was future-tellin’ —straight-up, no chaser.”

Darren blinked. “So… does that mean you were wrong about prophecy being over?”

She crossed her arms. “Boy, hush.”

Eloise frowned. “But you said—”

“Hush your face, too.”

“But Vel—”

“I said hush! It’s called lampshade hanging, Eloise. It means we acknowledge the plot hole and just move on so the story can be fun. Now, do you want a theological dissertation, or do you want to see if Brother Darren here can wax the vestibule without reenacting Micah? Yeah, he did the nekkid thing, too.”

Darren raised a mop in surrender. “Vestibule it is!”

Velma smirked. “That’s what I thought. Besides, the Holy Spirit does still nudge folks. I just don’t need people thinking He wants ‘em to start mooning people for Jesus every time they get a feeling. Sometimes, discernment just looks a lot like common sense with Bible knowledge and access to a neighborhood Facebook group. Your mugshot was already online, sugar. I may be a little spiritually mature, but I’m still following Weird Stuff Happening in Town – Westside Edition.”

The others burst out laughing, and Darren—a clean, dressed Assistant Custodian Second Class reminiscent of a certain fellow from Mark 5:15—grinned for the first time in a long while. Sister Velma didn’t need a scroll or a vision. She had a mop, a Bible, and the kind of faith that can outlast the Rapture chart strip mall cults.

Previous Post

Next Post