Heavenly Disasters: Joan of Arc's Cosmic Battle Against Flaming Gas Giants

You’d think after saving France from total ruin, hearing divine voices, and getting a one-way ticket to the afterlife, I’d get some time to kick back with a chalice of wine and relax, right? Wrong. After the whole “burning at the stake” fiasco (which, by the way, I do not recommend for weekend plans), I was whisked up into the heavens—no harp music, no pearly gates, just a big ol’ celestial waiting room. And let me tell you, it’s a lot less peaceful than the pamphlets say.

I was under the impression that after all I’d done, I’d be assigned something cushy, like patron saint of croissants or victory parades. Instead, I got handed the baffling responsibility of managing the universe's explosions. Not wars, mind you, but actual stars—giant, flaming balls of gas—because apparently, they need someone with experience dealing with fire. I tried to argue that burning heretics and burning hydrogen weren’t exactly the same skill set, but heaven’s bureaucracy is a labyrinth Dante himself would weep over.

So there I was, floating in the divine offices of the Celestial Physics Department (they've got these dull marble floors and so many scrolls). Saint Peter, looking grumpy as ever, sat me down. “Joan,” he said, rubbing his temples like a headmaster dealing with a particularly rowdy class, “it’s time you learned about the life cycle of stars.”

I gave him my best "I'm definitely not interested" look, but he wasn’t swayed. I think he still holds a grudge over that time I asked if his keys ever get stuck in the clouds.

“Well, at least explain why stars need to die,” I quipped, adjusting my halo. “Seems like poor planning, if you ask me.”

And that’s when I realized something was off in the celestial world. The stars—they weren’t just pretty little things twinkling in the sky. No, no. These things were menaces. And someone had to babysit them, which, you guessed it, was now part of my afterlife duties. Stars are not the innocent lights we wish upon; they’re chaotic, combustible toddlers throwing nuclear tantrums across the universe. And don’t get me started on the supernovas—they’re like the overachievers of star destruction. Go big or go home, right?

I soon found out that the stars, much like humans, have an annoying tendency to either fizzle out like a bad bonfire or explode dramatically, turning everything around them into cosmic confetti. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that some of these stars go full prima donna and collapse in on themselves, forming black holes—basically the celestial equivalent of throwing a tantrum so hard you disappear.

“You know, this could’ve been useful information before I charged into battle,” I muttered, while scribbling angry notes during star training sessions. I mean, think about it—knowing how to avoid a nuclear-level explosion might’ve come in handy for strategizing. But no one ever thought to mention it, did they?

Of course, I tried to hand off this star babysitting gig to someone else. I suggested maybe Galileo or Copernicus take over—people who actually studied this stuff while I was out, you know, saving the world. But they said I had “fire experience,” so here I am, corralling fiery masses like they’re misbehaving sheep. "Divine irony," Saint Peter called it.

Now, I’m not going to lie. At first, I took a bit of offense. Stars exploding left and right, while I’m tasked with stopping them from going completely haywire? This was not in the martyr's handbook. But over time, something strange happened. I started to get… fascinated. Not with the fires themselves—goodness knows I’ve had enough of those—but with the fact that the universe had this hidden chaos built into its very fabric. Explosions, rebirth, collapsing stars, and, somehow, from all that madness, new things emerged.

I’d sit there, watching a star collapse, and feel a weird sense of kinship. It’s kind of like going through trial after trial, being told you’ll burn out, and then—bam—you pull through and end up doing something unexpected. Like, say, liberating a country or, I don’t know, publishing educational videos on the life cycle of stars.

It all came to a head one particularly annoying afternoon when a bloated red giant decided to blow up just as I was about to finish my shift. There I was, wrapping up another day's worth of supernova wrangling, when BOOM! This oversized gasbag went and exploded itself across three solar systems like it had something to prove. “Are you serious?” I shouted, hands to the heavens (which, I suppose, is redundant up here).

That’s when it hit me. Not the star—I dodged that, thank you very much—but the idea. If I, Joan of Arc, could be thrown into the blazing mess of both human wars and celestial ones, why shouldn’t the living know what they're up against? Why should I hog all the cosmic knowledge when I could be teaching the next generation of aspiring star-wranglers about this firestorm of a universe?

And so, with a divine nudge (literally—I’m pretty sure one of the angels shoved me toward the idea), I decided to share what I’d learned. You know, get the word out to the folks back on Earth. But how? A book? Too slow. A celestial TED talk? The logistics of that were impossible.

Then, one day, while poking through the Heavenly Archives (which are far more disorganized than you’d expect), I stumbled upon this thing called the internet. Now, we saints don’t normally bother with it—our divine wisdom doesn’t exactly require Wi-Fi—but I figured, why not see what the fuss is about?

That’s when I discovered videos. Earthlings love them! They’ll watch anything—from cats knocking over cups to people explaining the science behind literal star explosions. And just like that, a lightbulb (or, you know, a miniature sun) went off in my head. If these humans are glued to their screens anyway, why not give them something worth watching? Something that could really knock their socks off—metaphorically speaking, of course.

I couldn’t do it alone, though. Let’s just say video editing isn’t covered in the Saintly Training Manual. So, I enlisted some help from the celestial audiovisual department (yes, we have one). With a bit of divine intervention, we pieced together a little educational masterpiece on the life cycle of stars. It’s not quite as fiery as my previous engagements, but it’s close enough.

So, my friends, next time you look up at the stars, just remember: those twinkling lights are not as innocent as they seem. They’re temperamental, explosive, and downright destructive. And who knows, maybe they’re just waiting for someone like you to wrangle them into shape. Until then, enjoy this little video I’ve prepared—you might want to take notes. After all, if I can learn how to handle a supernova, so can you!