John blinked back tears, his eyes stinging and wet. Then, someday it will be?
All things, living and unliving, seen and unseen, have an appointed time when I will call and they must answer. Rivers run dry. Rocks grind to dust. Stars blink out of the sky. The heavens spread themselves so thin that no piece of them will ever talk to or know another.
John’s tongue caught in his throat. Then, there is a higher plan?
Death did not stop its endless work, but it turned its bony head to face the man. There was something beautiful about it then, John thought. An exotic dancer telling a story with their hands, a soothsayer weaving an incantation. A plan. There is a plan, and that is the most beautiful thing of all.
All mankind is of one author, and is one volume. When one man dies, a chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language. Every chapter must be so translated. Some pieces are translated by age, some by sickness, some by war, some by justice, but God’s hand is in every translation, and his hand shall bind up all your scattered leaves again for that library where every book shall lie open to one another.
Then, our suffering improves us? The things I have seen, they are good?
Tribulation is treasure in the nature of it, but it is not current money in the use of it, except that you get nearer and nearer your home by it.
Then, that is the plan?
Death looked at John a moment longer, then turned away from him and back to its work. It must be. It must. Else, what is the point?
The End! Come back Monday for something new!