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In a black mood, i wrote a joke
Emily Dickinson, "Hope is a thing with feathers" At his death, a man was granted a tour of heaven. St. Peter met him at the gates and ushered him solemnly in. The man said he had always loved to read from the Book of Corinthians and longed to see how heaven nurtured faith and hope. St. Peter nodded silently, and ushered him into a large room, an assembly line befitting the finest factories of the Western World that buzzed productively below. At the center was a large chute. Feathers leapt up from a hole in a fluffy cloud, entered the chute and then went through a series of blades. The man was astonished, certain that this must be some important procedure in heaven's tireless work in support of humanity. He asked St. Peter to explain the fascinating process. "This is where we receive the Hopes of every woman and man on earth. Once we shred them, we separate the toughened cartilage -- that measure of Faith that manages to escape the blades -- from the feathery down of ruined Hope and we use what is left of Faith as fuel. " The man was momentarily confused. Hope was necessary to life! Faith, a sustainer! How could heaven so callously shred the hopes and faith of every man, woman, and child? Of any of them? He struggled to understand but he allowed himself to be escorted into the next room where there burned an enormous blaze. Large jointed steel arms plunged into the piles of bony cartilage gleaned from the feather of Hope (he now knew) and pitched them noisily into a pit of orange and blue flame. The heat generated steam, St. Peter dryly explained, which powered another assembly line above. As he watched combustible bits disappear into crackling flames, the man was speechless This was nothing like the heaven he'd pictured as a child, as his rear smarted from being paddled for some misdeed. This heaven resembled nothing of the images his preacher so evocatively drew while simultaneiouly demanding of the congregation that they deny themselves of worldly pleasures. After a moment of blank sorrow, he asked St. Peter, Why? St. Peter regarded him with surprise, and with pity. "Oh, my child, of course we do this only because we must." The man was somewhat relieved. St. Peter took him to the next room, where steam powered automatic looms working furiously weaving the feathery bits into impossibly soft bags with satin drawstrings. The man smiled widely as he regarded the masses of bags. So soft! These bags must have some powerful purpose for heaven to lay waste, first, to mankind's Hope, and then to his feeble Faith. "Finally!" exclaimed the man. "I knew you must be doing something terribly important! And of course, something marked by profound tenderness." He couldn't wait for St. Peter's explanation. With unmanageable anticipation, he begged, "So what is it, St. Peter? What do you use the bags for?" St. Peter smiled warmly and clapped the man on his shoulder. "My child, we need something to put Love into before we ship it straight to hell." - Cesca Janece Waterfield
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