The mansion is ready.
The balloons are blown up.
The streamers are hung.
In a waiting room thousands of light years away,
They have gathered to witness the miracle-
Friends and loved ones that have passed on.
Hosts of heavenly angels.
All eyes are fixed on a big screen on a golden wall,
Intently watching a young man,
Who has arrived to the moment of his destiny,
Sitting nondescriptly in a mountain lodge,
Clearly unaware that his every breath,
His every movement,
His every twitch,
Keeps the heavenly audience
Eagerly seated on the very edge of their seats.
A man in the picture speaks to a small audience
In front of a cozy fireplace,
Sticks snapping and crackling
And occasionally exploding
Into a brief cascade of shimmering sparks,
Giving warmth to those who have gathered
On a crisp November night,
High in the Sangre de Cristo* Mountains of Colorado.
The speaker finishes his message,
And extends an invitation to the hearers.
The young man in the middle of the room,
At first resists the call,
Once. Twice. Three times.
Becoming increasingly uncomfortable
With each struggle,
Not aware that the eternal destiny of his soul
Hangs in the very balance.
In the waiting room,
All wonder, "Will he respond?"
And the suspense is unnerving.
A fourth and final call,
And the young man,
Heart wildly pulsating under the crushing conviction,
Runs to the front of the room,
Body trembling with adrenaline.
Floodgates of peace open wide,
And wash over him,
Like a cool shower on a sweltering August day.
At the very moment of sweet surrender,
The Physician enters the waiting room,
Double doors swinging behind him.
His hospital scrubs are stained in his own blood
From head to foot.
In his nail-scarred hands,
He proudly holds up a newborn baby infant,
And triumphantly cries, "It is finished!"