The Bridge

I've heard tell that those who design bridges follow a muse; far more than a profession, even more than a calling, it's a ministry, keeping travelers safe through the work of the heart, and creating a thing of beauty withal.

Does that go away in Heaven? Is the engineer given (as a prominent TV pastor once said about the hereafter) a robe and a key to their room (why a key?), and, presumably, a choir practice schedule?

Is Heaven like that old Soviet joke...

Ivan: 'Come the revolution, you will eat strawberries and cream for every meal!'

Dmitri: 'But I don't like strawberries and cream.'

Ivan: 'Come the revolution, you will eat strawberries and cream and YOU WILL LIKE IT.'

Somehow, I think not.

Bridges made of concrete,

and bridges make of steel;

if bridges are heart's chosen meat,

then might God make a meal

of bridges He would order built

across Heaven's great rivers,

made of rainbows, limned in gilt,

'cross which AngelZon delivers

the joyous things each saint desires

in good shape and in perfect time

on new whitewalled celestial tires,

with no extra cost for Prime.

The love of bridge design on Earth

is the profession's Heaven-birth.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is REPLACE. Accept no substitute.

There's one thing God can't replace,

one thing that unto death He's true,

the living mirror of His face,

the image that is up to you.

You can choose to scratch the glass,

or not clean off the shaving soap

(which really shows a lack of class)

but even villains cannot hope

to break the thing to spiky shards,

for it will leap to grow again

and leave them hoist on their petards

to contemplate what doth remain,

that is like koan in Zen,

a God who won't give up on them.

Just four minutes...now!

Music from Jesus Jones, with Right Here Right Now 

Sylvia just hopes someone's Heaven ministry is the making of ice cream.