Arthur Davidson, of Harley Davidson Motorcycle Corporation, died and went to heaven. At the gates, St. Peter told Arthur, "Since you've been such a good man and your motorcycles have changed the world, your reward is: you can hang out with anyone you want in Heaven."
Arthur thought about it for a minute and then said, "I want to hang out with God." St. Peter took Arthur to the Throne Room, and introduced him to God. Arthur then asked God, "Hey, aren't you the inventor of woman?" God said, "Ah, yes." "Well," said Arthur, professional to professional, you have some major design flaws in your invention:
1. There's too much inconsistency in the front-end protrusion. 2. It chatters at high speeds constantly. 3. Most of the rear ends are too soft and wobble too much. 4. The intake is placed way too close to the exhaust. And.... 5. The maintenance costs are outrageous."
"Hmmmm, you may have some good points there," replied God, "hold on." God went to his Celestial super computer, typed in a few words and waited for the results. The computer printed out a slip of paper and God read it.
"Well, it may be true that my invention is flawed," God said to Arthur, "but according to these numbers, more men are riding my invention than yours."
Guide's boots crunched in the gravel while on his way to his latest 'assignment'. Isabella was learning everything she could, and then some. He was sure she'd be fine. Matter of fact, she was asking questions. And noticing things that rookies wouldn't normally notice.
"Why are we going into a cemetary? And what is that.. feeling?" They passed under an oak, turned a corner and saw the answer to both her questions. Just it wasn't immediately obvious that it was an answer at all.
"Hmm? Oh, hello. What brings you here, Guide. Been a long time. And who's your lady friend?" a somewhat pale hand reached outward in a handshake from a curiously dressed figure. He was short, medium build with longish hair and dark eyes. And Isabella felt something odd when she shook his hand. Like he didn't belong here at all.
"Hail and well met, Darksheare of Kentothe. What brings you here among the graves of the fallen?" Guide asked, his eyebrow raised in question. He knew the answer, but wanted to hear it from his 'host'.
"Look down. I had to use the name she went by here, I doubt anyone would believe a title like 'The Lady of Kentothe' around here. I am told she came through the portals and liked it here too. And it cost her. Guide, where I come from.. When we die, we can wander the face of the world. And that is accepted as normal and honorable. Here on Ea'rth, it seems that such things do not happen." Guide listened. He sensed another question in there, but couldn't quite get it yet...
"Will the Creator bring her to where she is from? What happens to those of us from Kentothe who die here? And what did I do by coming here in the first place?" Darksheare was thinking it was his fault that she died. Because he made it possible to come here.
"I honestly do not have an answer for you. Except that the One will decide that. Maybe it isn't for you to know. It isn't for any of us to know His times and purposes except when He reveals it. And He hasn't said anything to me about this. It seems to me that it is up to you to find your way."
Darksheare's boots crunched the gravel plaintively. He considered those words at length....