Angels and Airways
St. Peter ran his thumb down the list of those expected into Heaven that day. As the years had progressed, the list had been getting shorter and shorter. It was sad indeed, how God's greatest creation got progressively worse with age. As he skimmed through the untidily written list of names he heaved a great sigh. The angel who got the list of names from God each morning had a singularly illegible handwriting. St Peter couldn't wait until personal computers would be introduced, but they weren't due for a while yet in God's plan.
If he could find an angel with a neater handwriting, that would be enough for then. But the angels were swamped; for even though the population in Heaven was not anywhere close to exploding, it was tough work making Eternal Life a period of Eternal Bliss.
His mind began to wander as he reached the end of the list, but as he passed a certain name a flash of recognition caused him to stop short. He reread the scrawl, this time slower. Had he been mortal and required to breathe, he would have surely lost his breath. There, at the bottom of the list was a name that stood out as clear as the halo atop his head: Henry F.
There were a lot of Henrys in the world, and undoubtedly a large number of Henry Fs. But being God's faithful servant had rewards other than eternal life and a place at His feet. He had been expecting this man for a while now, ever since God had passed a careless sentence that He did not know would capture St. Peter's mind as much as it did. He looked down to the Earth and cross-checked what he believed to be true, and found that he was. Henry Ford was due in Heaven.
Although he tried to curb it, St. Peter couldn't help the excitement from building inside of him. He knew that it was wrong to eagerly anticipate a human's demise, but he wasn't perfect; he wasn't God!
For years, St. Peter had watched as humans whizzed about in their fast cars. He had long decided that when their creator Henry Ford made it to Heaven he would request a car of his own. A sport, cherry red Model-T that he could start up and use to drive around Heaven when the traffic at the Pearly Gates got thin. St. Peter barely paid attention as he ushered all the confused new souls whose names were on his list into Heaven. He would allow the angels on the inside to explain to these souls that they were in God's kingdom, and ready them for an eternity of peace. He wanted a big, fast car that could roar its way through the streets of Heaven.
Henry Ford had barely appeared before him when St. Peter called for Gabriel and tossed him the keys to the Pearly Gates. St. Peter threw an arm around Henry Ford and smiled. "Welcome to His humble abode," he said, hustling him through the gates that the newcomer could barely register their largeness or, well, pearliness.
Mr. Ford was understandably confused. "Where am I?" He shook off the arm that was flung across his shoulders, and turned to face St. Peter. He stared at the saint before him, mouth agape. "Why, you have wings!"
"Indeed," St. Peter agreed. "But you have wheels."
Mr. Ford was thrilled that he could continue building cars, his passion, in Heaven. St. Peter got him every part he needed, and within a month he had a brand new Model-T. It was a particularly slow day at the gates, so leaving Gabriel in charge, he took it for a spin. Pride was not an emotion felt in Heaven, at least not in those of St. Peter's position. Had he felt such emotions, though, what he felt would have been best described as Pride.
Oh, how the angels gaped! He had wisely set himself a speed limit of fifty kilometers an hour to make sure he drove safely. For, sure, he was already in Heaven, and the entire concept of speed thrilling but killing did not apply to him. He was not a saint for nothing, though, and thus he kept himself in check. He as still able to achieve speeds that none but God could. As he crossed a pair of straight-laced angels who had surely been around since the time of Moses and had never seen a car in their life, he sped up. He left them behind to gaze after him in bewildered astonishment. A few minutes later, he pulled over and Moses himself hopped in beside him.
One day, God sat down to contemplate on Life, Death, and Everything In Between. The Almighty was Thinking Great Thoughts when He was interrupted by a very loud sound. A horn.
Anger was not an emotion felt in Heaven, at least not in those of God's position. Had He felt such emotions, though, what he felt would have best been described as a blood-vessel-splitting rage.
He turned His eye to the streets of Heaven and encountered…A traffic jam. Road rage was building as every one of the angels he had appointed pressed down on their horns, creating an infernal racket.
"What is the meaning of this?" His voice thundered across the streets of Heaven. The horns stopped abruptly. Moses slid down in his seat and tried to look as inconspicuous as he could in the car he had asked to be painted orange, as it reminded him of the burning bush. The angels tried to look everywhere but at God until they realized that this was futile, as He was everywhere. The only one brave enough to reply was St. Peter, and his voice cracked as he stepped forward.
"I can explain," he faltered.
After several hours closeted with God, St. Peter emerged shaken, but happy. God, being his benevolent self, had let him off lightly. He was to have the privilege of his wings revoked for a week, and all cars were to be returned to Mr. Ford who was given permission to open up a museum. In fifty years time, it would be the finest classic car museum in all the world and Heaven.
It nearly broke St. Peter's heart to give up his car, but he knew God was right. He always was.
God had also agreed to appoint more angels so as to decrease the working hours of the existing ones. The angels had only taken to cars in the first place because it was too tiring to move about on wings when the world was so large and the people so busily bad-intentioned.
So all was ell that ended well. St. Peter regained the use of his wings after a week, and peace and order were returned to Heaven.
That is, of course, until an Enzo F, the genius behind the Ferrari, arrived.
:). This was a project in school - a picture compostiton. Unfortunately, I've lost the picture or I'd put it up here.
Say something nice and make my day. I really need it. My baby dog has been having fits all day - eight, to be precise. So I rewrote this as a pick-me-up.