Butterflies

In The End of All Times, people start disappearing from the Earth. They are enveloped in a pink mist and they suddenly flash off of the Earth. (See below)  Some feel that the the rapture is happening.

Assume that you believe in the rapture.  I’m interested in your personal feelings.  Will you meet God?  Will you meet Jesus?  Will you meet the Holy Spirit?  How long will you wait?  Will you have trials and tribulations before you meet God, the Holy Spirit or Jesus?  Please comment below.

The words in blue are an excerpt from the book.

Request  a .pdf version of The End of All Times that was current as of 5/7/2010.

I also invite you to purchase a stream of e-books for The End of All Times. When the printed version of the book is available, you will receive a 20% discount.  Also, 100% of your purchase price can be applied toward the purchase of the printed version of the book, when it is available. When you purchase it, you are actually buying three things: (1) a .pdf copy of the book as it exists in time now; (2) a .pdf  every week or two, containing revisions; (3) access to a the forum website.

The question is also the answer.  Since the beginning of time, the question had always been the answer.  Those thoughts, and the image of a one-way traffic sign, were predominant in Roger Jacob’s mind as he was wrenched to consciousness by the rude ring of a hotel phone that bore absolutely no resemblance to Frederick Schiller’s Ode to Joy.   Roger never tired of hearing this piece.  Roger consciously appreciated how the ringtone started off soft, and gradually grew louder. Alas, the phone in this hotel room was loud, jarring. “Hello,” he managed as he noticed the faint smell: sweet without being cloying, fruity but not quite like citrus. No, it was floral.  It wasn’t overbearing like a rose.  It was a clean fresh smell, with overtones of sweetness and innocence. Lilacs? Look at me.  I’m talking about flowers like they’re wines.  On the other hand, wine does come from fruit, and fruit comes from flowers.

“Roger?”  The sultry voice belonged to Madeline Samuels, the woman who was most directly responsible for his being deeply asleep, primarily because they had spent most of the time from 8 PM to 8 AM making love.

They were childhood sweethearts who had drifted away like two seeds of a dandelion that were blown by the wind and how now found each. No, they were more like two eagles who had  spread there wings, flown to different parts in different parts of the world, moved to return home to build their nest and mate. “Hey, you,” he said, grinning from ear-to-ear, aware that he was fully satisfied for the first time in over ten years, thinking of her smell, not her perfume, the delicate musky body odor.  The grin started to shift to another part of his body.

“Thank heaven you’re still alive.”

“Of course I’m alive, why shouldn’t I be?” That’s strange, but that’s my Maddy.   My Maddy? “Honey, you’re good, but that’s a little presumptuous, even for you.”

“Don’t you know what’s going on?”

“Madeline, what are you talking about?” She’s not talking about last night, is she?

“Look out the window,” she said with an urgency that didn’t seem like the woman he had met last night, “and hurry.”

“Look out the window?”  My woman is definitely melodramatic.

“You heard me!”

“Okay, hang on.  I’ve got to take care of something first, or . . .” Roger tossed the phone on the bed before he could hear Maddy say, “Hush up and tell me what you see outside, okay?”  He reluctantly extracted himself from the very comfortable down comforter that kept him cozy despite the fact that he had set the air conditioning to 60 degrees.  He quickly threw the thick hotel’s white cotton robe on, walked into the bathroom. What’s wrong with me?  Why couldn’t I just go to the window?  I’m going to lose her again if I don’t shape up. Nevertheless, he threw some cold water into a glass, splashed half of it on his face, and took a pee.  Ahhhhh.  As he was relieving himself, he noticed the small cactus plant that resided (of all places) on top of the toilet.  Strange place for a plant.  It looked dry.  Roger poured the rest of the glass of water into the plant’s pot.  Had he looked at the cactus for an instant longer, he might have observed an almost invisible purple gas emanating from it.  Roger had no way of knowing it, but not taking the extra couple of seconds was a decision that would to cause him much grief.  Too much sun, he thought as he walked to the window and rubbed his skin, which felt taut.  On the way, he grabbed his polarized prescription sun glasses.  He glanced at his skin, and seemed to see patterns of Metatron’s Cube spreading over his arm. Too many lectures on sacred geometry, he thought.  Still, the society is paying for this room, and I get to play nine holes today.

Roger walked back into the large sleeping area in his suite, pulled the cords to open a set of emerald-green black-out curtains, shoved the off-white sheers aside and looked out of his hotel room onto a world-class golf course.  Yesterday, Lake Tahoe had been in the backdrop, and he could see beautifully-manicured greens, a pristine water hazard, hundreds of pine trees a variety of sand traps, and golfers who were leisurely strolling to their balls. Now, the scenery was still there, but swirls of a rose-pink gas appeared to rise from the grass and trees.  The beautiful blue sky now appeared gray.  Who ever made up the line about looking at the world through rose-colored glasses, obviously never tried it.

Roger vaguely heard a voice in the room. He cocked his head and remembered the phone, the handset of which now laid lazily over the side of the bed. His eyes barely left the window as he took baby steps back to the bed to pick it up.  Despite Madeline’s loud distressed voice, he couldn’t wrench himself away from the scene he was witnessing.

Outside, a tall pink mist materialized close enough for him to make out some of its details.  It was a series of constantly-changing wisps.  The pink was darkest at the bottom, lightest at the top.  From a certain angle, it appeared to be leaves and stems, growing upwards. As they expanded upwards, the mist was less concentrated, therefore a lighter pink.  At the very top it was barely visible.  Seconds passed.  Watching it was hypnotic, a belly dancer turning slowly, sensually to Borodin’s Polovtzian Dance from Prince Igor.  Then, almost like an animal sniffing out its prey, it shifted toward the nearest golfer who was apparently hypnotized by its gyrations.

The almost silence of the golf course was suddenly shattered as a young lady started waving her hands wildly and screamed, “Daddy.  Get out!”

A silver-haired man, in his seventies, waved to his daughter, apparently not hearing her message.  He selected a club from the new Ping golf bag that sat upright in the front seat of his green-and-white golf cart.

She started crossing her arms in front of her, hands fully extended, moving them rapidly as she called out, “Get off the grass, Daddy.  Come to me.  Don’t let that thing get you.”

The man turned and saw a column of pink mist.  In a moment, it had changed direction and was upon the man.  Roger’s eyes widened in disbelief as he followed the golfer who shot up as if something had stabbed him from behind. The pink mist gathered around him, and in a sudden blur, it seemed to glow. The golfer’s scream was swallowed as the mist reached his throat.   95% of the golfer’s body was now gone, and suddenly the mist was consumed by flame that produced a golden-white light. What’s more, a moment later, where there had once been a golfer, there was now nothing at all.  Or, if there was something, it was too little to observe from the twelfth story of the Emerald Lake hotel that overlooked the Edgewood Golf course.

“Roger”, he heard Madeline’s voice coming from headset of the phone.  “What’s that screaming? Answer me!”

In two steps he was there, holding the phone to his ear.  “I’m here,” he said, “but I . . . I don’t know what the hell is going on. This can’t be real . . .”

“How you could leave me here, waiting? Wondering?  Roger, what’s going on over there?”

Roger told her, and she said, “I was looking out the third-floor window and saw three people cutting across the patch of lawn in front of the main entrance.  They were running.  One of them had an infant in her pulled close to her chest . . . “  She paused.  Her voice turned as soft as a baby’s blanket.  “You’re the first person I called.”  Roger imagined a tear running slowly down her cheek.  “Don’t ask me why.  You’d think I’d call my Mom, or my Dad or my daughter, but I called you.”  She paused briefly. “I had to call you, had to know that you’re all right.”

Roger smiled.  If she had been there he would have reached out, taken both of her hands in his, drawn her close to him and kissed her.   That feeling was evident as he said, “We have established quite a connection.”

The baby-blanket softness vanished from Madeline’s voice; “I’m coming over.”

“What?  Maddy, you could get killed driving over here, if people evaporate as they drive, they’ll be accidents.”

“I don’t care.  I want to be together.  Don’t you dare leave that room!”  Then her tone became soft, and sounded like a five-year old.  “Promise.” She didn’t wait for Roger to answer.  She hung up.  Roger looked out the window again.  There was no one left on the golf course.

Suddenly, the strength drained out of his legs and he collapsed into the plush gold micro-fiber armchair that was adjacent to the window, and clicked on a button that closed the drapes.

Roger picked up the remote and turned on the TV. I hate these hotel systems. Why can’t the TV just turn on and play a channel? He knew the answer of course. The hotel wanted to maximize its revenue, and you did that by giving guests every opportunity to buy something–movies, internet access, room service, whatever. He fumbled with the remote, pulled up the menu and selected cable news.

His choice of channel rewarded him immediately.  A golden-hair, blue-eyed, 30-some reporter filled the screen.  She held the microphone an inch away from her chin as she delivered the story.  “This is Carol Edmund, NBC National Cable News, reporting live from The George Washington Memorial Hospital, in the nation’s capital.  I’m here with Dr. Walter Jacoben, the Chief of Surgery of Kennedy Memorial Dr. Jacoben, would you briefly describe the Pink Mistover and tell us if there’s any insight into what’s causing it?”

“Certainly Carol. The Pink Mistover is a layman’s name.  It describes a human body that’s appears to hypnotize someone into watching it.  As the person watches, they are enveloped in a thin envelope of pink mist. To the best of our knowledge, the Mistover selects only people.  It does not yet appear to prefer any race, age, occupation or any other factor. However, people who are near grass and plants, especially golfers, seem most likely to be infected.

Pink Mistover is 100% fatal one, maybe two minutes.  Fatal, perhaps, is not the right word.”

“What happens to the body of the victim.”

The Mistover appears to convert the mass of the body into energy and also into one of several gases—oxygen, nitrogen, carbon dioxide. He paused, unsure of his facts, then continued.  Some may not consider it fatal because . . .”

“Because, if you were a religious person, you might think of yourself as being reborn, and . . . ”

“. . . And, . . . “

“. . . because, even though we can not explain it chemically—there is no chemical signature— after a flashing some people smell lilac, or sometimes, sulfur.”

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Tags: god, Holy Spirit, Jesus, rapture