"Truly wonderful things only come through fiery ordeals."
What if the the 'wink of an eye" used to describe the Coming of the Lord was a mere expression of the suddenness of the event, but it actually lasted longer?
The smoke from the bus’s exhaust dissipated as it found its way across the rocky cliff in front of the Inn and was carried off by the updraft from the winds that blew across the valley below. Dusk was approaching quickly as the autumn sun had already disappeared behind Mount Baldy, casting orange, amber and blue streaks above the sandy-colored earth. The bus, with an ever so slight whimper of its engine and a sudden rev of rpm's, coughed and sputtered, as if choking on its own fumes. The lights flashed bright for a second, like a power surge throwing extra wattage through a light bulb just before it burns out. Finally, the engine died, the bus body shaking like the rattling of a skeleton, until it sat motionless. The last of the smoke from the exhaust rolled past the rear of the bus. So full of life seconds earlier, the Greyhound now sat lifeless in front of the Inn, as if it were at a bus graveyard; as if it might never start again.