The boy walks into the living room.  The walls painted with maghogany, the couch western style.  No television, just a ticking clock that reminds you of "Father Time".  The young boy watched the wise man in the rocking chair.  Gently swaying back and forth, the wrinkles on his face showed his age.  But, the wrinkles also showed his wise nature.  The wise man was reading a book, one from many on the back shelf of the many bookcases his grandfather has.  The boy stares at the man and asks,

"Grandpop, what are you reading?"  The man slowly looked up from his intent reading and gestured his hand, telling the boy to come.  The young boy wandered over to the chair.

"Henry  Vaughan.  The great 17th century poet."  The boy looked at him contently, and says,

"Grandpa, can I ask you a question?"

"Sure, anything you'd like?"  The boy thought long and hard about his question.

"Why are we all different?"  the young boy asks.

"You mean people?"

"Yeah."

"Well, if people were all the same, lets say that everyone had blonde hair and blue eyes.  Well, the world would be pretty boring, wouldn't it?  Everyone would look the same, you would never be able to call anyone beautiful, or pretty, or smart because everyone would have the same characteristics."

"Do you think the world was meant to be different, Grandpa?"

"Yes, son, I do, God meant the world to be different."

The middle-aged man walks into the living room.  The walls painted a tainted maghogany, the couch a western style with a tear in the middle cushion.  No television, but still the same ticking clock that reminds you of "Father Time".  The middle-aged man sees the wise man in the rocking chair.  He was still wrinkled with old age, and the chair was moving less and less.  The middle-aged man ask the wise man,

"Grandpa, what are you reading?"

"Henry Vaughan, of course."

"The great 17th century poet?"

"Ah yes, that's the one."  The wise man smiled.

"Grandpa can I ask you a question?"

"Sure, son, anything you'd like."

"Okay, why do we suffer?"  The middle aged man asks, he face concentrated on the one good thing left in his life, the man in the rocking chair.

"Well, son, life would be pretty easy, wouldn't it?  If life were perfect, how would there be any fun? any love? any life? Life would not exist without suffering."

The old man walks into the living room.  The walls painted a faded maghogany, the couch a western style torn from over-use.  No television, but the same ticking clock that reminds you of "Father Time".  The old man looks around the room, and sees the rocking chair.  He smiles.  The old man asks himself,

"Why does life end?"

"Well, there would be no point in living if life never ended..."  The old man smiled as he answered his own question.  He went and sat in the rocking chair, picked up the Henry Vaughan poetry book, and smiled at the wise man in heaven.