The Inspector & Engineer

The framing inspector from Pikes Peak Regional Building showed up for the fourth time yesterday, summarily rejecting the final piece of the 4-story property with another list of issues for me to deal with. He is a kind man, limping on a recently surgered (that’s past tense of going through a surgery) foot. Yesterday he reviewed the Garden Level apartment, praising this and that, and then jotted down three things I have to do before I can insulate the place.

Dan is a godly man, I’ve decided. His sore foot reminded me of another person with health issues. I mentioned the illness, eventually it will be a fatal one, of a friend I supposed was common to the both of us. He was. Dan lowered his head, teared up a bit, and muttered, “Dear Lord.” 

Dear Lord mutters are how we can discover the upcoming saints among us, I believe. In fact, our common friend thanked the Dear Lord in an email I received from him recently. He was thankful for the continued time he seemed to keep getting. He’s moving from one new treatment to another, and over the holidays he’s taking on yet another. He looks healthy, smiles like a young man with an eye on the future, and is smart as a whip.

All of us who know him are praying for him. I’m sure of that. I wondered if a miracle will take place, healing him, when I realized that’s been happening on a daily basis. He’s still working, contributing, raising a family, and being kind to friends worried about their construction projects. 

Dan shuffles when he walks due to a boot he wears on the foot that got surgered. He bends over a bit when he looks up, which he has to do a lot in order to check out the ceiling joists, ledgers, sister bolts, fire stops, penetrations between floors, and how that all jives with the plans stretched out on a makeshift table where the kitchen in this lower condo will soon be built.

This bottom floor is the Apostle Mark unit. Next up is Matthew, then Luke, and on the top I’ve christened that one John. Not for me, but for the Apostle. 

The construction plans were drawn up by the fella that Dan and I get teary eyed about. He calculates ridge beams and bearing loads based upon the slight potential that a battleship will park on the rooftop. Our common friend is worried, because battleships are getting bigger, and heavier, and when he dies, someday, the subsequent owners will curse his name when the street floods 55 feet deep and a battleship built in 2056 comes to rest on the deck we built, and dents the roof.

A bunch of god-fearing men and women have carried things into this building, put those things together, and taken their leave. Seems like every one of them has said Dear Lord, or nodded when one or other of the rest of us has uttered those faith filled word.

Dear Lord, let our good friend see 2056 in good health, and be assured that the battleship drawings he prescribed for this building will still be heralding all four apostles for a hundred years beyond his worries.