Following their dinner together at the Szechuan Palace that Monday evening, the relationship between Marc and Carla took on a purely business-like character, just as Carla had predicted to herself. Despite the emptiness she felt, the days flew by and were filled with activities in anticipation of Michael’s and Nancy’s wedding.
Carla was glad when the day finally arrived. She had had a hard time shutting down her attraction to Marc, and the wound always seemed to open when she thought of Patrice’s being at the wedding which she knew Marc was invited to attend as well. He seemed to be looking forward to it, and Carla felt it must be in part because he was curious to see Patrice again, these many months after their separation.
Finally the day came. As Carla put on her dress in the ladies’ lounge at the church, she was glad Nancy had chosen azure blue for her wedding. It was, after all, Carla’s best color. She smiled and shook her head, wondering if she could keep from turning as pink as the coral roses accenting her bouquet.
The wedding underway, Carla saw her mother in the front row on the groom’s side, seated beside Susie. Joan Herring, wearing a soft coral suit, was on the other, next to her husband.
There were probably one hundred fifty people in the audience, all a blur to Carla as she walked slowly down the aisle. Somehow in her peripheral vision she found Marc immediately but didn’t look at him. Dan Carouthers, standing over on the side as the usher, flashed a big smile at her. She responded likewise.
The service was perfect, as far as Carla could tell. Afterwards, Michael and Nancy looked radiantly in love and seemed so appreciative of the presence of each guest. Nancy looked lovely in her wedding dress. Carla’s heart was full of thanks for a sister-in-law so beautiful inside and out.
During the reception, Dan spent considerable time at Carla’s side, and she welcomed the attention. Marc greeted her and they exchanged superficial conversation about the wedding and the weather. Carla consoled herself that this was all right; at least he hadn’t spent any appreciable time with Patrice, either.
It wasn’t until after lunch on the following Monday that Marc mentioned the wedding. He had asked Carla to come into his office to brief her about two reports. As she rose to leave, he rose too, going to the door and opening it in his customary manner.
“By the way, Carla, the wedding was nice. And you looked very pretty…” he paused, as though purposely enjoying seeing her face change color, “…in that blue dress.”
Carla felt exasperated with herself and her propensity for flushing, but she responded gracefully. Marc shut his door behind them, then announced that he had an afternoon appointment and wouldn’t be back in until the next day.
……….
If Marc Garman had been able to see into the office he was headed for, ten minutes before his arrival, he perhaps would have been hesitant to keep his appointment with Dr. Joe Denspot. He may have been scared off, seeing the doctor kneeling by the side of a chair, his head bowed, praying.
On the other hand, he may not have been totally surprised. After all, it was the doctor’s words regarding the supernatural, along with Carla’s saying that God could help him and that she would be praying for him, that had played over and over in his mind in the last few days. He thought it strange that he seemed unable to dismiss these ideas about the supernatural, at the same time acknowledging that it was Carla’s frankness and sincerity, along with her indirect admission that she placed himself second to God, that gave him a desire to know more. There was a sincerity about Joe Denspot, also, that attracted him.
When the receptionist ushered Marc in, the doctor was sitting behind his desk but rose to shake his hand.
“Hey, Marc. Nice to have you stop by.”
“Thanks for the impromptu appointment. I didn’t expect to get in so soon.”
“As I told you, I leave two hours open every afternoon for whatever comes along,” Joe said, smiling. “Looks like you’re the ‘whatever’ today. What’s on your mind?”
“I guess I wanted a follow-up to my last appointment with you—which you never billed me for, by the way.”
The doctor disregarded the last phrase. “I looked at my notes from the last time you were here. It looks like I talked a lot and you left hesitant.”
“Well, I guess I’m ready to hear more than I was back then. I… I still need to bring resolution to my son’s death.”
“I think you told me you’d named your son. What was it?”
“Trent. Trent Patrick.”
“And he’d be how old now?”
“Uh… sixteen months.”
“That’s a cute stage. Most of his contemporaries are walking now, as well as beginning to talk, with about a dozen teeth .”
Marc winced, his jaw tightening, and he looked puzzled.
Dr. Denspot went on. “I tell you that, because in my therapy plan, to bring about true and complete resolution, a parent must look head-on at his aborted child’s personhood. It doesn’t do any good, except in a denial process, to think of that child always and only as human tissue or a product of conception. In fact…” The doctor lowered his head and looked keenly and directly over his glasses into Marc’s eyes. “…in abortion cases like yours, late-term with body parts donated—in reality, sold—to research companies, it is actually much easier to focus on the continuing theoretical development of that child rather than…the age at death.”
Marc sat stoically, hiding the shock he felt at the doctor’s bluntness and grimly wishing he hadn’t come.
“I’m glad you named your child, Marc,” Denspot went on, unmoved by Marc’s noticeable bristling. “Trent deserves a place in your heart of being remembered—all your life. Every aborted child deserves that. Your son died tragically, totally innocent. Any tear that wets your cheek on his behalf he deserves. It is a good thing to mourn his death. It’s a good thing that you’re sorry.”
Now Marc sat there, unable to reject this encouraging word, and overwhelmed with a strange feeling of release. At the same time, his throat tightened and he fought the tears that threatened.
“It’s OK to cry, Marc. It’s healthy and appropriate. It’s a progression from the raw emotion you felt by the car that day. We are made by God to heal, with time, you know.”
The doctor’s words weren’t quite enough to clear Marc’s mind and bring his emotion under control, but he forced himself to focus on what the man was saying.
“So you’ve named Trent, and you obviously mourn his death. These are the first two essential steps in this process of resolution.” Joe Denspot held up two fingers for emphasis. “They both have come naturally to you.” He smiled in approval. “The third hasn’t. It’s supernatural and will require a little effort and discipline. I can’t explain it rationally. It’s supernatural, as I said.
“What I do know first-hand are the positive results. So just try to stay with me as I give you my spiel, and please stop me if you have a question.” The doctor took a deep breath and proceeded.
“Try to remember that what I’m about to tell you is not ‘religion.’ It certainly pertains to the Bible, however. I’m just going to give you a little background history that I feel is necessary for you to have in order to come to peace regarding your son’s abortion.
“You see, Marc, the Bible is basically an historical account of the relationship—the communication—between God and man, beginning with the man Adam, and including Noah, Abraham, David, and Elijah, to name a few others. The communication was always a personal encounter. In most instances, that particular man became a leader by virtue of his courage and wisdom derived from his having received direction from a supernatural God. Their contemporaries looked to these leaders to hear the word God had given them—that is, up until a certain event in history.”
Marc, not at ease with this unfamiliar topic, repositioned himself in his seat so as not to have to look directly at the doctor, but he was listening.
“I speak of the pivotal advent of Jesus Christ, the Messiah. According to the Bible, the word, the divine communication from God which he’d given to the patriarchs, the prophets, a few chosen men—that word, now took the form of flesh and came to us in the person of Jesus Christ. The Bible, in the book of John, puts it very succinctly: ‘The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.’
“So now, in this pivotal event, the Word of God was among the people as a walking, talking human being. Many Americans your age have heard, even if they don’t believe it, that Jesus was immaculately conceived—that is, he was born to a virgin named Mary; that he was worshipped as a baby by three men heralded as among the wisest of their time; that he turned water into wine, raised people from the dead, restored sight to blind men, healed lepers, walked on water, and was finally crucified for claiming to be the Son of God. And of course most Americans have heard that he came back to life in ‘the resurrection.’”
Marc listened politely, curious as to where the doctor was going with this religion trivia.
“But the bigger picture, going back long before the coming of Christ, was God’s plan for a chosen people to follow Him, beginning with Abraham. God chose faithful, obedient Abraham to be the father of a peculiar people set apart for God and set apart from the world. Because He longed to have fellowship with them–his people, He would give them laws to obey, and a means to pay for their sins when they didn’t obey. Their wrong actions required a sacrifice involving blood.” Denspot took a step towards Marc and repeated himself. “Wrong actions required a sacrifice involving blood.”
“Marc, please listen carefully. It was the blood that was so special to God. Life of all flesh was in the blood, and shed blood was set aside, by God, for one purpose only—to atone for the sins of men. For that reason God commanded that no person—including strangers in Israel, should eat or drink blood. When a wild animal of any kind was hunted or caught, for food, the blood had to be poured out first, and covered with dust. So the only use for blood, per se, in God’s eyes, was for sacrifice—to cover sins.
“Three things of great importance took place at that pivotal point in our human history when Jesus came. First, the very communication of God took on flesh in the ‘Son of Man.’
“Second, his blood as the Christ, which means ‘the anointed one,’ was poured out as the final all-encompassing and fully-accomplished sacrifice for human sin.
“Third and finally, all of mankind—all of mankind, not just His chosen people Israel—now had free access to God and His forgiveness, no matter what the sin.” Now Joe Denspot paused and began speaking even more deliberately.
“But there were—and are—two requirements for each person wanting that free access to God—one, that he repent of his sins, which means to be truly sorry for his sins and turn away from whatever those sins are. The second requirement was—and is—that the person truly believe and acknowledge that Jesus’ shed blood is God’s one and only acceptable sacrifice for sin, and that it works as a supernatural cleanser, separating that person forever from the sins he’s truly sorry for.”
Now Marc sighed and squirmed in his chair as though these last words had gone over his head.
“It’s like… Are you familiar with milk glass?” Joe asked.
“Of course,” Marc nodded, with unmasked disdain, reflecting his general discomfort.
Joe Denspot continued. “Well, imagine that you’re a beautiful milk glass bottle. Every time you lie or cheat, or swear, the outside gets all dirty. The inside of the bottle also is dingy or even black from sins that nobody sees but you and God or, sometimes, just God.” He smiled wryly.
“Jesus’ blood serves the purpose of a cleansing solution that shines up the bottle so that all the dirt and grime and smudges are removed. In fact, the glass itself becomes crystal clear in that two-step process that I’ll mention again: one, you hate the sin, and turn away from it; and two, you ask God to wash it away by that supernatural cleansing blood of His son, Jesus Christ.”
“What’s the milk glass?”
“The milk glass is just our human nature that we’re born into. Our very best would be the milk glass shined up, but that’s not acceptable to a perfect and holy God. However, when we are sorry for our wrongdoings and accept the sacrifice of God’s holy Son, we are made holy—crystal clear—in God’s eyes.”
“So what do I do?” Marc asked pointedly. “This is all pretty foreign to me. I mean, I don’t even think about God unless someone brings up the subject.”
“I can tell you what I did. I bought a Bible. I determined to read it from beginning to end, and every day I set aside thirty minutes to do so.” He smiled as if reminiscing. “Funny thing, though. Sometimes in those months I found myself reading for several hours.
“It became quite interesting. I’ve now read it several times, and I’m always challenged. But the theme I just outlined to you is the central message: God’s love that provides forgiveness and fellowship with Him as a father.”
Marc stood up, scratching his head and looking puzzled. “Mmm…Thank you.” His voice was hesitant.
The doctor held up his hand in a gentle stop gesture. “Marc, before you go, bear with me and let me capsulate my treatment process: First, you name your child to give him a concrete place in your heart. Second, you mourn his death, reflecting the fact that you are truly sorry for your part in it. Third, you accept the plan the Creator God provides for us for the forgiveness of sin—the shed blood of Jesus Christ. And if you do this, because Jesus did rise from the dead, you can remember your son with love throughout your life, and you will be reunited with him—in love—at your own death, for all eternity.
“I want to warn you. Knowing this treatment process is only a starting point. It’s not implementing it. When you were in my office last time, I told you that when people feel guilty, some want resolution. Of those people, some recognize the void of not knowing their Creator. And some of those people actually pursue God—I mean pursue as in chase to catch an awesome blessing.”
“If you’re one of these fewest, I can guarantee a resolution. You see, God, as we learn about Him in ancient, well-preserved scriptures, not only wants our guilt erased: He’s the only one who can erase it.”
The doctor reached out and shook the younger man’s hand. It was a two-way solid grip, and Marc left with a smile, but also with the puzzled look still on his face.
Joe Denspot, for his part, closed his office door and again dropped to his knees with his head in his hands. “Thank you, God,” he whispered. “Help this young man to seek Your heart. I ask it in Jesus’ name.”
……….
It was a Thursday night at about two in the morning when Gene Chemosh woke up in a cold sweat. He immediately sat up in bed but didn’t awaken Sal sleeping soundly next to him. He got up, throwing on his robe, and headed for the bar in the family room to pour himself a drink. But just as he started to pour, he set the glass and the bottle back down. Shutting his eyes and wincing, he took a deep breath.
“Have I gone off the deep end?” he asked under his breath.
No.
Gene felt the voice more than heard it, but it wasn’t his own. He turned around, massaging his head briskly with both hands. He sat down in the big leather chair he’d sat in countless times in the last ten or fifteen years, and quite abruptly—strangely—his mind was completely off the nightmare and riveted on that chair. How long had he had it, anyway? He and Sal had seen it in a furniture store the same day he’d been accepted into his first practice. A couple weeks later he had taken her back to purchase the chair. Hal remembered now that it happened to be the same day Sal had finally agreed with him that her pregnancy was untimely, given the adjustments that his first job as a doctor would undoubtedly require. He calculated quickly that it would have been fourteen years ago—seven years before Andy was born. Chemosh half-smiled, remembering how the salesman had warned that the chair was “heavier than a player piano.” It was heavy, all right. Sal couldn’t budge it. He himself barely could. Andy used to love the challenge of climbing up into it when he was a toddler, and it had remained Gene’s favorite chair.
He had many memories tied to it, but one in particular surfaced at this moment—the night he had held Sally in that chair, comforting her as she cried the night following her abortion. He remembered that he truly had not understood why she was so upset, but he just held her anyway. She finally told him it was merely the trauma and the fact that she was exhausted—that she wasn’t really all that sad. She knew they’d have children when the time was right.
Chemosh then revisited those memories of Sal’s getting her hopes up time and time again for a positive pregnancy test and of those hopes being dashed just as many times. It was in this chair they had held each other tightly, sharing the overwhelming disappointment and wondering if they would ever be parents.
But finally Andy had come along and changed their lives drastically—drastically and wonderfully. Chemosh had wanted more children, but Sally had not conceived again.
As Gene sat in the chair, a dim light flickered in his mind. He was connecting strange dots. He and Sal had bought the chair celebrating his new practice that had precipitated Sal’s abortion. It was in this very chair that Sal had cried so mournfully in his lap after the abortion, when he had felt so helpless and detached from her emotions. And in this same chair they had shared painful disappointment after disappointment at Sal’s being unable to conceive, until finally she became pregnant with Andy. These memories had each surfaced for the first time tonight. He’d never entertained them before. They weren’t particularly good.
All of a sudden, Chemosh felt uncomfortable sitting in that chair.
Get up. It was that same mysterious voice he could feel rather than hear.
“Get up?” Gene thought. It was a command not to be ignored. He got up on his feet and moved away, turning to look at the chair. He stood mesmerized, staring at it. But it was not just the chair he was seeing. No. It was himself in it, holding Sal on one knee and Andy on the other. And on the floor, crumpled, was a gangly teenage boy with a look of hopeless despair on his otherwise handsome face. Physically, he looked very much like Andy, but twice his age.
Gene could feel the dread of the nightmare coming on. Bmpmm…Bmpmm…Bmpmm… Slow heartbeats thundered in his chest. Of course he counted them, subconsciously; they seemed to count themselves. And of course there were fourteen. Of course he knew the boy lying there, so alone, so detached, was fourteen. Chemosh wanted to run over to him and pick him up in his arms. He wanted to tell him tenderly, so tenderly, “I love you, son.”
But he couldn’t. He couldn’t move. He stood there frustrated and helpless in the darkness. He was a lead statue with a slow-beating, thundering heart—paralyzed.
“I’m so sorry!” he found himself whispering out loud, tears streaming down his face. “I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry!” And then the lead prison paralyzing him seemed to slowly but surely evaporate. It was as if his tears had broken the spell and he became human again as the vision vanished. He fell to the floor, weeping in stifled sobs.
Sometime later, Chemosh sat up from his position on the floor. The first object he beheld was the chair, and he turned away.
No. Look at it. That voice again. Chemosh obeyed.
Was it a good trade-off?
“No,” Chemosh said under his breath, his eyes welling again with tears.
Who made you do it?
“No one.”
Who won in the end?
Fourteen years flashed before Chemosh’s eyes. “Not Sal,” he whispered out loud now. “Not Andy. Not…” His mind pictured the crumpled teenager so alone, and he moaned. “He doesn’t even have a name—my own first son.”
Yes, your first son. Did he win?
“No!” Chemosh cried out in his soul, pathetically, as if to say, “I already said I’m sorry. How much more do you want?”
And you—did you win?
“No, God. Please.” He stopped, shocked, recognizing suddenly that he was talking with the Rule Maker. Then he whispered, audibly, humbly, “Please help me.”