The Missing Piece (Inspirational Love Story)

by Carol McCormick

  And the voice of God proclaimed, “I WILL REMEMBER YOUR SINS NO MORE!”

  Yet, the good things remained in Dylan's life review! Acts of love endured like the time he visited the Jenkins’ home and repaired their broken door. The time he slipped Ken Larson fifty-dollars after he’d lost his job at the factory. And the time he put the fish on the stringer as he told Lorraine about Jesus!

  Only his righteousness acts remained. With his mind altered and his comprehension enhanced, he received ten times the joy echoed back to him that the people had felt when he had done the deeds. He felt the Jenkins’ grateful hearts when he visited and helped them, ten times intensified. He felt Ken Larson's relief when he was able to buy food for his family, ten times magnified. And he felt Lorraine's secret desire for Christ, sparked within her heart when he told her about Jesus, ten times amplified.

  And he wished that he'd done more! Oh, Lord, how he wished he'd done more for the joy that filled his soul! And the Word of God illuminated his mind, Let this mind be in you, which was also in Christ Jesus. Who made himself of no reputation, and took upon him the form of a servant.

  With the eyes of his understanding enlightened and the Spirit searching the deep things of God, Dylan knew that if Jesus had not been there, his trespasses would have remained, and he would have reaped to himself guilt and shame, tenfold. The anguish and pain he’d inflicted upon others would have echoed back to him with far greater intensity, to bind and consume him forever. But none of that happened. Not one little bit, because it was all covered by Christ when He stood in Dylan’s place.

  Oh, how he longed to stay in this realm and walk the golden roads, where the treasures of wisdom and knowledge were hidden, and where beauty and love abounded. But a wide chasm separated Dylan from the heavenly city. There appeared no way to the other side, but just as quickly as he thought the thought, it was as though someone read his mind, and a spectacular vision unfolded before him.

  An enormous cross split the ground and slowly rose before him. Not a smooth, shiny cross that you’d find on a church steeple or wear on a neck as jewelry. But an old wooden cross that was battered and marred and stained with blood that rose up high and straight.

  It made no creaking sound that one so often hears when wood is old and shifting. Yet, so huge was the cross as it emerged ever upward, that although it posed no threat to his being, he felt a frightful quaking beneath his feet. And when the beam finally reached its full measure of height, it slowly arced back, laid itself down, and stretched itself across the entire length of the abyss like a bridge.

  The top of Dylan’s scalp prickled and his eyes grew wide as he stood in reverent awe at the sight. He glanced to one side and then to the next, through a blur of tears and then turned to look behind him. But he knew, somehow he already knew that the cross was the only way into the heavenly city. None of his good deeds could get him in. None of his bad could keep him out. The wooden cross of Christ was the only bridge to the other side.

  The golden city called to him. The gates of pearl beckoned. They wooed him like a long-lost lover and drew him like a magnet—but he didn’t cross over, because someone in the distance was also calling his name.

  “Dylan! Dylan! Come back! Come back, baby!”

  And suddenly, he returned to his body as though sucked through a vacuum from outer space. He took a deep breath like he’d just broken through the surface of water, then blinked his eyes open to find his mother gripping his shoulders and shaking him like crazy. The look of terror on her face as she clung to him, while screaming for the nurse was such a contrast to what he’d just seen that he found it difficult to reorient himself.

  When his mother finally stopped shaking him, she said, “They left me all alone with you, Dylan, so I could say good-bye to you, but then I saw flickers of eye movement under your lids, and I got so excited that I started shaking you. Oh! I didn’t hurt you, did I? Oh, I’m so glad that you’re back! I don’t know what I would have done, if you had had really died! The Lord answered my prayers! I was praying all along for you! I’m so excited! I’m so excited I could jump up and down!”

  “Mom,” Dylan said in raspy whisper. He had never heard his mother talk so fast without taking a breath, but he gently smiled up at her, because he knew that she’d been afraid and now she was relieved. He rested a minute by closing his eyes and when he regained his bearings, he said, “Mom, it was sooo beautiful! I’m not afraid to die now.” He closed his eyes again and smiled in remembrance, then slowly opened them and gently reached up to hold his mother’s hand. And then he said it again, but more slowly this time. “It...was...so...beautiful. I’m not afraid to die.”

  His mother freed her hand and placed it on his head and then smoothed it down along his hair. She smiled at him then leaned close to his ear, and whispered the thing that any mother who’d almost lost her son would say, “I’m sure that it was, Dylan, but I am so glad that you are back!”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Dylan laced his fingers across his chest as he lay on the couch, watching Misty knead his stomach into a comfortable nest. Then after curling into a fluffy ball, she purred softly and her eyes squinted closed. “Your motor’s running again, puss,” Dylan said, stroking the back of her neck.

  Although the boredom from his recuperation period was bad enough, today was the day he’d been dreading for months. The minute he woke up, he knew this would be the most difficult day of his life. He’d played the scene over in his mind since his release from the hospital. He knew it by heart by now: Lorraine will walk down the aisle in her beautiful gown while her parents cling to each other in joyous support. Then the bride and groom will gaze into each other's eyes and commit their lives to one another. A festive reception will follow at a fine banquet hall with food, music, laughing, and dancing. And then the honeymoon—no, he couldn't even think about the honeymoon.

  Dylan held Misty closer, petting her with slow, gentle motions. “What are we going to do now, puss?” The mute kitten merely adjusted her position and tucked her nose further beneath her leg. Pausing, searching, Dylan continued his one-sided dialogue. “I’ve been yanked from Heaven and I’ve lost an angel.” A tear leaked from his eye and trickled into his ear.

  Dejected, he sat up, set Misty on the floor and then walked into the bathroom to splash cold water onto his face. He buried his face in the towel and left it there for a long time before lowering it and studying himself in the mirror. “What now, Lord? What am I going to do now? Why did you take me from Heaven with all of its love and beauty, to come back here to nothing?”

  When no answer came, he hung the towel on the rack and held onto it for support, as the floor seemed to have a force of its own, pulling him down to meet it. He transferred his weight from the rack to the sink, bowing his head so low that it seemed his neck had lost all strength to hold it erect and straight. “Why didn’t you answer my prayer, Lord? She didn’t come back to me.” He began to sob out loud. “I’ve been faithful to you, and to her. Take me back to Heaven where there is no pain. I’m so lonely here without her that I can’t stand it anymore. I know that I have you, but you even said it’s not good for man to be alone.” He turned on the faucet and cupped his hands to catch the water to rinse his face again.

  The day dragged as he busied himself, sweeping the floor, rearranging the counter, reading the same page of the newspaper over and over and over again, while never absorbing the words. He should have taken Doug up on his offer to spend the day with him, but he chose to be alone today. He didn’t want to embarrass himself by breaking down in front of anyone, or exploding in a fit of rage, or crumpling in a mass of misery. And since he didn’t know what to expect today, he chose solitude instead so he could grieve in private.

  Fresh air, he needed fresh air. He snapped up his coat from the back of the chair then walked out the door and down the dirt road. He shoved his hands deep in his pockets with his arms close to his sides as though the air was cold, but it wasn't. Even if it were, he wouldn’t ha
ve felt the chill at the rate that he was walking.

  He passed the gift shop where he’d purchased the china doll, which only fueled his frustration. He passed the pizza parlor where they’d first met, which added more fuel to the fire of destruction. He passed a liquor store where he perceived a way to quench the fire and douse the burning flame. He backed-up and stopped to look in the window. Four minutes passed as he paced the block. Four minutes he hesitated in his walk. All too much to bear.

  Once inside, the decision made, he ordered a bottle of wine and a pack of cigarettes. He laid his money on the counter, and then asked the clerk, “Why shouldn’t she marry the doctor?”

  The man behind the counter, who for all logical purposes had no idea what Dylan was talking about, shrugged. “You got me, man.”

  Dylan trudged home with his purchase in hand, and then slammed each item onto the kitchen table when he removed it from the bag. He scraped a chair along the floor, plunked down on it, and tore the cellophane from the cigarette pack. He leaned back in the seat with his legs stretched out in front of him, then pulled a cigarette out in slow motion as though moving through a dreamy fog. “Because I love her, that’s why,” he whispered.

  With the cigarette poised in mid-air, he stared at the wine bottle and then slowly ran the length of the cigarette under his nose, inhaling the tobacco. He closed his eyes for a long moment and a tear escaped from the corner of his eye then trickled down the valley between his nose and cheek. God, I miss her. Please, help me.

  Dylan swallowed hard to choke down the stone that had lodged in his throat. Stalling, he wiped his shirtsleeve across his brow then turned the bottle around to read the label, as the unlit cigarette dangled from his lips. He slammed the table with his fist then picked up a goblet and threw it across the room. The glass exploded on the wall and shattered into tiny shards before it ever hit the floor.

  He picked up the bottle, no more than an inch then let it fall back to the table, banging it, and making it bounce. He knew if he unscrewed the cap that he’d be gone like Superman swooning over Kryptonite. A mere whiff of the stuff would put him over and he’d be drawn to its invisible allure like the steady pull of a magnet. Sucked into the bottle, trapped inside and bound by his own weakness.

  I the LORD search the heart, I try the reins, even to give every man according to his ways, and according to the fruit of his doings.

  Snatching the cigarette from his mouth, Dylan stood and braced his hands on the back of a chair, as he prayed through gritted teeth with all the intensity of a man digging a bullet from his own chest. “Jeeeesus, help me! Take this desire to drink away from me! Heal me of this ripping pain inside my heart!” Dylan’s head drooped low between his shoulders and his chin almost touched his chest.

  Apart from me you can do nothing.

  Dylan slumped to his knees and prayed. “I know. I can’t do this alone, Lord. Please, help me. Take back the reins. I give them to you. Help me not to pity myself. Your will be done in my life.” And as Dylan knelt on the floor waiting with a contrite heart, a surge of strength softly radiated within him. Slowly at first, but steadily swelling, as his once bound heart was being, not ripped, but carefully split open like a chrysalis to free the emerging butterfly. An ever-increasing light shone within, glowing as the day dawned and the daystar arose in his heart, making him, not invincible, but giving him strength for the day.

  Dylan remained low, basking in the metamorphosis of his soul and the peace from the humbled position of his heart, feeling as though God Himself had wrapped His loving arms around his bowed frame.

  Rising from the floor, he snatched the bottle up by its neck and carried it to the sink. He twisted the cap open, being careful to turn his face away from the smell, and then poured the wine all down the drain. He threw the empty bottle and the crumpled cigarettes into the trash, feeling emotionally exhausted, yet strangely rested from the spiritual battle that just ensued.

  With renewed vigor, he walked to the shed where he kept leftover scraps of wood from remodeling jobs. He threw board after board into a pile, until after rummaging through the stack, he found just the right pieces. He gathered his tools and measured the wood and sawed back and forth, again and again, his muscles straining beneath his shirt, sweat dripping from his temples, while nailing pieces together until they took shape. He planed and sanded until his fingers hurt, but he didn't seem to notice or care, as his passion emerged from within and found its way out to express itself in his work.

  All of the emotions of love and frustration and remembrance and pain flowed through his hands and fingertips to carve and sand like a sculptor. The hours passed as tiny lines and lacey designs gave birth to a new creation. The piece came to life before his eyes as a manifestation of all that was within him: His unrequited love for Lorraine, the pain of his broken heart, and his desire to please the Lord, all expressed in wood.

  And it was exquisite.

  He took a step back to study his creation, still panting from his labor while scarcely able to believe that he had produced such a work of art. Yet, the bookcase wasn’t really a masterpiece created by him, no. It was the Master’s peace imparted to him that gave him the gift to create.

  Dylan wiped his arm across his forehead as his breathing slowed to normal. It was then that he realized his near downfall came because he focused on his circumstances, rather than the Lord. He was just like Peter when he walked on water, able to do the impossible when he kept his eyes on Jesus, but sank when he looked at the storm.

  TWENTY-TWO

  “Although I’m glad to have you back to work, I'll patch the roof on this building. You can fix the broken window over there.” A mischievous smile tugged the corners of Doug’s mouth, as he buckled on his tool belt.

  “That’s fine with me. I plan to keep my feet on the ground for at least a few more weeks.” Dylan surveyed the length of the fitness center while fastening on his own tool belt and shifting it low on his hips. “This side of the building sure took a beating from that windstorm last night.” Dylan pulled on his work gloves as he walked to the west side of the structure to inspect the broken window. When he touched the broken fragments on the windowpane, shards of glass tinkled to the floor inside of the building. Dylan smoothed down the jagged edges before setting the new glass in place and caulking around the perimeter.

  “Hey, Doug, I need to secure the inside of this window. How do I get into this room?”

  “Go through the front doors, take a right, and then a sharp left. The room is at the end of the hall.”

  Dylan walked through the double-doors into the lobby and then through another set of doors that led to the workout area. He’d never been inside a fitness center before, and he stopped in the hallway to watch men built like gorillas strain under heavy weights. Clanking steel echoed through the building as bare beams along the ceiling intensified the hollow sound.

  Women with muscular calves glided up and down on elliptical machines. Stationary bicycles whirred in circles. Everyone looked busy going somewhere, yet all were going nowhere. Dylan smiled when he remembered the parking lot full of cars outside the building.

  A woman walked out of the locker room with her head down. One hand fluffed her damp hair with a towel while the other fumbled to reposition a gym bag. She was coming toward Dylan, and he assumed that she’d look up and walk around him, but apparently not, because she headed straight toward him. Dylan quickly stepped to the right to get out of her way, but for some reason, she veered to the left and walked right smack into him.

  “Lorraine!”

  “Dylan!” Lorraine recoiled as though she’d been bitten by a rattlesnake, but sprang back into his arms as the drawstring of her sweatpants snagged on his tool belt. “Let go of me!” she said, smacking her hands on his chest to push him away.

  Two women walked by wearing spandex and carrying water bottles, while a third trailed behind in an oversized sweatshirt and leggings eating a chocolate bar. Lorraine stopped struggling as they passed, and
when the women were gone, Dylan whispered, “I can’t let you go. Your drawstring is caught on my tool belt.” He reached down and fumbled with her tie and his hardware, creating more of a mess.

  Lorraine stood, staring up at the ceiling fan with her left hand soldered to her hip while her right foot tapped the floor. A car honked outside and she said, “Will you hurry it up. My ride’s here.”

  Dylan lifted the loop over the hooks on his belt and happened to glance at her hand. “Where’s your ring, Mrs. Mitchell?”

  “It's Ms. Crawford, if you don't mind,” she said, her foot now tapping double-time.

  “Women's lib, huh? I didn't figure you’d be the type to keep your maiden name.”

  “One usually does when one isn't married.”

  Dylan's head shot up.

  And the horn honked again.

  “Here, let me do it!” She dropped the gym bag to the floor, slung the towel over her shoulder then slapped his hand out of the way.

  “What do you mean you’re not married?”

  “I’m not married,” she said, stamping her foot at the knot. “You just don’t get it, do you?”

  “Don’t get what? What am I supposed to get?”

  “You’re a man aren’t you? Don’t men know everything?” She clipped off each syllable as she spoke.

  Dylan thought they sounded like two alley cats with their tails tied together the way they were hitched together hissing. He made the first move to calm things down when the full impact of her announcement hit him. She was free! This was his chance! His other door! He tried not to show his elation by making an outright fool of himself, but he was giddier than a squirrel in a walnut tree!

  Thank you, Jesus! A slow, controlled half-smile lifted one side of his mouth as though he were the sole recipient of a big, juicy secret. He watched her slender fingers pick at the tangled mess and then lowered his voice a decibel. “Have dinner with me.”