Devoted Heart Read online

  DEVOTED HEART

  A MODERN NATIVITY

  BILL MYERS

  Published by Amaris Media International in conjunction with Stonewater.

  Copyright © 2017 Bill Myers

  Cover Design: Angela Hunt

  Photo copyright jfk image

  * * *

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any other means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without prior permission from the publisher.

  Scripture taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION, copyright 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.

  The “NIV” and “New International Version” trademarks are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by International Bible Society. Use of either trademark requires the permission of International Bible Society.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9991077-1-3

  ISBN-10: 0-9991077-1-2

  Another one for Brenda:

  Whose patience, as I keep learning to become a better husband and friend, always amazes me.

  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Afterword

  Other books by Bill Myers

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  A ll right, Joey. Taxi’s here.”

  I looked up to see Leroy Burton’s big blurry form come around the bar. We graduated the same year. Played football and basketball together since middle school. Far as I know, we were in the same kindergarten. Town is that small.

  I motioned to my glass. “One more for the road.”

  “No, you’ve had enough one mores for the night.”

  “What time is it?” I looked at my watch but couldn’t seem to see the numbers.

  “Time for all good war heroes to call it a day.”

  “Don’t call me that. I hate it when people call me that.” He disappeared behind me. “Where’d you go? Where’d you-– There you are. Do you know who the real heroes are? Do you?”

  “No,” he said, holding up my coat. “Why don’t you tell–”

  “I’ll tell you. Men and women who lost their lives. Who lost arms and legs, those are the real heroes.”

  “No argument there.”

  “How many arms do you see, huh? How many legs?”

  “‘Bout the right number of each, I’d say.”

  “Exactly.”

  He held out a coat sleeve for me. “Let’s go.”

  It took a couple tries to find it. “It was my fault. I should have known better.”

  “What?”

  “Mary. Mary! Are we or are we not talking about Mary?”

  “If you say so.”

  We should have got married before I left.”

  “Come on, man. It’s Mary McDermott. Who would have thought?”

  “We were engaged.”

  “And you were out of country eleven months.”

  “We were going to get married.”

  He helped my arm into the other sleeve. “It’s a new world out there, Joey. If guys don’t make the move on chicks by the second date they think he’s gay.”

  “It’s Mary. We were engaged.”

  “So, I hear.”

  “You heard? Does everybody know?”

  “That you were engaged?”

  “No.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t somebody tell me?”

  “They shipped her off to some relative before anybody knew. She’s only been back a few weeks.” He slipped his shoulder under my arm.

  “Pastor McDermott’s kid. Mr. straight-as-an-arrow, stuffy-butt McDermott.”

  “And up we go.” He helped me to my feet. Not that I needed it. I could walk just fine, soon as the floor quit moving.

  “It was Johnson, wasn’t it?” We started toward the door. “Todd Johnson always had a thing for her.”

  “We all had a thing for her, Joey.”

  “All of you?”

  “Not that way. She’s everybody’s kid sister, you know that. We all love Mary.”

  “Sixteen months and we never even made out.” Leroy opened the door and we stepped into the cold, December rain. “Sixteen months! She said, ‘I want to save myself for our wedding night. I want it to be my gift to you.’ And I believed her!” I tilted back my head and shouted into the rain, “I believed her!”

  Leroy opened the car door.

  “I’m gonna kill him.”

  “Who?”

  “Tomorrow morning I’m gonna go right up to his door, knock real politely, and when he opens it I’m gonna kill that son of a–”

  “And in you go.” Leroy dumped me into the back seat.

  “Hey there,” the driver said, “it’s the war hero.”

  I would have called him out on it. Maybe I did. I don’t remember. I barely remember getting into the cab. And I sure don’t remember getting out.

  But I remember the dream . . .

  CHAPTER TWO

  I know what a dream is and, actually, this was no dream. All right, maybe I was asleep, but it was more real than anything I could have come up with . . . asleep or awake. At first the pieces were sketchy and fritzy, which is the part I’ll take responsibility for. Me and Johnny Walker, which for the record, was only the second time I’d ever been drunk. The first was a stupid high school thing, which I’m not proud of either.

  Anyway, I was in a circus tent, dressed up like a clown, complete with a big painted grin, those giant floppy feet, and a red rubber ball for a nose. Everybody was laughing—my old teachers, Coach Morrison, Mom, Dad, buddies from high school, even Charlie Riordan from my outfit. Always Charlie Riordan. Everyone sat on the bleachers yucking it up as Todd Johnson smashed a banana cream pie into my face . . . and then another . . . and another. It was all a big, gigantic joke with me as the punch line. And no, Dr. Freud, I don’t need anyone to explain the symbolism to me.

  But then things got interesting. At first I heard the voice—faint, rumbling like distant thunder:

  “Joseph . . .”

  I paid no attention. I was too busy chasing Todd around in one of those little clown cars. When I finally got him cornered, I unfolded myself from the car, leaped out, and pulled a giant confetti gun on him. He dropped to his knees, whimpering like a baby, as I prepared to fire. Then I heard it again. Louder:

  “Joseph . . .”

  I looked all over but saw nothing. Except the whole audience looking up. I followed their gaze just in time to see a trapeze artist, dressed in brilliant, white light. He missed his trapeze and the crowd gasped as he started to fall.

  But he really didn’t fall. He floated. Toward me. And the closer he got, the brighter his light grew until he was blazing, as bright as the sun, maybe brighter. The crowd disappeared. So did the circus. I was somewhere else. Some place so still, so silent I could only hear my breathing . . . and the voice that was so loud it thundered like a waterfall.

  “Joseph . . .”

  I’v
e been afraid before. You don’t get caught in a firefight without experiencing a little fear. But this was colder, more gut-clenching than anything I’d ever felt. So terrifying I couldn’t move. And the light. Intense. Piercing. His face, what I could see of it, glowed and shimmered with the light. Maybe it was the light. One thing I can tell you, as I looked on, it stopped being the face of a man. It glimmered and morphed until it became the face of an ox.

  I shut my eyes and reopened them. Now it was the face of an eagle.

  “Joseph, son of David . . .”

  The face flickered and changed again. Into the face of a lion. Then one last flicker and it was a man’s again. As I stared, giant wings unfurled behind him. Ten, fifteen feet across. They pulsed and shimmered with the same light as the face.

  I felt my legs turn to rubber, which was okay since now was as good a time as any to drop to my knees. That was the only response a person could have in the presence of so much . . . well, there was no other word for it but what you religious types call . . . “glory.” It was so powerful I could no longer keep looking. I lowered my head, staring at the ground. The voice continued to roar. It wasn’t angry and it wasn’t yelling. Just roaring. Exploding with power.

  “Do not be afraid to take Mary home as your wife.”

  I scowled, trying to keep my head clear, trying to keep from passing out.

  “What is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit.”

  The voice came from all around me. And inside. It was like every cell in my brain, in my whole body, vibrated with it.

  “She will give birth to a son and you are to give him the name Jesus because he will save his people from their sins.”

  He paused. I took a ragged breath and braced for more. But that was it. Nothing more except the terror and glory . . . which started to fade, along with the light. I took another breath, and then another. Finally, I found the courage to lift my head.

  And he was gone.

  No goodbyes. Nothing. One minute I was surrounded by blinding light and paralyzed with fear, the next I was lying in bed, catching my breath, and staring at the ceiling.

  When I could move, I rolled over and looked at the alarm. It glowed crimson, 2:54. I lay there another minute. Maybe two. When I was sure going back to sleep was impossible I rolled out of bed and padded down the worn, carpeted stairs. Once in the kitchen, I threw a mug of instant coffee into the microwave. The dream was over, but the words lingered.

  “Take Mary home as your wife.”

  The rest made no sense, but I got that part. I pulled out a kitchen chair and sat. My mind was clear. No headache and no payback with a hangover that should have been my due.

  Just the words.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The sun was just peeking over the neighbor’s frost-coated roof when Mom joined me on my third cup of coffee. She wore that same pink, terrycloth robe she’d had since before I left. New slippers. Same brand as always, but new. That was Mom. Once she found something she liked, she kept it. Could explain why she and Dad were going on their 34th year. Not that they didn’t have their moments. Both were as stubborn as mules. But their parents had been farmers. And their parents before them. So their no-nonsense outlook—you can’t fool the earth, so don’t try to fool me — always won out. They’d made a commitment and despite the fights, and threats, and once or twice, a flying utensil, they were sticking together no matter what.

  Which explains her response when I told her my plan.

  “You’re not serious?” she said.

  “Sure, why not?” I tried sounding like it was no big deal. “We go someplace out of the way, have a little civil ceremony, come back and set up house. Tongues will wag for a while, but eventually no one will even–”

  “After what she’s done? The way she’s treated you?”

  I took a sip of coffee.

  “And the embarrassment? Not just to you. The jokes they’re telling down at the mill. Your father, he didn’t say much, but I heard from some of the others. . .” She hesitated.

  “What, Mom? What did you hear?”

  “One of the younger guys, you know how they’re always shooting their mouths off.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “Some kid made a crack to your father. I’m not exactly sure what, but . . . well, your father and him, they kinda got into it.”

  “Dad?”

  “They put him on a week’s leave without pay.”

  “What?”

  She glanced down at her coffee—embarrassed, but you could also hear a little of that working-class pride. “Guess he busted the kid’s nose up pretty bad.”

  I still couldn’t believe my ears. “Dad?”

  She looked out the window. “‘Course, old man McDermott, he just keeps on preaching like nothing’s happened. All holier than Thou. I tell you, I never did like that family, putting on airs and acting like—”

  “The McDermott’s don’t put on airs.”

  “What do you call it when he stands behind a pulpit every Sunday telling people they’re not good enough? That they have to be all holy and perfect?”

  “He’s always done right by me,” I said. “A little overprotective with his daughter, but he’s a good guy.”

  “Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t.”

  “Meaning?”

  “The apple never falls far from the tree.”

  I stared at her.

  “Don’t look at me that way. Besides, you know what they say about preacher kids.”

  “Mom. It’s Mary McDermott.”

  She stared back out the window, doing her best to bite her tongue. But her feelings were clear. Her silence judge, jury and verdict.

  And she was right. So why was I defending Mary? Don’t get me wrong, last night’s guest appearance with all its special effects, definitely made an impression. But I was still mad. Big time. And humiliated. And betrayed. And . . . well, the list goes on.

  But I knew her. I knew Mary McDermott. At least I thought I did. She was the girl I teased throughout elementary school. In middle school, she was the one I always made a mental note of if she was nearby. And in high school, she was the one I became best friends with. We were always there for each other. When she couldn’t wrap her head around Chemistry or lost the election for student body president, I was there. When I got hospitalized with a minor concussion or when Cindy Prescott dumped me and I had no one to ask to Homecoming, she was there. She never told me how many guys she turned down waiting for me to ask, but she was there.

  That was Mary McDermott. Sensitive, thoughtful . . . and pregnant with somebody else’s kid! My gut tightened. My thoughts more than a little scrambled.

  Mom cleared her throat. “Want some breakfast?”

  “Not if it’s trouble.”

  “Nonsense. Your father’s getting up in a few minutes anyway, so—”

  She was interrupted by the doorbell. We traded looks.

  “Who could it be this time of morning?” she said.

  I started to get up to answer it.

  “Sit, sit,” she said. “Finish your coffee.” She rose and ambled out of the kitchen.

  My mind went back to Mary McDermott . . . the girl who always passed on seeing raunchy movies. The looker who knew how to dress, but never used it to show off her body. Everybody’s friend, but who never joined in the drinking, drugs, or even bad language.

  And she couldn’t wait a year! Eleven months?

  This was the down-to-earth beauty I wouldn’t dream of making moves on. Oh, I’d dream, but I wouldn’t dare. And she does it with some other guy? My jaw clenched. Whoever it was, I’d find him. I swear to God, I’d find him and–

  “What is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit.”

  The words made no sense. And if they were supposed to make things easier, forget it. Seriously, did she have any idea how many women I could have had? Like Leroy said, it’s a new world out there. And I’m a good-looking guy. There were opportunities. Lots of ‘em. But I turned them down. Why
? Because I loved her. I had my chances, but I honored her. Honor! A word she’d obviously forgotten.

  “Joey, can you come here a minute?”

  I scooted back my chair, rose and wandered into the living room, my mind still racing. And what does she do? She can’t wait to hop into the sack. With who? Johnson? Maybe. Maybe some other sweet talking guy. Or guys. Like Leroy says, they were waiting in line. And now I’m the joke. The guy with pie all over his face. The guy whose old man gets into a fight at . . . I slowed to a stop.

  There, in the doorway, silhouetted by the morning light, stood Pastor McDermott. Balding, early fifties, in an overcoat and suit. Always a suit. And beside him . . . Mary. She was bundled up in a blue ski jacket, white scarf and mittens. The sun flared behind her, making her hair glow. For a moment I forgot to breathe.

  She never looked up, just kept staring down at her mittens. I had no idea what to say. Her dad saved me the trouble. “Joseph.”

  I nodded. The muscles in my jaw were getting a work out but I didn’t answer. Didn’t trust my voice. My nails dug into my palms, but I didn’t speak. Only stare. At her. Slender, five four, and even more breathtaking than I remembered. I’d waited eleven months for this moment. Thought of it every day. Dreamed it every night. And now I couldn’t speak.

  After what seemed forever, she raised her slate blue eyes. They were red and swollen.

  My throat tightened.

  “Do not be afraid to take Mary home as your wife.”

  I took a slow, steady breath.

  Her eyes faltered, then looked back down. I caught the reflection of a tear tracking down her cheek.

  Mom cleared her throat. “Would you like to come in?”

  McDermott looked to his daughter. She gave no answer.

  “What is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit.”

  I scowled at the words but they kept coming.

  “Take Mary home . . .”

  I swallowed.

  “. . . as your wife.”

  I took another breath. My own eyes burned with moisture but I couldn’t look away. And then, having minds of their own, I felt my fists unclench, my palms turning toward her. Not my arms, they still hung frozen. Just my hands. I opened my mouth. Words still wouldn’t come. They didn’t have to. She saw what was going on, read my mind as she always does.