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Body by Blood

Page 37

by Patrick Johnston


  We have become good friends and workout partners. We read a chapter of the Bible together every day, and finally, I’m beginning to catch on to my sister’s ubiquitous biblical metaphors. Believe it or not, I can almost beat Frankie in chess. Almost. I think, though, he sacrifices pieces unnecessarily just to keep me in the game, a kind gesture to his old twin brother, handicapped with half a working face and a bullet in his spine.

  “What do you want to do when you grow up?” I asked him at the tail end of one of his slower victories.

  He shrugs. “You saved my life, Ray. I, I, I want to serve you.”

  “Stop it. You’re doing that just because I do it.”

  Frankie smiles widely. “Okay. Just trying to, you know—”

  “’In humility, let every man judge others to be better than them,’ the Bible says. It’s okay if you talk better than, than me. Alright?”

  Distracted, he makes a stupid move. I bring my knight back and back his queen. “Bam!” I raise the queen in the air to celebrate. “I got his queen!”

  Mary Nell claps and cheers for me, though she probably doesn’t even know why.

  Frankie crosses his arms over his chest and grins sheepishly. “I meant to do that just to get you to feel better about being such a loser.”

  “Liar!” I say with a wide grin. “You didn’t see it!”

  He shrugs and smirks. “Ok. If you say so.” He leans forward, moves his bishop halfway down the board. “Mate.”

  I am numb. He beat me. Again. He comes around and extends a friendly hand to me. I smack it away. He kisses me on the forehead and I push him away with a grin. “Love you, buddy.”

  He messes up my hair. “Love you too, loser.”

  * * *

  “Mom’s not doing well today.” Savannah’s tone is gloomy and countenance drawn. I hang the crutches on the wall, and with Frankie’s help, I hobble to the couch to lean on it.

  “Is she in bed?”

  Savannah nods and she and Tamara lead me down the hall to the bedroom.

  Morgan stands in front of a wall completely white except for a 9 x 11 framed picture of herself from a glamorized photography session several years ago.

  “Oh, she’s up.” Tamara smiles momentarily, but is troubled by Morgan’s behavior.

  In the two-year-old photograph on the wall, Morgan is wearing a strapless pink dress; her skin is tan, her teeth white, and her hair perfect. Morgan stands in front of the photo, staring at it longingly. With her hair frazzled and unkempt, and her eyes glazed over, she looks as if she is about to speak some profound thought on the tip of her tongue, but she just can’t get it out. One hand nervously picks at some sores on her neck, and the other reaches for some invisible object a few feet in front of her between her and the photograph.

  I walk to her and wrap my arm around her. “Morgan,” I say with a cheerful tone, “what are you looking at?”

  She does not even acknowledge my presence. She begins to stutter, “Nuba, nuba, nuba . . . ” She turns to glance at me, and then back to the wall. “Nuba, nuba . . . ”

  Her embarrassing state of intellect makes Frankie blush. He comes and sits on the side of her bed. Morgan points, as if she’s asking me to do something for her.

  “What is it, babe? What do you want?”

  “Nuba!” she speaks more forcefully. “Nuba!”

  “She’s been saying that all day,” Savannah informs me. “I don’t know what she means.”

  “We’ll get a new body in heaven.” Tamara supports herself by leaning against the dresser. “Soon enough.”

  “In the meantime,” I say, “let’s be thankful for what we have and make the best of this special moment.” I go to the desk and pick up a wooden cross, something Nellie carved from a chunk of balsa wood as long as my forearm. It is covered with intricate symmetrical markings that Nellie calls the image of Pi at 528 hertz. Mary Nell contributed to the finished product, covering the intricate carving with her handprints in various pastel colors. I remove the glamour photograph from its hook and put the cross in its place. I stand beside Morgan, steadying her with my arm around her waist.

  “Ta, ta, ta, ta,” she stutters, pointing at the cross. “Ta, ta . . . ”

  I begin to rock with her gently side to side, staring at the wall, empty of all but the cross. For several moments, we just enjoy a moment together. She grows quiet with our rhythmic sway. I turn to her and think I see the corner of her lips turn up a bit.

  “Oh, Morgan.” I grieve the irreversible, gradual slipping away of her mind and personality. I draw even closer to her and rest my head for a moment on her shoulder. I kiss her on the cheek. “My dear Morgan.”

  She is my wife, and I love her.

  To the cadence of our dance, I softly sing the song that now means so much to me.

  Jesus loves me this I know,

  For the Bible tells me so,

  Little ones to Him belong,

  Tamara, Savannah, Mary Nell, and Nellie join in singing the tune from the open doorway, the girls giggling as they twirl.

  They are weak but He is strong.

  Yes, Jesus loves me,

  Yes, Jesus loves me,

  Yes, Jesus loves me.

  The Bible tells me so.

  Strength stooping to weakness. Tears for pain, laughter for joy. Love.

  Perfection.

  Author’s Note

  I hope you enjoyed Body by Blood. I need to ask you a favor. Would you help others enjoy this book, too?

  Recommend it. Please help other readers find this book by recommending it to friends in person and on social media.

  Review it. Meaningful reviews can be tough to come by these days. You, the reader, have the power to make or break a book. Loved it, hated it—I’d just enjoy your feedback. Please tell other readers what you thought about this book by reviewing it at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, or Goodreads. My goal is to have 100 honest reviews on Amazon. Will you help me reach that goal?

  Thank you so much for reading Body by Blood and for spending time with me.

  In gratitude,

  Patrick Johnston

  Discussion Questions

  What Bible passages could help us answer the question “When does life begin?”

  What Bible passages could help us answer the question of how we should treat “the least”?

  Is it ever right to intentionally kill a human being?

  What scientific evidence could help us answer these questions?

  What is the problem with relying solely on science to determine the answers to such questions?

  What does it mean to be “created in the image of God”?

  When are we “created in the image of God?”

  When precisely did God become man? How does this affect your view of when life begins?

  What New Testament passages describe the duty of civil authorities to protect the innocent?

  What Old Testament passages describe the duty of civil authorities to protect the innocent, and the consequences if they do not?

  What is God’s inevitable response to nations or communities that shed innocent blood?

  According to the Bible, what abates the wrath of God on the land for the shedding of innocent blood?

  What do the Declaration of Independence and the U.S. Constitution say about the “right to life”?

  When higher civil authorities defy the Highest Power and the law of the land to shed innocent blood, is it the obligation of lesser civil authorities to submit or resist?

  Describe biblical examples of saints who resisted or rebelled against civil authority and were blessed by God for it.

  Resources

  For encouraging testimonies of those who courageously loved “the least,” visit www.DownSyndrome.love.

  For more information on how we should love the least in all circumstances, purchase the video “Pro-Life Without Exception” available on Amazon.

  To find a pro-life physician near you, visit www.ProLifePhysicians.org.

  T
o keep up-to-date on local and state attempts to protect the least of God’s children and resist federal tyranny, visit www.DefyTyrants.com.

  For more information about

  Dr. Patrick Johnston

  &

  Body by Blood

  please visit:

  www.Johnston.house

  www.ProLifePhysicians.org

  www.DocJohnstonNovels.com

  Email: DocJohnston@yahoo.com

  For more information about

  AMBASSADOR INTERNATIONAL

  please visit:

  www.ambassador-international.com

  @AmbassadorIntl

  www.facebook.com/AmbassadorIntl

  If you enjoyed this book, please consider leaving us a review on

  Amazon, Goodreads, or our website.

  PROLOGUE

  “FAITH! HELP MY FAITH! SHE’S hurt!”

  The cry was desperate, and the voice raspy, as if coarsened by a million cigarettes.

  I was eleven, and Jimmy was nine. We sipped from cold soda cans as we sat on the bed in the doctor’s lounge. Daddy had gotten off his shift at the Dover Memorial ER early because Mom had gone into labor. She was enjoying a much needed nap after the epidural kicked in, and Dad was fetching us some snacks when the frightful cry rang out, followed by the shouting of several nurses.

  I turned my ear toward the commotion, which sounded like it was coming from just down the hall. Fear gripped my heart. “Dad?”

  “Wait here.” Dad stepped out of the room for a second, and then put his head back in. “No, come with me.”

  We entered the ER waiting room where two nurses struggled to get a little unconscious girl of about six onto the gurney. Her screaming father just didn’t want to let go of her. He had a gash on his forehead and shards of glass sticking out. Blood trickled down the side of his head into the maze of his scraggly whiskers. His words were jumbled. “She hit her head, and cried for a sec. Then she was out . . . ”

  “Sir!” the nurse urged him. “Put her down so we can look at her!”

  Reluctantly, he finally set her on the gurney. “Faith, Daddy’s here.”

  Dad motioned Jimmy and me toward the waiting room chairs. “What happened?” Dad asked the man as he jogged near.

  “But Dr. Ashcraft, your wife’s in labor—”

  “Only four centimeters, one floor up—”

  “Dr. Seaborn can handle—”

  “He’s in a code in triage.” Dad looked the man in the eye as the nurse took the girl’s vitals. “Tell me what happened.”

  Jimmy protested. “But, Daddy—”

  “Shh.” Dad turned harshly to us. “Sit down until I’m done.”

  Jimmy and I sat in the chairs nearest him, awed to see him handle the situation with such confidence and finesse.

  “Some motorcycles ran me off the road,” the man with the raspy voice explained, “and I hit a sign . . . ”

  I turned to see an idling rusty four-door car in front of the double glass doors. Its engine smoked, and its right fender dangled.

  Dad checked the girl’s neck and eyes, and then he listened to her heart and lungs, and the man continued. “I came here right away. I know I told her to buckle up—”

  “What’s her medical history?”

  The man shrugged. “I dunno.” As the nurse tried to insert an IV into the crease of her elbow, the man staggered, and swatted away her hand. “What are you doing?”

  “We’ve got to put in an IV, sir,” Dad explained as he palpated the girl’s stomach. Dad motioned for security to come near. “Does your daughter have any allergies?”

  When the man didn’t answer, Dad turned to him angrily. “Does her mother know? Can you call her? We need an answer, quick!”

  The man hung his head as a nurse tried to dab the blood off his brow. “God took her from me.” He swatted away the nurse’s kind gesture.

  “How much did you drink tonight?”

  The man’s eyes snapped up to meet Dad’s, as if he was personally affronted by the inquiry. “Wha-?”

  Dad turned to the secretary. “Call radiology. Tell ’em I’m bringing an unconscious pediatric patient for a stat head and neck CT . . . ”

  He started pushing the gurney away, and the man grabbed it. “No! I wanna be with her!”

  Dad raised his voice to be heard over the shouting. “Your daughter’s safe in my hands. Just, just let us do our job.”

  The security guard stood between the man and the gurney, but the man wouldn’t let go of it. They began to yell at each other.

  At that moment, a police officer entered the room beside us. He had one look at the man with the raspy voice, and spoke into his shoulder mounted mic. “He’s here.”

  The guard tried to explain the situation as the officer neared, but he wasn’t one for patient listening. “Hey!” The officer stuck a palm on the father’s chest and pushed him away. “Did you leave the scene of the accident tonight?” The man glanced back at his idling car through the glass windows. “If I looked, would I find an open container of alcohol in that busted car? And green paint on the fender?”

  He responded with a faint whisper, his eyes fixed on his daughter as her gurney was rolled down the hall. “That’s my daughter. She’s hurt. And she needs her—”

  “You didn’t answer my question!” The officer unveiled a pair of handcuffs. “If you want to keep these off your wrists, then you’re gonna blow into this.” He removed a device with a translucent tube from his belt. The man with the raspy voice took a step back.

  I looked for Dad. He had rounded the corner and was gone. The man with the raspy voice suddenly exploded with a fit of rage. He pushed the officer’s face with one hand and reached for his holstered pistol with the other. They spun. The security guard clamored to remove his club affixed to his belt, but he was too slow.

  In a flash, the guard was sprawled out on the ground and the officer was nursing a shoulder with a grimace on his face. The man with the raspy voice screamed, “Take me to my Faith! Now!” He shook the gun in the officer’s face. “Now!”

  The officer extended a hand toward the man. “Think about what you’re doing. You’re never gonna see your daughter again if you pull that trigger . . . ”

  Someone from the corner of the ER stood up to run from the room when the man with the raspy voice turned his gun on them. “Sit down! Don’t move!” His aim shifted to the secretary. “Put the phone down!” He aimed the gun between the eyes of the officer.

  Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw Jimmy tremble. All this was taking place just a few feet from us. My head spun, like I was going to pass out.

  Then he turned the gun upon me. “Nobody move!”

  “What’s your daughter’s name?” the officer calmly asked the man.

  A pause. “Faith,” he whispered, his hands trembling.

  “What would your daughter say if she saw you freaking out all these kids with a gun?”

  Suddenly, the double doors burst open, and a crash cart pushed by several nurses whizzed by, oblivious to the man with the gun who stood by the entrance. They rushed down the hall where Dad took the little girl on the gurney.

  “Oh no.” The man with the raspy voice lowered his gun. “Oh, no.”

  “Put it down!” the officer urged. “And you’ll see her again.”

  The man with the raspy voice turned to me, and for a long moment, we stared into each other’s eyes. I could see in his face—feel it more than see it—a life of pain. Rejection. Rage. Rage against everyone. Against God mostly. I tried to imagine him as a little boy being picked on in school. A teenager being cursed out by his Daddy because he dropped a football pass on Friday night. A man weeping at his wife’s grave.

  His coarse facial features softened, and he crumpled to his knees. His grip on the gun lightened. “I’m sorry. I, I, I just want to be with my daughter, please . . . ”

  Four more officers suddenly burst into the room, guns drawn. “Put your hands up, now!”

  “Drop the
gun!”

  Slow to follow their orders, one of them pulled the trigger, and 500,000 volts of electricity surged through the man’s body over what seemed like a very long time. He seized, groaned, and writhed on the ground till the crackling stopped. Then the four officers descended upon him. The man gained the use of his extremities and jerked a hand away from the officer trying to cuff him. One of them pressed his knee against the back of the man’s neck, and ordered him to “Stop resisting!”

  “Faith!” I heard him scream beneath the pile of muscular officers. “Faith! Daddy’s sorry! Daddy’s so sorry!”

  Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw Dad come back down the hall. We ran to him. Tears instantly streamed down my face. He dropped to a knee and embraced us. It felt so good to feel his arms about us. But he looked sad. Very sad.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Are you all right?” With his thumb he wiped a tear from my eye.

  “He aimed a gun at us, Daddy.” Jimmy seemed proud of it all, an out-of-place smile on his blush-cheeked face.

  “NOOO!” The man with the raspy voice screamed out when he saw Dad. “You! Hey! Doctor! You told me she’d be okay! You told me she’d be safe with you!”

  Dad grabbed our hands, stood, and took off down the hall as the man screamed out. “Doctor! You told me she’d be okay!” The officers pushed him against the wall as he began to resist again. He groaned in pain, and the chairs squeaked against the tile as they struggled.

 

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