“I remember a time when I would look out over an audience like this,” Carla said, “and know that my beloved Kyle was sitting there among you, and I could sing my heart out to him. That made a big difference to me.”
She paused, fighting back some fresh tears.
“But tonight I have only your love to reach out to,” she added, “to sustain me, and that is all I need.”
So it began that evening in Nashville, in an arena that had been completed only six months earlier, but no one would ever break her attendance over the ensuing years because no one had lived the drama that was hers and the man’s to whom she would remain devoted through time and eternity.
“I believe in a God of miracles,” she said, “and tonight is proof that He exists, that He cares, that He will be with us every step of the way, no matter how rebellious we are, no matter how many times we try His patience.”
As Carla started to sing, memories came back in a flood that threatened to sweep her off the stage but she held on, as though that microphone were her life raft. She refused to do anything but sing from the center of her soul, sing of the love that had transformed her, love from Almighty God and, as well, from the wonderful man whom He had been gracious enough to send into her life.
“This first number is dedicated to Kyle Rivers,” she said. “I guess my friend Albert told you a little of what’s been going on. If only Kyle could feel tonight what you and I are experiencing.”
…if only.
She had let “if onlys” rule her for far too long. It was time to declare her independence of them.
Carla started with her favorite gospel number, “He Lives.” “‘I serve a risen Saviour, He’s in the world today. I know that He is living, whatever men may say.’“
Then she did something that not even her loyal band could have predicted.
“Lord…” she nearly whispered as she clipped the microphone to the front of her sequined dress.
The band members hesitated, trying to anticipate when Carla wanted them to join in again.
Her eyes sparkling, that resplendent hair like a crown of scarlet as it reflected the spotlights overhead, she thrust out her hands in front of her, palms upward, and spoke, “Dear Lord Jesus, take care of my beloved, for now, for eternity…”
And then the band, at a nod from her, started its accompaniment again.
“‘I see His hand of mercy, I hear His voice of cheer,’“ Carla Gearhart, eyes closed, continued singing words that had been written by someone else but were coming straight from her own heart and soul that night of nights in Nashville. “‘And just the time I need Him he’s always near. He lives, He lives…’“
No other song could have said it better.
Life has taught us that love does not consist in gazing at each other but in looking outward together in the same direction.
Saint-Exurpéry
Three months ago…
Carla had returned to Nashville from Hollywood after losing out on a movie role that she coveted, despite her Oscar win the year before. She was depressed, tempted to drown her sorrows in a bottle but with enough inner strength left to hold off just a bit longer.
Wandering the streets of Nashville, she recalled, like some pitiable waif, depending upon the kindness of strangers.
She had driven into town on her own, dismissing her driver, Rocco Gilardi, for the evening. The car she chose out of the half dozen she owned was her Jaguar convertible, driving it at top speed, the top down, the wind blowing her red hair in a dozen or more directions.
No state police stopped her, though she was hoping that someone would. She felt suicidal, wrenched as she was from the high of the Academy Awards triumph to being rejected in favor of a younger actress. Irving Chicolte had tried to argue that she was “big box office” now, her first picture after the Oscar earning $100 million plus in the United States alone where it played at a bit over two thousand theaters. Counting the foreign take, Chasing Dreams would eventually bring in nearly $200 million altogether, and that did not factor in the substantial video, cable and network broadcast revenue.
Yet she lost to someone ten years younger.
The news devastated her. Every time she passed by her Oscar statuette, it seemed to be mocking her, having promised a whole new world of career opportunities, and yet delivering little except invitations to entertainment industry functions which she had been attending anyway. Only now she was getting the better seats, either a table of her own or one that she would share on a given evening with the power elite.
From that glamorous company to the streets of Nashville, alone, walking aimlessly, not a soul in the world knowing or caring where I am tonight.
That was when she heard Kyle’s voice.
She stopped short, listening.
He left the splendor of heaven, knowing His destiny was the lonely hill of Golgotha, there to lay down His life for me…
She could not move, could not open her mouth or shut her eyes or turn her head.
If that isn’t love, the ocean is dry, there’s no star in the sky, and the sparrow can’t fly!
Suddenly she seemed to be gasping, as though someone had placed a pillow over her face and was suffocating her.
If that isn’t love, then heaven’s a myth, there’s no feeling like this, if that isn’t love.
A brief pause.
Then the second stanza was being sung.
Two voices.
She realized that there were two voices, one of which was strangely familiar, the other not recognizable at all. But it was the second that had hooked her, that had grabbed hold of her body and was now tugging at it.
Finally she could move.
She walked slowly, still unaware of her surroundings, her senses locked in on that voice as though it were a radar signal, drawing her toward it.
Lights ahead. Flashing lights.
Above the entrance to one of the myriad little clubs that was part of the Nashville music scene, clubs where fledgling country music stars often got their first taste of performing in public.
She walked up to the front door, which was open, and went inside.
In an instant she recognized one of the two performers on stage.
Darcy Reuther.
Carla had known the woman for many years.
What are you doing in a club like this? she thought. You’re a star. You should never descend back to this level. Are you crazy?
But then her attention drifted to the man standing next to Darcy. He was about a foot taller than she, dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt and black vest.
As they finished the song, the audience of a few dozen people burst into applause that was loud and sustained. But nothing took Carla’s attention away from Darcy Reuther’s singing partner.
“I wrote that before Kyle Rivers was born,” Darcy said after the room was