We connect with others through brokenness and pain. That’s the heart of Christianity. It’s in our pain we are able to reach them—not through triumphant and victorious living. I’ve often wondered what Paul was referring to when he spoke of the “thorn” in his flesh. We’ll never know, this side of heaven, but I choose to think it was a sin he couldn’t fully escape. I think that’s why God says, “My grace is sufficient for you.”
Over time, I realized it wasn’t simply a West Coast vs. Deep South distinction. The lack of vulnerability was everywhere. We don’t like to talk about our problems. We enjoy hearing testimonies from those who were broken and troubled earlier in life, but don’t want to hear about the woman in the praise band who’s currently struggling with anger and bitterness, or the deacon with wife and kids who lusts after the women he sees on highway billboards. As a result, our small groups and Bible studies are often safe and (perhaps somewhat) sterile. The most severe prayer request one hears is for the man who can’t seem to carve out enough space in the day for his quiet time, or the woman who feels guilty because she tried to read the Bible in a year but couldn’t make it through the book of Leviticus.
I remembered Bill’s words. “I think every Christian should be involved in Celebrate Recovery.” It was starting to make sense. Why was Marshall’s sermon stale? Because I’d stopped seeing myself as a new believer and started thinking of myself as the Christian of fifteen-plus years who had graduated to heavier topics and theological musings. No, I was the same guy I was fifteen years ago. The same reckless, punk kid who swallowed too much alcohol and got behind the wheel of a car with no regard for the safety of others on the road or the words of Scripture saying, “Do not be drunk with wine.” That was me, the same person, fifteen years ago or fifteen minutes. It didn’t matter. I think that’s how David must have felt, rebuked by the prophet Nathan after being shown his blind spot, the area in his life of which he’d not repented.
I had failed in my duties as a leader and was willing to step down if Marshall wanted me to. I called him and asked if we could meet for breakfast. We met at a cafe near my work. I came right out with it; I told him everything that happened and asked if he wanted me to step down.
Without missing a beat, he said no. “If it became a pattern you didn’t correct, I’d ask you to step down. But I know you, and I know you’ll address it and let the experience teach you. I want you to keep leading. From what I’ve heard, you’ve got a great group. The only thing I’ll add, and this is up to you, is you might consider telling them about it. It would be a good witness, I think.”
“I’ve already decided to do that. I’ll tell them the first night we start back.”
“That’s all we need to say about it then. How are things with Jessie?”
That night, she asked how the meeting went. “I was praying for you,” she said. It took me a second or two to respond. As hard as it is to be a man in this day and age, when a woman says she’s praying for him, curse or no curse, a man can lift mountains when he hears that. What had it been, two months and a handful of days? Two months and my life had been turned upside down. She’d lit a spark within me. She was a joy to know, a jewel in a murky sea.
She had a trial on Friday, a case that had dogged her for a year, and was working every night that week until one or two in the morning. I worried about her walking to the car at those hours. She’d told me the lot was dark and mentioned her office was located near a park where drug dealers hung out. That week, we instant messaged each night until she went home. It helped her stay awake while preparing witness questions.
Wednesday night, I fell asleep before she left the office. I texted Thursday to make sure she was okay, but didn’t hear from her all morning. She replied that afternoon, saying it had been a bad day. Her tone was different than it had been all week. I sensed she was pulling back. Perhaps it was my imagination. My cynicism. That night, she called and said she didn’t want to talk about it, that she was trying to put it out of her mind. Her trial was the next day. My hunch said she had had a fight with her parents. She’d recently told them about us. I told myself to give her space and pray for her court case. I’d see her Saturday for the wedding.
Chapter Seven
At the airport that morning: a quick jog through security and a short flight into San Jose. She picked me up curbside, having just left the hair salon. The stylist had set her hair in an up-do. I didn’t know what an up-do was. It seemed painful—forty pins stuck to her head—or at best, uncomfortable. However, the result was worth it. I leaned over to kiss her.
“Be careful.”
“I will, I promise.”
The plan was to drop me off at the hotel while she went home and dressed for the wedding. It gave me an hour. Should I take a shower? I only woke a few hours ago and hadn’t done anything that would cause me to sweat. I decided against it. I made ready my gift bag for her: a box of tea (I’d researched shops in West L.A. and found one that carried several types of green tea, her favorite), several packs of her favorite gum, chocolate bars and a 2-CD compilation mix I’d made. We could listen to it on the way—it was an hour-plus drive into Berkeley.
I watched a few football highlights on television, changed into my suit pants and shirt and brushed my teeth. The day before, Jon and I had finished Chapter 11 of Acts and I decided to get the jump on him and read Chapter 12. In that chapter, Herod imprisons Peter. “But the church was earnestly praying to God for him,” the Scripture says. That night, an angel visits Peter and says, “Quick, get up.” The chains fall from his wrists, and he and the angel walk out of prison. Peter says, “Now I know without a doubt that the Lord sent his angel and rescued me.”
I knelt at the bed and prayed. “God, you work miracles. You free people from prison; you can do anything. You are bigger than my problems or circumstances. Would you write the pages of my life from here on out?”
She called when she had arrived and I went downstairs to meet her. She was stunning. A pink dress, accentuated by the up-do. I told her I’d be careful but had to give her a hug; she looked too good not to. I put in disc #1 of the compilation mix and we drove to Berkeley. I didn’t know what was going to happen or where we stood in our relationship, but I wasn’t going to press the issue. We could talk about it on Sunday. Today was her friend’s wedding. Besides, the drive was playful and fun. She’d won her court case and was eager to tell me about it. I managed to get us lost in Berkeley, for which she teased me. We found the correct address and arrived at the park early.
Jessie was overweight as a child. Being chubby and new to the area, she didn’t have many friends in school. Dar befriended her when few did. I wanted her to enjoy seeing her friend get married. We’d have our time together, but for now I was there to support her, which, at the moment, meant opening the gate for arriving guests while she handed out programs. An older couple arrived. She introduced them as the parents of Anthony, the Best Man.
Anthony’s father was a divorce lawyer in San Jose. Had to be early 60s, still in his hippie stage. The fingernails of a guitar player, though he didn’t play. Rings on every finger, gold bracelets stacked to his elbow. Long hair (He still had his hair, which was impressive). His wife looked to be his female counterpart. Flowing silk dress. Braids peeking through the locks of hair and a tattoo on her shoulder, barely showing itself from under her dress. Jessie gave them both a big hug. She hadn’t seen them in several years, as with most of the guests here. Some in over a decade.
The ceremony was what one might expect from a Berkeley wedding, held in an outdoor amphitheatre in a densely wooded park. One of Dar and Elliot’s friends from college was a classical guitarist and performed the music, while Elliot’s aunt, wearing a bonnet, officiated the ceremony. During the exchange of vows, she asked, “Do you, Dar, take Elliot to be your husband, for richer or poorer, impotent or potent?”
After the vows, Benjamin, the guitarist, played the song “Faithfully,” as one of Dar’s bridesmaids sang the solo. She was off-key
most of the time, but by the second chorus, the bride and groom had joined in, as well as the rest of the wedding party. By the end, the wedding guests were singing along. I’ve been to more weddings than I can count. I’ve heard “Be Thou My Vision” played dozens of times; I’ve sung in a handful. This was the first time (and probably the last time) I’d heard Journey played at a ceremony. I found it refreshing.
The wedding, however, drained me. I don’t know why. There was a host of reasons, I’m sure. The uncertainty of last Thursday, the reasons still unknown (though I had my suspicions), meeting dozens of new faces, not to mention I’ve never felt comfortable in a suit. That sounds trivial, but when a person is comfortable, he feels more confident and secure. I’m more of a jeans and t-shirt guy. Following the ceremony, Jessie introduced me as her friend. I’m sure it prompted some to wonder as to the nature of our relationship. I didn’t resent being introduced as a friend but would have liked to have been introduced differently.
There was a two-hour wait before the reception. We told some friends of hers we’d meet them later for a bite to eat. I ditched the suit jacket, Jessie changed into flip-flops, and we went to explore the arboretum. It was good to be alone together and I felt my energy return. I took two pictures of her in front of the rose garden. She made me delete the first and let me keep the second.
We were the only Christians at the wedding. Having both grown up in the church, we thought it strange, and perhaps sad, to see a wedding void of any reference to Christ. Or sin. Or the church. Why was it, we asked, that the Christian divorce rate was higher than the secular culture’s? Neither of us had an answer, the only explanation I could offer being that we over-assume the blessing of God and start taking things for granted.
We met her friends Wayne and Karen at the restaurant they’d chosen. When the food arrived, Jessie bowed her head and silently prayed. After we finished our burgers and basket of sweet potato fries, we told Wayne and Karen we’d see them on the boat and went to find coffee. We saw two cafes, almost side by side, one serving Blue Bottle, my preference, and the other serving Philz coffee, a brand she claimed was equal to Blue Bottle, if not better. I ordered a cup from each. She decided to give me a blind taste test and told me to shut my eyes.
I scoffed. “There’s no way I can lose this challenge. I’d know Blue Bottle anywhere.”
She handed me the first cup. I wrinkled my lips. “That has to be Philz. No way is that Blue Bottle. It’s terrible.”
“Okay, here’s the next one.”
She handed me the second cup. I sipped it and smiled. “That would be the Blue Bottle. It’s like going from the slums to the penthouse.”
I held the cup high, with a grandiose gesture, turned on my heels and headed up the street. I looked to see if she was following. She wasn’t. She was laughing, instead. She’d tricked me. Both had been Blue Bottle. She hadn’t switched the cups. The only thing for me to do was laugh with her. Like I said, she was much smarter than me.
We joined the other guests at the marina. After boarding the yacht and briefly mingling, we gathered on the upstairs deck for the meal. The waiter served wine to our table. Jessie asked for a glass of red; I asked for Chardonnay. I made conversation with two women across from me, Colleen and Melissa. Colleen was from L.A. Her parents owned a Santa Monica restaurant with which I was familiar. Jessie kept me involved in the conversation at one end of the table, while the rest of the time I spoke to Melissa and Colleen. The wedding party entered and sat at the head table. The waiters served the food and refilled the wine. The guests toasted the newlyweds with great speeches. “Open bar,” Elliot announced. “Let’s go downstairs and get the party going!”
The staircase was narrow and steep. Coupled with the rocking waves, the walk downstairs proved tricky. I went first and then helped Jessie. We stopped at the bar. She ordered a glass of red. I saw a bottle of Hennessey and perked up. It’s Jon’s and my special drink. Years ago, I flew to Chicago and drove to a small town in the middle of the night to help his band sell merchandise at a popular music festival. The first night I was there, Jon and Randy (the bass player) and I went to a nearby restaurant for dinner. Jon thanked me for coming and ordered us each a shot of Hennessey to celebrate. Since then, whenever we see each other, we toast the other with a shot.
“Make it a double,” I told the bartender. It was a wedding, after all. A cause for celebration.
“Are you going to be okay?” Jessie asked.
Such power through simple words. I was at a wedding reception on a chartered boat, a beautiful night out, clear skies (though a brisk wind), with a woman I was starting to adore. Nowhere else I’d rather be. Why would I need a double shot of Hennessey? I dumped the glass and led her to the dance floor.
I have great memories from that night: Jessie and I walking to the front of the boat, the wind blowing strongly, the boat cruising at top speed, and putting my arms around her; singing “Bizarre Love Triangle” by New Order into her ear; slow dancing with her. What I remember most, however, is talking with the hippie dad at the end of the night.
“She’s an amazing woman,” he said. “I hope you know that.”
To be respected and loved, by friends and family, non-Christians and Christians alike, I can think of few higher praises. My answer was quick: “I know.”
The next day, Pastor Ken preached on Mary and Martha, the sisters who welcomed Jesus into their home. In the passage, Martha remains distracted during Jesus’ visit, performing numerous tasks, while Mary sits at Jesus’ feet and listens to what he says. Martha asks, “Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her to help me.” But Jesus answers, “Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things, but there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.”
Pastor Ken made several good points, included among them the idea that we should live in the moment, being present with others. “Quick to hear and slow to speak,” he said. “We never know when someone will be leaving our lives and should always be ready to enjoy the gift of friendship.”
After the service, Jessie and I discussed places to eat. She wanted to take me to a café in Los Gatos known for its French toast. “The best you’ll ever have,” she said. “They make an apricot French toast I know you’re going to love, especially with your sweet tooth. Will you call and see if they’re open?”
I found the number and called. They were open but the average wait time was thirty minutes. Hardly a matter. Spending time with her was easy.
We were on the second CD by that point. The last song I hear often gets stuck in my head. This time it was a song by Wilco. I only knew a couple of lines but sang them repeatedly, and was still singing them long after we’d parked and walked to the café. There was a stream of people waiting outside. The sun was blaring and most were sheltered under the few available umbrellas. I put my name in with the hostess and, surprisingly, she called us right away. We didn’t know how it was possible, but weren’t about to complain and sat at a table in the corner next to the condiment trays. She asked about the children’s fantasy book I’d written.
I read somewhere that Springsteen, when asked about making his “Born To Run” album, said it was his “shot at the title.” That resonated with me. In the life of an artist, there has to be that one work that consumes him. His shot at the title. My first book was mine. I wanted to write a book that would move people emotionally. I wanted it to appeal to mothers, as well as kids. I made it long and stuffed with fun, loaded with ambitious themes—but also heavy-handed and way too melodramatic. What I failed to realize was that middle-grade kids don’t want to be moved emotionally, nor do they care for ambitious themes. They want all action. All fun.
I told her the story. “I didn’t realize it was so detailed,” she said.
I quoted one of the sappier lines to her.
“You are so melodramatic,” she teased.
“Oh, just wait. There’s mo
re.”
She laughed. I paid the check and we left the café, holding hands and swinging arms, while I sang the only two Wilco lyrics I knew and quoted lines from my overly dramatic first book.
I had reminded her to bring a blanket that morning, as we wanted to spend the afternoon at a nearby park. She’d forgotten. All we had available were her sleeping bag and a metallic-looking tarp, rolled up. We found a spot near a tree and I spread out the tarp. Unrolled, it looked like a giant sheet of aluminum foil. Between that and the sleeping bag, we were going to be very warm. It was the first time we’d been able to sit and talk with no place to go, no rush to be somewhere else. The park was jammed with people, but that’s what we enjoyed, people watching.
A man has a difficult time knowing how much of his past to divulge to a woman. I’d talked to several of my friends about this: How much do you reveal to your wife or girlfriend? I received different answers. A few still hadn’t told their spouses certain parts of their pasts. (“Some things she doesn’t need to know.”) Some told their wives everything. For me, I decided there were important things Jessie needed to know, some more serious (mistakes I’ve made) and others that might sound silly but highlight the person I was at the time. For example: I have porcelain veneers on my top front teeth.
All too often, acting success is based on qualities like one’s appearance. I remembered what Jessie said on our first date: “I feel more vain here.” It’s true. Los Angeles will do that to a person, especially one pursuing a film career. When I was pursuing it, I spent most of my money with the question in mind, “Will this help my career.” Porcelain veneers were a large chunk of those dollars.
Arresting Grace Page 8
