“Can I see them?” she asked.
I opened my mouth.
“Can I touch them?”
“Of course.”
She felt them.
“I can’t eat apples. I don’t want to risk breaking them. I don’t eat corn on the cob, either.”
“But you love corn. What do you do?”
“Cut it off the cob.”
I also confessed some of the more regretful parts of my past. Some of it, I could tell, was disturbing to her and I grew ashamed of my life in that moment. Now, when I wanted this woman to know me intimately, I saw how foolishly I’d lived at times. My only hope was the man I was becoming would overshadow the one I’d been. She told me what happened on Thursday. As suspected, she and her father had argued about us and it disturbed her the rest of the day.
That was an hour of hard conversation. It’s not enjoyable to write about but it has to be told. It’s real life and it’s what we all face. We can’t turn a blind eye to it. Skeletons always walk out of closets and one’s family is always there to cause stress and unrest. After that, we spent one of our best days together.
I told her my two most common prayers over the past weeks had been 1) that no matter what happened, I was grateful to have gotten to know her, and 2) that God would write the chapters of my life from here on out. She asked what I wanted that to look like. I said I wanted a woman who believed in me, who would come and walk beside me, then I was going to marry that woman, maybe have a kid with her…and teach that kid to pray.
“If you could relive any moment of your life,” I asked, “what would it be?”
She thought about it briefly—not too long, however. “Probably the train ride to the ballgame. What would you choose?”
“I’d go with the train ride, also.”
The sun was hot and we sheltered under the sleeping bag, pretending we were camping. We whispered to each other in the dark, holding our faces an inch apart, until we grew too hot and had to throw off the bag. She picked out the individual colors of my eyes. Hazel, brown, a trace of rust.
“People look so different from close-up,” she said.
We took a nap, holding each other. I couldn’t help but wish she could sleep with me all night and when we woke it would be morning and we’d be on our honeymoon. “What would you like to do today?” I said, carrying out the daydream. “Sightseeing, exploring, maybe the beach?”
“I like them all.”
Some boys were playing nearby and began picking on the smallest boy. He started crying. His older brother, also playing, yelled at the others to stop teasing and took his brother aside. He put his hands on his brother’s shoulders and appeared to calm him down.
“That’s so sweet,” Jessie said. “Oh, he’s such a good big brother.”
“He’s a great big brother.”
The younger boy rejoined the group, but again the older boys started bullying him. Again, the older brother defended him. He took his brother aside, placed his hands on his shoulders and spoke to him. Words of instruction and comfort, no doubt.
“I wish we could talk to him. I want to tell him what a good big brother he is.”
We spent the rest of the day there, finally looking at the time and seeing it was 7:20. Where did the day go? We drove into downtown Los Gatos for dinner, deciding on an Italian restaurant across the street from a Bentley dealership. She told me about the pastor of her cousin’s church in Korea. The church was a mega-church, the largest in the country, and the pastor drove a $200,000 Bentley. When some in the church questioned him about it, he told them, “I deserve it.”
After the meal, we walked around the neighborhood, looking for an ice cream shop that was still open. We never found one. On the way to the hotel, she asked, “So what do we do now?”
I suggested coming up for Labor Day. Her reply wasn’t what I expected. She mentioned this a while back and mentioned it now. She had been praying for clarity, to know she was doing the right thing, but so far hadn’t received it. She suggested taking a month apart—no talking, no seeing each other, both of us praying daily about our relationship. Having brought it up twice, I knew she felt convicted. I told her I didn’t necessarily agree, but she was a million times worth the wait and I’d do it, praying on my knees every night.
“I’d move up here in a heartbeat. You know that, right?”
She knew. That’s what scared her. Her concerns: What if she hurt me or I hurt her? What if it was just a fling? What if she prayed for clarity and got an answer she didn’t want?
I didn’t have an answer. But she was worth the risk. I wanted to be the man that sticks up for her and keeps his promises to her. I’d written a hundred songs over the years, all to an unknown face. The face was finally taking features.
The next morning, I ordered flowers to be delivered to her. She received them two days later.
I didn't realize flowers were an exception to the no contact rule, but they are beautiful. Thanks, Michael. As much as I appreciate them (and you), I do think it's a good idea that we take this time to really pray. I’d feel much better knowing that we're both approaching this with a clear mind and an open heart—in your own words, letting God write our stories, you know?
I miss you a lot, but I know I have a lot of praying and thinking to do. In the meantime, I'll enjoy the roses; they smell and look wonderful and brighten up my office. Thanks :)
Jessie
No, the flowers are not an exception to the rule. Today was the earliest they could deliver them, which I knew was stretching the boundary of our no contact clause. I'm glad they brighten up your office, and you have my word that I will honor our NCC (no contact clause). It's brought me to a place of deep focus and prayer and I've come to see it as a good idea, using this month to pray for wisdom and clarity. I do miss you. I miss your laugh and hearing your voice. I'm keeping a prayer journal and writing you letters, which will remain unsent. Keep praying, Jessie. I will, too. In the meantime, 'God, write the pages of our lives from here on out.’
Chapter Eight
What would it mean to take care of a woman? I’ve listened to hundreds of sermons over the years on the question. What is a godly man? A godly father? I’ve said I wanted to be that man, but how serious was I?
Friends ask, “Would you give up acting or music or writing?”
I reply, “Yes, unequivocally.”
Looking back on it, how focused was I on making it happen? How steeled was I in that resolve? The tension between striving for godly ideals and still clinging to the dream of an artistic career has never abated. Most of my friends have families now. I’ve become the exception. In earlier days, PCC was comprised mostly of young, aspiring film types. It’s different now—more professional, more affluent. My friends are doctors and lawyers. The aspiring filmmakers have fallen by the wayside. It seems I’m the one who failed to make the transition, the one still behind the curve. Is it because I’m stubborn? Most assuredly. I’ve always been stubborn. But where’s the tipping point between stubbornness and perseverance?
She mentioned, during one of our more difficult talks, “When I met you, you said you’d be finished with your book in two weeks. It’s been two months. I know it’s difficult and art is subjective, but I can’t help wonder when you’re going to finish.”
With music and acting, so much of the pursuit is non-linear, an intangible idea floating in the sky above. One works toward it but there’s no timeline for success. It doesn’t work that way. Life rarely works that way. Music and acting—I now see them as the lesser of two evils. Nevertheless, they’re the roads I traveled for many years. I was always arrogant enough (or “healthfully confident”) in my talent to believe in the impossible. However, more than the stubbornness and confidence was a deeply-set, rock-solid belief in a sovereign and providential God, and if His plan wasn’t for me to be a rock star or film star (And as the years went by, my aspirations grew more humble, until finally the goal was simply to make a living), He would show me the next
road to take, while continuing to provide.
The years bleed together. Six and a half years in Seattle gone before I knew it. Joyous times, though. My last week in town, I was driving south on Interstate 5, with Mt. Rainier as a backdrop, and thought, “I love this city as much today as when I first moved here.” Mine was an amazing life there, blessed at every turn. My time in Seattle was marked by tremendous community and friendship. I was young, fresh in my faith, living free, living loud—passionately and vibrantly. It’s easy for the years to slip away when life is lived with passion and joy.
Regardless, the years slip away.
For those of us who pursue performance and artistic related endeavors, it’s a difficult tension to manage. The idea creeps into our heads, “Surely God has called me here to be a witness.” But often what we mean is, “God’s going to give me both, fame and a witness.” We rarely ponder, “What if I can’t have both?” We believe we are the exception, the one in a million who’s going to break the rule and stand out—be a witness for the Lord and also see his face on the movie screen.
I moved to L.A. with a genuine desire to honor God. I prayed daily, “Lord, if this can be done with humility and grace, would you bless it. If this is ego or vanity, crush my plans.” But if I’m honest, I also moved here to become recognizable and enjoy the riches fame provides. I thought I could have both and was convinced God would make it so. I continually grew downcast and disillusioned when opportunities fell through. For a beginning actor, the smallest and most banal of auditions becomes all-important, the break that’s going to kickstart the chain of momentum. When it doesn’t happen, it’s a minor disappointment—until years have passed and the failures have mounted, and the heart is weighed heavy and bitterness has taken residence there. Death by a thousand paper cuts. Or a thousand let downs.
I realized at some point God probably doesn’t want fame and its riches for His children. It’s not healthy. I saw it time and time again. Even among my Christian friends who were performers, I noticed a hint of prima donna in them. They enjoyed doing the autograph sessions or giving interviews a little too much. Success as an artist demands so much of one’s energy, one’s passion, that there’s often not much left over for relationships, be it with God or anyone else. The artist inevitably becomes narcissistic and self-absorbed, every waking moment spent in pursuit of “making it.” I’ve seen too many marriages fall apart because of it. I think maybe that’s why God gives the greatest talent to those who may not know him (Mozart, Shakespeare, etc…), because He knows it’s unhealthy to shower His children with such blessing. Fame is a monster.
That being said, there comes a point when we need help. For those of us who have held nothing back, how do we pray? I’m not sure. Former dreams of fame and worldly success have become revolting thoughts, but there is still the need to work, to be able to support a family and make money. Whether I was compelled to continue in my endeavors or was foolish and stubborn, I kept going and now I need help. I’m tempted to liken it to a nurse or carpenter or lawyer who is unemployed. I’m not trying to put God under the microscope. He does what He wants, when He wants, but I need to know what to do, especially when the stakes are so high.
I was in a Bible study for several years with Chris. Chris is one of my oldest and dearest friends. There was a woman in our group, Francina, a beautiful woman from Zimbabwe married to a German man, our friend Kristoph. One night, Francina asked everyone for prayer. She was hurting. She was jobless and had been looking for a nursing job for months, as few hospitals were hiring at the time. She was also enduring great stress and friction with her in-laws. Francina was bold with her prayer request. She said she needed God to “step up and help her.”
Chris and I talked later than night. He made the comment that he and Francina were completely different. She had great expectations of God; he had relatively few. Chris is a very even-keeled man. He said he usually expects life to “turn out the way it turns out, somewhere middle-of-the-road.” He feared being let down if he allowed himself to pray like Francina. I guess with great expectations we run the risk of great disappointments.
During that conversation, I saw merit to both sides. Francina’s view of God was of an enormous, active God, wielding His miracle-working hammer—which is correct, and I need to believe in that God. Chris’s view was correct, also. Life is about consequences. “A man reaps what he sows.” There are countless verses to support each side. Maybe it comes down to temperament and how a person is wired as to which position he supports.
I tend to think life is about balance, walking the middle ground between two extremes. Unfortunately, that middle ground is often tension-filled. What does it mean for God to care for us? Is it financial care? Spiritual care? The questions haunt me. “If a man does not work, he does not eat.” “If he does not provide for his family, he has denied the faith.” Yet we’re told God cares for us. “Do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink, or about your body, what you will wear.” What does this mean? Is it simply spiritual care, leaving us to fend for practical, earthly concerns on our own?
Francina’s prayer was, “God, I need you.” I empathize with that prayer. I don’t need a back-pocket god, one who only shows up on Sunday morning. I need an all-intrusive, consuming-fire God who takes control the helm of my life. For too long, I heard Christians parroting clichéd slogans—bumper sticker sayings for a bumper sticker culture—when it seemed they didn’t have any idea what the slogans meant or why they were saying them. “God is my co-pilot.” “Know Jesus, Know Peace.” I grew to despise the clichés. Without a doubt, the one I despised the most was, “Let go…and let God.” It made me queasy just hearing it because what I noticed was the ones who said it were often the ones who tried to take matters into their own hands when things didn’t go the way they thought they would.
Surprisingly, after my arrest, I clung to the platitude of “Let go…and let God.” I was able to divorce the meaning behind it (trusting God in every aspect of life) from the ways I’d heard it misused over the years. I remembered the words from Proverbs, “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding.” I wondered: Do I really believe these words or is it lip service? When life gets hard, what is my first reaction? To try and take back the reins? Or to go through the difficult season, trusting in the Lord that, though the road may turn bleak, joy will be waiting on the other side?
I had one month to wrestle these questions. I wasn’t going to answer them in thirty days—I’d struggled with them for fifteen years—but I knew the tasks at hand. I had to work hard, finish writing, and surround myself with friends who strengthened my faith and allowed me to strengthen theirs. My community group was starting up for the fall. I couldn’t use distraction to bide the time, whether it be TV, movies, internet surfing, or above all, alcohol. I poured myself into them all. I wrote her a letter a day. I memorized Psalm 51 and prayed it every morning and evening. I kept it burned to my tongue.
One day, Jessie posted a status update on Facebook: “Why does my car bumper seem to attract trouble?” She had hit a concrete divider and her bumper came loose. I didn’t know if she was injured or not—that was my first thought. Once I realized she was okay, I read the comments from her friends. There were several, and to one she responded by asking about an upcoming camping trip. I don’t know why but it saddened me. I was joyful she had friends who supported her but regretted not being in her life at the moment, and I wondered had she been hurt, would she have called me? I didn’t dwell on it. It wouldn’t be fair to her. Still, for a fleeting moment, I wished I had been the one she called after hitting the divider. I wasn’t sure I agreed with this month-long arrangement and was ready for it to be over.
She was first to break the silence.
I’d stayed home that Friday night to work. She texted at 8:00 and asked if I was ready to talk. “Absolutely,” I replied.
“Call me in five.”
I finished the paragraph I was working on, fe
ll to my knees, said a quick prayer and called. We didn’t know what to say to each other at first. How do you begin after a month? We laughed at the awkwardness of the moment, then spent the rest of the evening recounting our thoughts and happenings from the weeks apart, what we’d been praying and meditating upon. For me, it strengthened what I already knew. I wanted to be with her. I’d never had any doubt. For her, it was confirmation. The answer she received was to “move forward, but slowly.” I asked if I could see her the next weekend, and she agreed. I decided to stay with my friend Aaron, living in the Oakland/Alameda area. As for transportation, I’d drive. Would be good to save money on airfare, anyway.
The next Monday, I mailed the letters, as well as a CD by Alex Rhodes, a singer from church whose voice she adored. She received them mid-week. “I planned on reading just one,” she said. “But I was like a kid with candy and opened them all. I’ve already read them several times. But I’m not going to open the CD until you get here.”
I couldn’t get there fast enough.
Chapter Nine
My friend Aaron moved to the Bay Area from Los Angeles two months prior. His brother Andrew is my workout partner and one of my closest friends. Andrew lives nearby and I’ve spent many nights eating dinner with him, his wife Diana and their newborn, Baby Daniel. In the earlier part of the previous century, their grandfather bought several properties in the Oakland/Alameda area, including the house where Aaron now lives. He’d given me a standing invite if I ever needed a place to stay.
The night before, Jessie asked how excited I was to see her.
“Very excited,” I answered.
“That’s it? Just ‘very?’”
“Very excited, times two hundred.”
The weekend marked our three-month anniversary. We’d discussed activities for the weekend and decided to take a ghost tour of San Francisco. Perhaps not the most traditional way to celebrate a milestone, but it’s what we wanted to do. She sent an invite to several of her friends, gauging their interest level. Only two replied, her friends Evelyn and Frank.
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