Arresting Grace

by Michael Joel Green

  Perhaps it’s the only question that matters. If she’s received without judgment, with open arms, it’s a good indication that church understands grace—and the Gospel.

  I came to faith at age 23. I grew up a Christian. I had been baptized, been on Young Life trips, had those mountaintop experiences where I felt the presence of the Lord. But it never stuck. Once the feeling wore off, I went back to the same person I was before. One summer, on the bus ride home from Windy Gap, Young Life’s most popular trip, a friend asked, “How do we keep this going when we get back to town?” We truly desired to.

  But one always has to come down from a great height, and we soon found ourselves slugging through the mire of high school life and Windy Gap was forgotten, a breeze of what could have been. The set of rules and image we were supposed to uphold was too difficult. Seems like it should be easier in a town full of Christians. We went to college and most of us fell apart. I didn’t go to church once during college.

  Several years later, I went home for Christmas. This was during a season of life, living in Seattle, when I was as fervent as I’d ever been. I kept a copy of “Pilgrims Progress” with me at all times and read every book I could get my hands on regarding the Christian faith. I was playing in the band, leading Young Life, even coaching the Roosevelt junior varsity tennis team. I’d like to think it was all God’s doing. I don’t know who else to give the credit to. As soon as I stepped through the door, my mother wrinkled her face in disgust and told me how horrible my hair looked. It was halfway down my back in those days.

  I had visions in my head of sitting down with my family members and discussing matters of faith and God. My parents and siblings are Christians—surely we’d spend the week sharing our testimonies and praying together. Yet, the first thing my mother said was, “You look horrible.” Wrinkled mouth; eyes casting scorn. It was all I heard for days, how terrible my hair looked and how I used to be such a handsome young man.

  There were no lofty prayers or epiphanies that week, no “let’s heal our broken relationship” moments. Simply a constant nagging about my hair. Finally, my father, who’d been pressuring me all week to get it cut, threw the guilt card at me.

  “You know, she does a lot for you. You could at least show her you love her by giving her what she wants.”

  So I went and got my hair cut. My father had made it a test of how much I loved her. She was overjoyed when I came through the door with a nice “man’s” haircut. I guess I’d proven my love. And when relatives came over or we went to church for the Christmas Eve service, I took out my earrings.

  “Oh, thank heavens,” my mother said. “Now I don’t have to worry about anyone thinking you’re a girl.”

  I went back to Seattle after the holiday, wondering if there ever existed those great “understanding” moments we dream of, when parent and child finally reach an appreciation of the other and connect on that deep, familial level emblemized by television and books. I had the sneaking suspicion it didn’t. Maybe the answer was simply to return home once a year, keep the peace without any major blowups, and get on the plane and go back to the place where you’re comfortable and people with whom you’re accepted. Besides, parents are too stuck in their ways. They don’t change.

  Chapter Fifteen

  For the week of Thanksgiving, we decided to have a potluck in the 541 class. Each of us signed up to bring different food items or drinks. I was bringing drinks and a side. I didn’t expect much. The class was a revolving door of students, none of whom wanted to be there. (Gerald, incidentally, had long since disappeared. I don’t know what happened to him.) I forgot all about the potluck until an hour before. Thankfully, I had time to stop at the grocery on the way.

  I saw Alan in the lobby waiting to pay. He’d been in our class until a week ago. He was 40 with a wife and two kids. He never drank (at least that’s what he claimed) but went to a party with his wife several months ago and made the mistake of having two cocktails and driving home. Last week, he had been involved in a fender bender, having briefly looked down to change music. When he went before the judge, the judge extended his 541 sentence to the 18-month class.

  “How’s your wife holding up?” I asked.

  “She’s a superstar. I wouldn’t have gotten through this without her. She’s a lot stronger than me, that’s for sure.”

  I paid the fee, the woman behind the Plexiglas buzzed me through the door, and I rounded the corner into the classroom. I couldn’t have been more wrong with my assumption. Walter’s desk was covered with food and drinks. Angelica had brought a huge tray of turkey, mashed potatoes and stuffing. One of the men, Hector, brought two sacks of homemade tamales. Others brought macaroni and cheese, rolls, more potatoes, and desserts.

  Two new students were starting that night. Charles, a nice-looking man from Kenya, well-dressed and well-spoken (Walter quizzed him about his home. Walter and his wife had visited Kenya in the early 90s and enjoyed it immensely. He’d made a documentary about it—Walter’s main hobbies were photography and video editing.), and Benton, a commercial realtor who had the look of a used car salesman. The faux-silk shirt, unbuttoned one button too many, the polished shoes a shade too shiny, the overly gelled hair. It was his second DUI. His lawyer was still trying to get him off, which is why he wasn’t enrolled in the 18-month class yet.

  “Fingers crossed,” he showed us.

  There’s always that one type of person we initially don’t like. Benton’s was mine. The smarmy, forced smile. Collar a bit too wide. I was upset at the thought of him being cleared of a second DUI charge and having no worse record than mine. Getting a first DUI was terrible…my regretful mistake. But a second? What kind of person did you have to be to screw up that badly?

  He’d been driving with a suspended license for three years, having never completed his first 541 class, which further bothered me. Plus the fact I didn’t like him, at least his appearance and mannerisms. Salesmen and disc jockeys—the two people I mistrusted the most. Both were pretentious, I thought, making a living off being fake. No one talks like a disc jockey in real life. I secretly hoped Benton’s lawyer wouldn’t be able to get him off and he’d pay the full penalty for his arrest.

  Walter poured himself a cup of Diet Coke. “Charles and Benton, you picked a good week to start class. Though I hope this doesn’t cause an unrealistic expectation. We don’t do this every week.”

  Three of us served food to the others. It was easier that way, rather than having a cluster of bodies surrounding Walter’s desk. I served Walter last. He requested an extra helping of yams.

  “Angelica, these potatoes are delicious. How long did this take you?”

  “I started early this morning.”

  “I’ve been doing this a long time,” Walter said, waving his finger flamboyantly in the air. “And this is the first time we’ve ever had a Thanksgiving potluck. I’ve said it before, this is the closest-knit group I’ve ever had, and I’ve been doing this for fifteen years. See, it’s about what you put in, and also what you decide to get out of something. I have some people in class, they sit and watch the second hand the whole time. It must be miserable. Look what they’re missing out on.”

  Angelica was leaving at seven—it was her third-to-last class. Before she left, she said, “Does anyone want to take some leftovers?”

  “Hold on,” said Charles. He reached into his backpack and pulled out an empty Tupperware container. Everyone laughed; it was almost too perfectly timed. The new guy who happened to bring an empty food container with him. The topping on a delicious moment.

  We went around the room saying what we were thankful for. Friends, family and loved ones. Being employed during an economic recession.

  “Look at this classroom,” said Walter. “Look at Angelica. A month ago, she couldn’t get out of bed she was so depressed. Tonight, she cooked dinner for the class. I never stop marveling at the human spirit. Our ability to endure. Not only that, but to be able to count our blessings in the midst of
our suffering. I’m sixty-three. I’ve had my share of joys and accomplishments and I’ve had my share of heartaches. I’m very content with my life right now.”

  I haven’t been home for Thanksgiving since college. I live too far away. I’ve been blessed, however, with generous friends and have never been without a dinner invitation. Often, it’s been more than one. For the past few years, Nash and I overextended ourselves for Thanksgiving, accepting invites to several places. Two years ago, we visited three different meals, spread over the city, from Hollywood to the Valley to Culver City. Last year, we stayed on the Westside but still managed to fit three parties into the day.

  This year, George and Summer had gone to Colorado to visit George’s parents. Jason and the family went to Oregon to see Sherrill’s family. I stuck to one invitation—TJ’s. I hadn’t seen him in a while and was eager to reconnect. He was hosting a huge mid-afternoon lunch for fifteen to twenty people.

  My prayer for the weekend was the same as it had been since July. The small things, those moments of grace—that’s what I wanted to see and what I prayed for. There were no big happenings at TJ’s, simply catching up with friends, many of whom I’d lost contact with. Life happens. People come and go. It’s a truth of living. We stayed there until late—some watching football, some sitting by the fire on the outside patio, talking music, life…some congregating around the kitchen counter, filling up on snacks and drink. We should take these moments; we never know how many we’ll get. My life was changing. I didn’t know where I’d be this time next year. So much was unwritten and uncertain. It was possible this could be my last Thanksgiving in L.A.

  It was late when I returned home. I changed and got ready for bed. At eleven, my phone buzzed. An instant message.

  “Hello, my favorite Michael Green.”

  “Hello, Jessie.”

  “Tell me about your night. Or rather, write me.”

  “Let’s see. Went over early to help TJ set up. Was a big group, 18 or so. Huge lunch, lots of football, hanging outside by the fire, reheating turkey for dinner.”

  “Sounds wonderful. Especially with the football.”

  “I knew that was the main selling point. That’s why I tucked it in there. Now, tell me about your day.”

  “Let’s see...my sister and her family came over early to help cook. My tasks were spinach dip, a green bean and roasted tomato salad, other veggies, gravy, and whatever else needed my special touch.”

  “Who came over?”

  “Bunch of people from my parents’ church and Evelyn. After dinner, Alice led everyone in championship matches of Wii.”

  “What sports did you play?”

  “Bowling, swordfights, canoeing.”

  “They have canoeing and swordfights now? I would love to swordfight.”

  “Alice kicked my butt in all of the above. I got seriously worried when she played the sword fighting one. She puts 110% into that game.”

  “She must have logged some serious Wii hours.”

  “She was working up a sweat. I thought she was going to dislocate her arm. She moves her legs really fast, too.”

  “Are they asleep yet?”

  “Yeah, Alice is asleep in my bed. Steph is downstairs with my mom. I can’t sleep with Alice because I’ll be black and blue tomorrow morning. She kicks big-time.”

  “That’s the way I am, too.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “It’s like I’m playing Wii kickboxing.”

  “Have fun playing by yourself.”

  “Nice comeback. I set you up for that one. How did your spinach dip turn out?”

  “Same as always, excellent. Did you eat a lot tonight? How is Feed L.A. doing?”

  “I ran this morning because I knew what was coming. Feed L.A. hit the big-time today.”

  “I'm glad to hear it’s going well. Makes me happy. Are you on your computer or phone?”

  “In bed on the phone. Just turned over on my stomach.”

  “Thanks for the play by play.”

  “Where are you?”

  “On the couch upstairs. Are you going to sleep soon?”

  “No.”

  “I was going to ask you something.”

  “Ask me.”

  “Tell me five things you’re most thankful for this year. I don’t have to be in there.”

  “If I do, will you do the same?”

  “Of course. Must get my power cord, though. Computer is going dead.”

  “Alright, I’ll be thinking.”

  “Okay.”

  “I may not do it in a list, but as I think of them.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “I’m grateful for friendships that have longevity. Today was the anniversary of me moving to L.A. and I realize I’ve had amazing friends for the duration of that time. It’s a nice reflection, especially when so many relationships are quick to disappear.”

  “That’s a great one. Why did you move to L.A. on Thanksgiving? I recall you telling me that.”

  “It was a two day trip and I got here early the second day because I wanted to have Thanksgiving with Jason and Sherrill.”

  “This is more spiritual, but I’m grateful to the Lord for continuing to work on me, whether through adversity or blessing. The last few months have been a period of real refinement and I’m blessed by it, though it’s been hard.”

  “When you say a period of refinement, are you referring to the DUI? Of course, I won’t ask questions about each and every thing you mention.”

  “Mostly. I’ve started looking upon this season of my life as a season of grace. I’m asking myself every day, ‘Where can I spot those moments?’ That potluck in DUI class was one of them.”

  “Yeah? I wish I could have been in class for that. I love that you’re watching out for the moments of grace.”

  “It does change the way I go through the day.”

  “I’m glad I get to be part of this season of grace.”

  “How many is that, 2?”

  “That was 2.”

  “3. Though it may be boring and I’m paid in peanuts, I’m grateful to have been working at the same place for several years. Yesterday, when I was in a jovial mood, I was teasing and goofing around with my coworkers and was struck with a sense of joy for that. I’ve been able to know and talk to some of them for a long time.”

  “4. I’m always grateful for my family. I’m glad my brother and I have been closer this year and Micah and Asher are reaching an age of being fun to talk to. And my parents and I are speaking to each other with more honesty and kindness these days.”

  “Was there a time when you and your parents weren’t on good terms?”

  “In college it was bad. It’s been good over the past few years but there are always the hang-ups or things you don’t see eye to eye about. But now they are older and seeing things with a new perspective and I’m much softer toward my hometown and family.”

  “That’s good. One of these days you have to tell me more about your college days. It’s a part of you I don’t really understand.”

  “How many did you say to name? Was it 4?”

  “5.”

  “This might take awhile.”

  “That’s okay. I have all night :)”

  “5. You said you were glad to be part of this season of grace. I’m not sure what to write here because you are such a huge part of it I’m not sure I can express it. I am grateful for you, Jessie. We joke a lot and I say I’m the luckiest son of a gun in the world, but I mean it. Knowing you has filled me with joy, and when people say, ‘You’re glowing,’ I smile because I know I am. You make me glow. Your tenderness, your compassion, your earnestness—they have profoundly moved me. I am bowled over with gratitude.”

  “Press here to blush?”

  “That I could spend my birthday with you, for Cafe Jacqueline, for homeless men saying ‘nice kiss,’ for baseball games and train rides, for cookies in the mail and times to make ceviche. I enjoy being with you immeasurably. I am grateful for h
ow you make me laugh and how you laugh. I’m grateful for goodnight texts and soft whispers on the phone. And every minute I’ve been able to spend with you.”

  “I don’t know what to write, except to say thanks for thinking the world of me. I’ve enjoyed all those times too.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “We’ve made some wonderful memories, haven’t we?”

  “We have. We do laugh a lot. Now, I believe it’s your turn.”

  “Oohhh, it’s kind of late.”

  “Alright then…goodnight, buddy.”

  “Hmmmm, let’s see…”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Angelica’s last class. Gladys’, as well. They said they were going to get pizza after class. Walter introduced the new girl, Courtney. Professional looking blonde, short hair, blue eyes and nice teeth.

  Samantha (the actress/karaoke host) said, “This isn’t like other classes. Walter is cool. He makes it fun.” She jabbed me in the shoulder. “Isn’t that right?”

  I nodded agreement. Walter asked Courtney to tell her story. She lived in Tarzana but worked in Culver City. She’d been to a party in Santa Clarita. She drank too much and realized on the road it was a bad idea, so she pulled over on the shoulder of the highway and parked. She called a friend and was talking to him on the phone when the cop stopped behind her.

  Several commented, “You were trying to do the right thing. That’s terrible.”

  “I know!”

  Walter interjected. “The L.A. County P.D. is known as a legal gang. I had a student who was a wealthy producer. She was in her 60s, about 5-foot-2, couldn’t have been more than 95 pounds—and that’s soaking wet. She got pulled over by the L.A. County P.D. She got out of the car, happy and giggling, and told the officer she was drunk. He didn’t call for backup. Didn’t call for a female officer. He threw her to the ground and broke her shoulder in six places. She brought the x-rays to class. It looked like one of those nails-in-wood pictures, crooked and all over the place. Well, she still got a DUI but is suing them for a million dollars, and she’ll win.”