“6:15. I like to see the sunrise.”
With Valentine’s Day approaching, I bought my ticket for the weekend before. It would be a short trip this time. Her mother’s birthday was Sunday, so I’d fly up Saturday and leave after church the next day. I bid for a hotel room online, a mile from the airport; the bid was accepted. A different hotel, which I was excited about. Even a creature of habit needs change every now and then. The week before, my cell reception at home began failing. Dropped calls. No service inside my apartment. I called the carrier multiple times and filed several service requests, but it didn’t improve. Whenever Jessie and I tried to call each other, the call would drop. Ten, fifteen times a night. Finally, out of frustration, we stopped trying and kept conversation to online chatting.
It wasn’t a big deal, I thought. I’d be up that weekend. Also, she was moving out of her parents’ house at the end of February. We’d decided to start video chatting once she did. I spent hours that week researching restaurants and reading reviews. Most places were booked for the weekend, but I found a 5:30 reservation at a highly-rated (read: highly-expensive) French restaurant in Saratoga. I messaged her, “We’re going to have the most romantic early-bird special you’ve ever had.”
She replied soon after, asking what time I was going to be home that night. Perhaps I’m more cynical than need be, but she called me “Michael.” She usually called me by one of our pet nicknames.
I said I’d be home at seven and followed it with, “Is everything okay?”
“Yes and no. Will tell you about it later.”
I worked out with Andrew that afternoon. I told him I was concerned—there was a formality to her message that disturbed me.
“Quit, man. You’re building it up in your head. There’s nothing to worry about.”
At seven, I called and got her voice mail. She returned the call a few minutes later. I walked outside for fear of dropping the connection. We said hello, briefly exchanging greetings.
“Did you have dinner?” she asked.
I knew she was stalling. “No. It’s the furthest thing from my mind. What’s wrong, Jessie?”
And that was it. It ended during that conversation. I knew, going into the relationship, the issues that threatened it. I told her how much I cared for her, that I wanted to be with her, but I wasn’t going to beg. Wasn’t going to grovel. We’d talk later, but right now I wanted to get off the phone.
I’d told her before, if we could make it through this time, there would be no stopping us, no limit to how good we could be together. The weight of my legal problems, stress of her family concerns and uncertainty of financial worries—yet we still adored each other. Nothing would be able to stop us.
Give me until May. It was simply a self-imposed deadline, but I’m one who needs goals.
I went inside, somewhat numb, though still hopeful. I fell to my knees beside the sofa and prayed, but soon rose and began typing a prayer, one that struck to the heart of it. She was a gift. I had eight months of knowing her. I’d take that over not knowing her and avoiding the hurt. If I got hurt, it was worth it, the chance to know her and possibly be together. I’d do it every time without hesitation. That’s not recklessness. There’s a vast difference. To be with a woman I enjoyed, with whom I connected on every level, who was smart and funny and I was attracted to and wanted to kiss and stare at for hours on end, learning the curves of her face, the variances of her smile, the numerous inflections of her voice—that’s not recklessness. That’s the desire to live fully, as we were meant to live. We weren’t meant to live stale lives and suffer through passionless marriages, divorcing 50% of the time, perhaps more, until finally we’ve resigned to sleep with our backs to a spouse in a bed that might as well be an ice hut it’s so cold. We were meant to live passionately, freely, embracing the gifts God wants to give us, sleeping with our eyes lighted upon the face of one who knows us deeply, more intimately than anyone else.
Who doesn’t want to be known like that? On an earthly level, it’s the greatest gift God gives. Eve to Adam, and Adam responds with a poem. We shouldn’t accept the Fall as the norm. We should resist it. The glimpses of the eternal are what we were meant for, not to accept a curse and distract ourselves to numb its pain. We should jump high and far, trying to catch that rare glimpse, life as it should have been and one day will be, when we can take joy and squeeze it until it oozes between our fingers and never let it go. At least that’s the way I see it.
That night, I slept two, maybe three hours. A light sleep. The next morning, I walked to the bus stop, pushing away the doubts as best I could, keeping all my focus outward. I said hello to Travis.
“You missed it. The crows came back this morning. They took the last of the stuff they missed yesterday.”
“When do you wake up?” I asked.
“5:00.”
“Do you set an alarm?”
“Yeah. The first thing I do is go to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. That wakes me right up.”
“You’ll probably wake up early your entire life.”
“Yeah, I’m like a 70-year-old man and I’m only 10. I’m going to be like one of those old men who stretch really big and say, ‘That was a day.’ Then they go to bed at 5:00 and get up at the crack of dawn.”
I laughed. “What time you go to bed?”
“8:30, usually. Except sometimes, I’ll stay up if there’s a good show on. Like on Sunday night, Fox has ‘Animation Domination’ until 10.”
The #3 bus pulled to the stop.
“Have a good day,” I said, boarding.
The new driver, a black lady with a moly face and blonde wig asked, “Is that your son? He looks like a nice boy.”
I said hello. “He’s not mine. He’s cool, though.”
Maybe that’s all we get in this life, shades of grace. Hints. Teasers, perhaps. A slice of heaven breaks into the earth, this world as we know it. We long to keep the moment, but it passes, as all good things must in a temporal world, destined to one day disappear. Someday, all will be made new, all cracks mended and all fractures repaired. But for now, we walk the ground of this dusty earth, looking forward to the day when our work will be done for the sake of worship, rather than identity, when our relationships will be pure and permanent, when laughter will come as a blaring drum, with no fear or doubt to mute its glory.
But that day is not yet. Until then, we get glimpses; and a glimpse, by nature, is rare and often comes when it’s not expected, in small doses. I caught a glimpse and it was wonderful. Perhaps I’ll catch another. Someone else will come along and steal my heart, and capture my breath. But I can’t expect it. I can’t demand it. I know I can’t settle, though. Once someone has seen and felt something pure and otherworldly, anything less would be settling, and I won’t do that.
Maybe the weight of our actions and decisions is heavier than we thought. Maybe it’s lighter. Maybe love doesn’t conquer all, at least not in this lifetime. Maybe that’s to point us to something greater, a deeper truth, that this life can never satisfy the whole of our desires. We try to make it so and end up placing our joy in circumstances and earthly treasures that break and slip from our fingers. One day love will win out—it will be perfect and pure, radiant and all-fulfilling; but we’re not there yet, and until then, we take the glimpses we receive and give thanks for them. They were unpredicted and often came at the perfect time, when we needed them. Surely, God knows our need.
I could have never expected all of this. Couldn’t have envisioned it if I tried. Had we met two years ago, we’d have never been interested in each other. At the very least, she’d have seen me with long hair and a beard and run the other way. She came at the perfect time. She filled me with joy and excitement and the desire to be and do something great, to break the mold of vacuous and disastrous relationships that litter our parks and neighborhoods. To be something more, to point to something greater. Do I wish it had lasted and my life had turned, the circumstances unfolding in the way I
was beginning to see them unfurl? Of course. But I can’t look upon a shadow of the eternal and expect it to stick around. We receive glimpses of the perfect and holy, but most of the time we carry through the sludge of a cracked and bruised earth, as much aching and longing as there is singing and praise. There can be praise, however, even in the sludge.
Lord, this began with you and it ends with you. I said, “Write the pages of my life from here on out,” and I say it still. I can’t do this alone. I can’t see the answer, the way out. I can’t see light from the blackness surrounding. All I know to do is keep going and trust that God will be gracious and kind. I don’t know how else to live, other than the way I’m compelled—the words of Augustine. I have to believe it’s true, though hope grows faint.
I’ve never needed God more than right now, and I guess that’s the point. This life will always prove difficult; slings and arrows will always come our way. But maybe that’s the way He wants it—us needing him. It makes me wonder if thirty, forty years from now, hopefully somewhere with my arms around that woman, I’ll still need Him more at that moment than I ever have. Perhaps the moment we stop needing Him is the moment to worry.
The next Monday, I went to have my interlock device installed. The money pit caused by my foolishness. Marilyn had given me bad advice. I was required to put the interlock on my car for five months. I couldn’t get my license back until I’d done so. Doug came by at 7:45. He was in a foul mood, I noticed. He drove my car to the mechanic’s garage. I use the term liberally. It was simply an abandoned room. No car lift. No tools. It made me wonder, “Is this all the guy does, install interlock devices, riding the coattails of the DMV’s greed?”
The mechanic was a European guy (Bulgarian, I think) named Victor. I filled out a stack of paperwork. He told me to come back in a few hours, as my car would be ready by then. Brian picked us up and drove us to my place. I let Doug sit in the front seat, which was a mistake. Brian and he have vastly different personalities.
“What do you do?” Doug asked.
“I’m a trust fund kid,” Brian answered.
I smiled. It was a joke between us. Brian has a go-to list of humorous answers for the “What do you do?” question: trust fund kid, aspiring male model, etc…
Doug didn’t get the joke. Didn’t smile, either. When we arrived at my place, he stepped out of the car and huffed. “Alright, the last leg.”
Traffic was horrible on the way to the DMV and Doug grew more irritated. We discussed which bus I should take from the DMV to the interlock shop. “I guess you’d take the #733 back,” he suggested. “You’d better put a paper bag on the seat.” We listened to NPR on the way. The host said one out of six adults has genital herpes.
Laughing, Doug said, “I’ve never had an STD in my life. Thank God.”
I was at the DMV for two hours. My paperwork was held up. It cost $145 for a license reinstatement fee and $45 for a random fee the clerk wouldn’t explain. Fine. I paid it. When I’d scheduled my appointment with Victor, he told me it would cost $180 for the installation—cash only. The night before, I walked to the bank and withdrew the money. The DMV, however, wouldn’t take credit cards. I paid the fees with the cash I’d put away for Victor. After leaving the DMV, I walked a mile to the bank’s branch on Venice to take out more money. I stopped for coffee and scone and caught the #733 just as it was arriving. I asked the driver if she stopped at La Brea. She didn’t understand me (A man was talking loudly near her ear) and I repeated myself, louder this time. She said she stopped at La Brea and I boarded.
Victor took my money (In addition to the installation fee, it costs $75 a month to maintain the interlock device—cash only, of course) and showed me how the IID works. I have to blow into a tube before starting my car and at random times while driving. Non-alcoholic substances can cause it to fail (some mouthwashes, any fish or food cooked in white wine, and several kinds of fruit juice) which results in a lockdown of my car and penalty fine with the DMV, as well as having the five-month sentence extended. As I was driving to work, the alarm went off in the middle of an intersection and I had to blow into the tube while making a left-hand turn onto Ocean Park Avenue.
The following Sunday, I served communion. There are times when serving that I tell someone, “The body and blood of Christ,” and my heart breaks. I struggle to form the words because of the tears welling in my eyes. This Sunday was different. I was distracted and unfocused, perhaps numb. What had happened? It happened so suddenly. I resolved not to be angry—how could I be?—but was distracted, nonetheless. The experience of communion wasn’t filled with reverence as it usually was.
I served the bread and wine (juice) and returned to my seat. The congregation sang a final song, one of celebration. Rankin gave the benediction and the congregants slowly filed out of the auditorium. In the courtyard, I picked up Bella and held her. I took Abby’s hand and led her to the doughnut table. After she filled up on doughnut holes and a bagel, we walked across the courtyard to where Jason and Sherrill were standing. Sherrill, I think, must have noticed my struggle during communion, or perhaps in the courtyard, where smiles and cheerful banter lift above the clouds. She gave me a hug with both arms.
“We love you so, so, so much.”
One of those moments, unplanned, but delivered at the perfect time.
Lord, where we are weak, give us courage. Where we are tired, give us endurance. Where there is anxiety, give us hope.
When Jessie and I spoke on the phone, I noticed two distinct voices she used. (There were dozens of Jessie smiles and laughs, but only two voices.) One was the “on the road” voice. It was her professional voice. Strong, assertive. Louder, having to compete with road noise. But there was also her intimate voice, the voice she used having washed up for the night and slipped into bed. A soft, tender voice. Playful. Scared. Fragile and transparent. Never have I seen more clearly this simple truth: Women have so much to prove to others, that they can be strong and independent, forging a career and identity for themselves. But equally true, when all defenses are stripped bare and a woman is able to show her heart to someone she trusts, she is scared. We are all scared. She’s the same girl who desires protection. She’s both, the strong and independent soul, but also the fragile and longing woman who wants more than anything for a man to put his arms around her and make her feel warm and safe. These were the moments I cherished, the bedtime Jessie voice, when we spoke to each other with intimacy and fragility, with tenderness, always soft spoken. Her birthday card said, “his soft spokenness.” I wouldn’t have been able to speak that way had she not allowed me. My favorite part was after we would hang up. I’d get ready for bed and text her goodnight. It’s the thing I miss the most, hands-down, besides being with her face to face. The goodnight text: It can never be replaced.
The experience has been difficult in every way, but it’s slowed me down and made me wiser with my time. I’ve read more and spent more nights at home. I don’t think, had I not landed in such trouble, I would have noticed the hundreds of acts of kindness given to me. I wouldn’t have been able to talk to Travis at the bus stop or hear the story of the hydrogenated water endeavor. I can give thanks for everything that’s happened.
One of the most amazing testimonies—I was never without a ride during that time. Not only that, I never asked for one. Friends volunteered to pick me up. Jeff picked me up each week for community group, took me to dinner, back to his place for study, then I’d get a ride home from someone else. Humbling to witness such generosity. People have spoiled me with their kindness. Always a meal to share. I’d ride to Andrew’s and he’d beamingly ask, “Do you want to stay for dinner?”
“If you twist my arm.”
My mother, unknowingly, began leading a study on the book of Daniel at the same time I did. We talked weekly about it. She and my father did a ten-day “Daniel fast” together, eating only fruits and vegetables, as he’d done in the king’s palace. “Daniel is something else,” my mother said. “His praye
rs are so beautiful. It makes me realize what a lousy prayer life I have. I want to become a prayer warrior like him. We are studying grace in our small group.
“Being a Christian is so difficult and God must struggle with changing us. He says He will create in us a new heart, and I know I’m a work in progress, but it is so slow! As I enter the next phase of my life, I want to understand you. No more lectures, but understanding. It boggles my mind to think all this time has gone by and I never really knew your life.
“I am asking your forgiveness for my past as a mother. I was a Christian, but God was not Number One. With you, I was vain, prideful, and yes, a hypocrite. I know that now, and God has shown me that my problem with raising the three children He gave me was that I didn’t care enough about your heart. I guess I wanted Young Life to take care of that and then I would do the rest. My own heart was not Christ-centered, so how did I think yours would be? Forgive me. I have grown in my faith a great deal, and now He is truly Number One.”
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe parents can change.
Grace upon grace, in our friendships, with our love, to be found everywhere, in a birthday party thrown by one’s closest friends, in a greeting at a bus stop from a ten-year-old who gets up way too early in the morning, in the greeting of a co-worker, able to somehow give comfort after a misfortune…grace upon grace upon grace.
My God, what a life. Foolish dreamers, what becomes of them?
Acknowledgments
I often wonder how the years could have passed so quickly—six and a half years in Seattle and ten in Los Angeles, gone in a flash. Then I realize: The years pass quickly when one is surrounded by good friends and family.
To my parents: Somehow we are closer now than ever before. I have to believe it’s because God does change people. He doesn’t want us to end where we begin. Thank you for a lifetime of love and support. Thanks to Cathy, Stephen, Jeff, Asher, Micah and Anna. Though separated by distance, I can always count on you all.
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