Arresting Grace Page 3

  “I enjoyed spending time with you,” I told her. “I think you’re beautiful and funny and smart and I’d like to keep getting to know you.”

  She felt the same. She’d enjoyed meeting me and wanted to pursue it further. We didn’t know how it would work, given the distance, but wanted to see if there was something there. I asked if I could come see her. I suggested the weekend of July 16, two weeks time. It was agreed upon.

  “I’ll make reservations tomorrow.”

  The timing worked out perfectly. I had a friend in Bakersfield I’d been meaning to visit for a long time. I called Bill and asked if I could crash at his place on the way. He said yes, that it would be great to hang out. His wife would be excited to see me, as well.

  Until then, the tricky part was how often to call. Every other night? Once a week? I wasn’t sure. During our conversations, we seemed to have a nice rapport and could burn an hour or more without blinking. Then she threw a wrinkle at me. She called on Saturday, a week before the trip. Her voice was heavier than usual and I knew there was a “Do you have a minute?” moment coming soon.

  I expected something along the lines of:

  It’s too difficult, the long distance.

  or

  There’s someone else.

  or

  Your jokes aren’t funny and I can’t pretend to laugh at them anymore.

  Instead, she told me her parents were opposed to her dating a white man. (They moved from South Korea when she was six.) She’d done it briefly in college and it caused friction. She was living with them now and hesitant of the unrest it would cause. Again, not what I expected. I thanked her for being honest. It was one of my favorite qualities of hers I’d witnessed so far. However, I wasn’t going to be dissuaded by what I considered a minor obstacle.

  “I’ll come up and we’ll see what happens, okay? Let’s at least see if there’s something there. We’ll deal with that obstacle when the time comes.”

  She agreed and we made a pact to enjoy the weekend. “Besides,” she offered, “maybe we’ll find that we don’t get along very well, after all.”

  I smiled. Somehow I didn’t think that was possible. I said goodbye and told her I’d see her in a week’s time. In the meantime, I’d keep doing what I was doing: working, writing, organizing the Serve the City project, making time for friends, and Dinner for 8.

  I’ve attended Pacific Crossroads Church (PCC) for nine years. I moved to Los Angeles on Thanksgiving of 2001. Soon after, I went on a weekend retreat sponsored by a well-known mega-church in the area, where I met a handful of people from PCC. They spoke highly of the church and, the following week, I visited. I’ve served in some capacity ever since, whether it be worship, communion or prayer.

  When I first started, the church was no more than 100 people. So much had changed. The original pastor left four years ago and we’d since hired Rankin, a charismatic pastor from the South, to replace him. The church started building traction. Attendance exploded. Suddenly, those of us who’d been there for years were looking around and not recognizing anyone—or rather, no one was recognizing us.

  In February of last year, I began leading a community group. My desire was to form a group where we could be intimate and honest with each other, transparent about our struggles. The group grew rapidly, with a nucleus of dedicated members that was consistent and strong. We’d decided to take the summer off, though. The church leaders recommended it to avoid burnout. Dinner for 8 was the summertime replacement. Eight people from a similar area of town would meet for dinner and fellowship. The goal was to welcome those who were new to the church and to avoid cliques. The guest list was selected by geography rather than popularity.

  Looking back on it, I probably shouldn’t have taken on extra responsibility, but Angela pleaded with me to co-host with her. She’d recently remodeled her place and was excited to entertain guests, but she was also relatively new to church and didn’t know many people. I was her buffer.

  I arrived early to help set up. My friends Jina and Tae were there. I hadn’t seen them in ages. Tae told me it was his birthday and he was meeting a couple of friends afterward at Hillside Tavern to celebrate. I wished him a happy birthday and told him to count me in for the celebration following. Meanwhile, Jina opened a bottle of wine and poured me a glass.

  Scott Holmes stepped through the door. I did a double take. He attended PCC in the early days, when we met at a small Seventh Day Adventist church on Pico Avenue, but had left a few years ago. I didn’t know he’d returned. The church had grown so big it was hard to keep track anymore. He introduced me to his wife (I didn’t know he’d married) and we began volleying stories about the old days.

  Scott and I spent the evening recounting stories—of PCC in its infancy; of Tim, the former pastor; the retreat in 2003, when a couple of guys drove to the store for beer and cigars and we smoked around the campfire. I was on stage. Jina refilled my wine glass. People enjoyed listening to us. Everyone liked Angela’s place; the food and wine were great. When it came time to leave, I convinced Jina and Angela to join us at Hillside Tavern. They agreed and we decided to carpool. I left my car parked at Angela’s, four miles from home.

  The memory disappears after that. Angela later told me she tried to take my keys from me, insisting I sleep on her couch. I assured her I was fine. The rotten Clock Cleaner. That’s what it had done, alright. The name lived up to its hype. The next thing I remember were four cars pulled up beside mine on Palms and Clarington. I tried to talk the cops into letting me walk home. It was only three blocks. Three blocks may as well have been three hundred miles. I knew I was in a bad spot but was numb to it. Nothing hurts when you’re drunk, not even bad news or the notion you’re in trouble. Handcuffed in the back of the patrol car, I tried to force my mind sober. But when one drinks as much as I did, sober is still hours away. With a lot of pain in between.

  The next day, grace upon grace, I wasn’t fired when I arrived for work. As far as I could tell, no one knew. I was worried about Tommy Crawford, the head of security, in charge of background checks. Every time I said hello, I looked at him extra attentively to see if he raised his eyebrows or cast a suspicious look. He didn’t. I seemed to be okay, job-wise.

  That was the only thing okay. I had to pay the lawyer, Stan Pugliese, using the office fax machine to send over the forms I’d filled out. Was there going to be a record of this? Was Tommy going to see it? His office was right next to the fax machine. I still couldn’t get the memory out of my head for more than a few seconds at a time. I went back and forth all morning between prayer and horror-stricken panic.

  A week earlier, Jon, a former bandmate of mine in Seattle, had seen a slovenly-dressed man on the street and judged him by his appearance. When he arrived at work, feeling guilty, he wrote to me, saying, “I’m no different than him. What gives me the right to judge anybody?” He made it his prayer throughout the week, “God have mercy on me, a sinner.”

  I made it my prayer that day, as I struggled for peace of mind.

  Greg, the most laid-back boss anyone could ever want, urged me to leave early and beat the traffic. “You don’t want to get stuck on the Grapevine,” he noted. Bill called and asked what I wanted to grill for dinner—chicken, steak or shrimp—and what kind of cigar I wanted. I told him steak and whatever cigar he picked out. I wasn’t skilled enough to know. I checked Sig Alert early that afternoon. The 405 freeway was starting to back up. I remembered Greg’s words and decided to take him up on his offer.

  Chapter Three

  I left for Bakersfield a little after 3 p.m. I put in a CD sermon series on the book of Genesis and started driving. Genesis is a book I revisit frequently. We often read of the patriarchs of the Old Testament and think, “These men were giants of the faith.” But I don’t think we’re reading closely enough. Judah slept with his daughter-in-law. Abraham tried to prostitute his wife. Jacob’s name means “deceiver.” These were deeply flawed and sinful men, but men changed by God to become the patr
iarchs we respect. To reach that point, however, took a severe housecleaning of their souls.

  I realized if I was going to be a husband and father, folly and recklessness could no longer have room in my life. Sadly, I’d learned the hard way, but for us stubborn types, it’s often the only road that finally snaps us to attention and causes us to take heed. Hearing and doing—the words of James. I can say the right things, and though heartfelt and sincere they might be, it doesn’t matter if the desire doesn’t match the behavior.

  Drinking was the area of my life that needed fixing, or transforming. I had done forty day alcohol fasts and periods of abstaining, but I always reverted to the same habits and behaviors—going out with friends, meeting over a couple of drinks, driving home after one too many. The next morning, I’d curse myself and vow never to do it again.

  But I always did.

  I was ignoring the whisper of God: “Today if you hear His voice, do not harden your hearts.” God is going to get our attention one way or the other. And when we disregard His correction and rebuke, the fall can be quite painful.

  Several years ago, I helped with a church plant that was starting in Culver City. Two pastors moved from Dallas to found the church and I agreed to lead worship. Sometimes in life, we meet someone and the bond is instantaneous. The friendship forms naturally, as if without effort. Bill, one of the pastors, and I connected on such a level. We were both huge baseball fans. He played the djembe for me when I performed in coffee shops. We spent many weekends hiking or mountain biking.

  Unfortunately, the church split after a few months. Bill took a position as an assistant pastor at a church in Bakersfield, and he and his wife Mindy moved. I hadn’t seen him in over two years. It’s shameful to admit. But time goes by and the days disappear from us. Before long, it takes more energy than we have to reconnect with someone and we let the relationship fall from its tether. Where I’m at consumes me. I didn’t know if he’d resent me or not for losing touch.

  As soon as I stepped to the porch, I knew it wasn’t the case. He bounded outside to greet me, gave me a big hug and said it was great to see me. When I stepped into the living room, I felt the blast of the air conditioner. Mindy hugged me and introduced me to the boys, Luke and Levi. Levi was only several months old. Luke was two and playing on the floor with Elmo and some other toys.

  I was afraid Bill would see the distress in my eyes. I wanted to tell him as soon as I arrived but couldn’t find a moment of privacy. Mindy wanted to know of our mutual friends and hear about life in L.A. They rarely visited anymore. With children, a two-hour drive stops being a short distance. Bill marinated the chicken and steak. He opened a beer for himself. I told him I wasn’t drinking that night and he pulled me a soda from the refrigerator in the garage. He lit the outside grill and quickly returned to the kitchen. I was wearing jeans and he let me borrow a pair of shorts and a Houston Astros t-shirt. I joked that the 105-degree weather was the only circumstance under which I’d wear an Astros shirt. Finally, we stepped out to tend the grill and I told him everything.

  He didn’t placate the situation. He was visibly concerned and quick to remind me I had sinned. He didn’t want to hear vows or declarations that it wouldn’t happen again. He wanted to know the practical steps I was going to take to address the problem, to make sure it didn’t happen again. I told him I was starting Celebrate Recovery.

  “I’m glad to hear that. I think every church should have ministries like Celebrate Recovery. I’d go so far as to argue that every Christian should be involved in some type of recovery group, whether it’s Celebrate Recovery or not.”

  I asked him to explain what he meant.

  “We don’t realize how deeply sin is rooted in our hearts. We see alcoholics or porn addicts and think they’re the ones who need to be in recovery groups, but we don’t see the pride and gossip and anger in our own hearts. I’m going to be struggling with it the rest of my life. There will always be blind spots I haven’t seen. That’s the Christian life, continually putting these things to death. We never stop growing or needing grace.”

  Recently, Rankin was preaching on the book of James. He asked, “Are you teachable? When confronted by your friends, do you react by accusing them of their faults and defending yourself, or do you accept their criticism?” Bill was a good friend. He’d given me difficult but saving words, for which I thanked him.

  We talked baseball. (Would the Astros trade Roy Oswalt? Rumor was the Cardinals were interested.) He had taken Luke to his first Dodgers game recently and begun teaching him to pitch and catch. The house had a big backyard and was perfect for it. We finished tending the meat and took it inside. After dinner, Bill and I returned to the patio for a cigar.

  Mindy had come down with Bell’s Palsy in December of last year, two months after Levi was born. She’d seen numerous doctors but none could understand what caused it or how to treat it. “I’m not sure if you noticed or not,” Bill said, “but when she smiles, only one side of her face moves. Some people think she’s very serious and intense when they meet her. But you know Mindy. She laughs all the time. She’s not smiling because she can’t.”

  At the present, she was seeing an acupuncturist. Unfortunately, the medical bills were fast accumulating and the church was in financial straits, almost a million dollars in debt. The church owned a complex with six buildings, all of which were nearly empty. Attendance wasn’t filling half of one.

  “A few years ago, someone died and left us a $4 million ranch near wine country. We can’t sell it. The church leaders won’t come down on the asking price and no one can afford to pay that much for a ranch. Meanwhile, we’re sitting on a million dollar debt. The electric bill alone is breaking our budget, but they won’t do anything about it. We had a staff meeting last week and I told them, ‘You can’t afford to keep me.’

  “We’re renting this house but can’t afford it much longer. Right now, Mindy is my first priority. If they don’t make changes, I’m going to have no choice but to leave. I can’t move my family into an apartment. That’s not being materialistic. It’s being practical. I’ve got two kids. I’m not going to do that to them.”

  “Could they sell the complex and rent out a school or auditorium?”

  “That’s what I told them. It’s about image, though. There are six mega-churches within five miles of here. In the 70s, ours was as big as the others—several thousand members. The buildings were full. The leaders don’t want to accept that anything’s changed. There’s a negative image of a church that meets in an auditorium when a church of 10,000 meets less than a mile away.

  “It would be a shame if it folded because I’m starting to see the young people in church take on more leadership responsibilities. They’re maturing and it gets me excited. You know me. That’s what motivates me, seeing transformation in people’s lives, especially when it’s the kids who are stepping up and growing in their faith.

  “I’d like to get back to L.A. someday. I miss it. So does Mindy. But I know I’m supposed to be here. For how long, I don’t know. A lot depends on the church. Right now, it’s in bad shape. Honestly, the older members are happy to see things stay the same. They like the status quo. But it’s not good enough. If something doesn’t change soon, the church will go broke.”

  Mindy wouldn’t let Bill smoke without taking a shower afterward. It was probably a good idea; my clothes were sticking to me because of the heat. After we finished our cigars, Bill let me take the first shower. I finished and changed in the bathroom; he’d already made my bed when I came out. He showed me which were the baseball channels on TV and I was able to catch an inning of the Dodgers game while he washed.

  We stayed up awhile longer, but it was late and I wanted to get on the road early. He asked if I needed anything else. I assured him I was fine and said goodnight. I prayed a long time before falling asleep. There was too much to think about, too many competing thoughts and emotions—Mindy, her Bells Palsy, Bill’s future and where it would be, tomorrow’s
drive to San Jose.

  The next morning, Bill offered to make breakfast but I declined. I asked for directions to the interstate and the nearest coffee shop.

  “I’ll be praying for you,” he said.

  I hugged them goodbye, gave Luke a high five and left the house, thinking, “That’s a man who gets it, whose life I want to emulate. That’s a man whose wife will be laughing thirty years from now, whose children will be grown and happy, and whose mouth will still be in an upturned smile.”

  Twenty minutes later, coffee in hand, I hit the freeway for San Jose, praying and listening to my sermons on Genesis, of crooked and messed-up men and women, but men and women transformed by a living God.

  Before my trip, I called some friends and asked their advice. Should I tell Jessie what happened? And if so, when? The answers they gave were across the board. Some said to wait until Sunday night if I did tell her. That way, I’d have the weekend to get her to like me, and if she liked me enough maybe she’d be okay with it. I thanked them for their opinions and for being amazing friends, but I knew myself too well. It would be impossible for me to go the weekend without telling her. I often get a heavy spirit, almost like a prodding, when I need to do something I don’t look forward to. I can’t ignore it and almost always obey it, doing whatever it is I need to do. I knew it would happen when I was with Jessie…and would probably happen soon.

  I got to the hotel early and called to tell her I had arrived. “I’ll be there in thirty minutes,” she said. I unpacked my suitcase, brushed my teeth and went outside to wait, the thoughts of Wednesday night trying to force their way into my mind as I struggled to shove them out. I sat on the bench…stood and walked around. I sat down again, checked the internet on my phone (distraction), prayed…stood and walked. The musings of a nervous man. I saw her car turn into the parking lot.