Arresting Grace Page 7

  She was behind on doing it and they were returning the next day. She showed me how to water the plants in the front and disappeared to the backyard (though I did spray her a quick time before she left—not enough to get her noticeably wet, just enough to flirt). She finished before me and came to the front, holding a white rose picked from one of the backyard bushes. She held it for me to smell. I quickly finished the row of fence line plants I was watering, we got some snacks for the road and left for the station.

  I expected a bustle of activity. However, the station, not far from my hotel, was empty. No attendants. No one, in fact. We didn’t know what the weather would be like and brought jackets and sweaters to be safe. I bought our tickets and we settled in; we still had a while before the train arrived. She said she’d forgotten something in the car and would be right back. I walked onto the tracks and tried balancing on them.

  When she returned, I motioned for her to join me and we held a contest to see who could tight rope the track the longest. I think I stayed on a few seconds longer, then we went to wait on the bench.

  “That was my friend Gene on the phone. He can’t go to Dar’s wedding with me.”

  What I hadn’t told her was I really wanted to go with her to the wedding. I’d made suggestive comments...no one could care about karaoke as much as I pretended. We were at the tricky spot in a new relationship. Did we go to a wedding together or not? I’m sure one could make an argument for either case.

  She paused briefly. “What are you doing on the 22nd?”

  “I think I’m going to a wedding.”

  “Are you sure? I know it’s a lot for you to come up here.”

  “I’m sure.”

  We sat calmly, waiting for the train. Two other passengers arrived, both wearing Giants t-shirts and hats, one carrying a cooler.

  “I really wanted to go to the wedding,” I confessed.

  “I know you did.”

  The Caltrain runs from San Jose to AT&T Park. It’s cheaper than driving to the city and paying for parking, not to mention dealing with the hassle of San Francisco traffic on a game day. For us, it was wonderful but not for those reasons. This was us being able to sit closely together, holding each other and watching the passengers on the train. A group of drunk college guys from South Carolina sat behind us, drinking Budweiser and belching loudly, making tasteless jokes about women, recounting the drunken escapades of their California vacation. We talked to them briefly, then she reached into her purse for her iPod. She offered me one of the ear buds and played me some of her favorite music: a French song (the name of which I can’t remember), one of my favorite Ryan Adams songs, “La Cienega Just Smiled,” and a version of “Abide With Me.”

  Who can say the power of memory and experience? Some moments in life stick with us forever. No reason why they should stand above the rest, but they do and are never forgotten. As it was happening, I knew this was one of those moments. Sitting with our cheeks touching, listening to her favorite worship song. I rubbed her arm gently and noticed two small sunspots below her elbow. A memory never forgotten.

  Thou has not left me

  Though I’ve oft left thee

  Until the close, Lord

  Abide with me

  With watering the plants and rushing to the station, we hadn’t eaten lunch and were both hungry. The game was still an hour from starting. I also wanted to get coffee. During my first trip to San Francisco, I had visited the Ferry Building and found the Blue Bottle Coffee stand. To that day, it remained my favorite coffee, and I’m sure she was tired of hearing of me talk about it as much as I had. We saw the Ferry Building in the distance—it looked a long way.

  “How far do you think it is?”

  “At least a mile and a half. Think we can we make it?”

  “Let’s go.”

  We started walking—each carrying a bundle of sweaters in one arm, holding hands with the other—but quickly realized our aim had exceeded our reach. We were exhausted by the time we arrived. The only vendor still open was a salted-pig and prosciutto stand. “World Famous,” the sign said. However, they’d stopped making sandwiches for the day. The only thing left on the menu was a paper snow cone filled with prosciutto and other cured meats. It looked disgusting; and sadly, it tasted worse than it looked. We threw them away and walked back to the stadium, a little quicker this time, wishing for a taxi ride, still laughing at the fatty snow cones. And why did we bring so many clothes? It was 90 degrees outside.

  I live in L.A. but am not a Dodgers fan. I grew up three hours from St. Louis, a small town north of Memphis, ten miles from the Missouri border. The only team around was the Cardinals. All the games were on radio or TV and we drove to Busch Stadium occasionally on the weekends. It’s very rare that I abandon a sports team, regardless if I’ve moved to another team’s town. I stayed a Cardinals fan when I lived in Seattle, including the year the Mariners won 115 games, and I’ve stayed one through nine years in Los Angeles. As for the Giants, I didn’t know many players on the team, but there was an ex-Cardinal on the roster, Edgar Renteria. I was sorry when the Cardinals let him go; he was always one of my favorites.

  Entering the stadium, we heard raucous chants of “Beat L.A.” We found a food stand serving garlic fries, bought an order, as well as two drinks, and returned to our seats. At the Ferry Building, she’d bought a box of fruit pâté that she swore by. I looked at the price tag. It was $22 a box.

  “$22,” I said. “For candy?”

  “It’s so good, Michael. Just wait. You’ll agree.”

  “It better be for that much.”

  She opened the box and gave me the first piece. I didn’t think any candy was worth $22, but I had to admit: If any was, it was this candy.

  “Here, try another flavor.”

  Even better than the first. How could I have doubted?

  Some men wearing Dodgers hats and shirts sat behind us. The Giants’ fans heckled them mercilessly and I joined in. Hey, when in San Francisco… Before I knew it, I was joining in with the chants of “Beat L.A!” The man sitting next to me looked to be part Native American, wearing a Mohawk wig, and we made occasional small talk throughout the game. In the 8th inning, the score was still 0-0. I’d told Jessie about Renteria and that he was the reason I was rooting for the Giants (aside from the fact I was crazy about this woman from the Bay Area). The first two batters reached base for the Giants. The crowd went crazy, each person on his feet. Renteria came to the plate. I told her, “Wouldn’t it be amazing if the Giants win and Edgar ends up being the hero? In fact, I’m predicting it now. He’s going to get a hit and the Giants are going to score.”

  He did better than that. He knocked a triple, plating both runners. The Giants took the lead 2-0 and won by the same score. Without thinking, I gave high fives to everyone around me, including a bro-hug to the Mohawk guy. Chants filled the stairway as we exited the stadium. Laughter and joy streamed its corridors. We left the park and walked the few blocks to the train station.

  Whereas before, the train ride had been raucous and celebratory, it was now late and the fans’ celebration was replaced by a calming lull, the rhythm of wheels on the track. Occasionally, she’d look up and give me a soft kiss, but otherwise we sat quietly, taking in the silence, the peacefulness of night and of being in no hurry, enjoying the moment and letting it breathe without cluttering it with silly words or distractions. Out of the corner of my eye, I looked over and saw her smiling contentedly. I noticed goose bumps on her arm as she dozed off with her head on my shoulder.

  We disembarked at our stop and she took me to the hotel. I held her tightly. It was the end of a perfect day but also our weekend together, save for a brief ride to the airport in the morning. I said goodnight, kissed her gently and went to my room, where I spent some time praying before getting into bed. It was about one in the morning at the time. My phone rang.

  She’d returned home to several messages from her parents and reality had crashed upon her. The fear, the doubts�
��everything. I told her I wanted to date her, to know her deeply and intimately. She didn’t know if she should tell them about us or keep it secret. I said if I was going to win them over, it was going to be on my character and we couldn’t start off by being deceptive. She knew it; she was just scared. I told her how much it meant to me when she said I respected people. Granted, it had only been five weeks, but long distance intensifies things. You make every moment count, and we’d gotten to know each other very well, very quickly.

  The next morning, I asked, “What was your favorite part of the weekend?”

  “Everything. What was yours?”

  I mentioned the worship song. The sunspots.

  “Do you think the airport guards will be mean enough to separate us?”

  I answered no. They weren’t, and we said a long goodbye. The next time I saw her would be the wedding, August 22nd. In the meantime, the reality of my life in L.A.

  Chapter Six

  My friend Erin came from a broken home. His dad was in and out of jail, an alcoholic. Erin started drinking as a teenager. He ran away, joined the military, got kicked out and ended up in jail for a short stint. He got sober, 12-stepping it, and has been that way for twenty-five years. Erin is very driven, very determined to be successful…and very talented. An advertising executive. He bought a high-rise condo in the Marina, overlooking the water, and a $70,000 Audi.

  He’d arrived.

  Erin bought the condo from a need to feel validated. He wanted to show people he was good enough. Smart enough. I know these things about Erin because he told me. He’s one of the visible faces of Celebrate Recovery. He founded it and has shepherded it during its conception and infancy. He speaks openly and publicly about his past, so I know I’m not betraying a confidence.

  Erin came to faith a few years ago. Sometime later, he met a woman from church, Kirsten. She’s from a family of all believers—overachieving, highly successful. Her father is an elder at his church, and her brother and his wife have attended PCC for several years. Whenever we met for coffee, Erin would say, astonished, “What is this woman doing with me? Here I am, a complete screw-up.”

  Erin and Kirsten married. He sold his condo. He’d fallen into massive debt and Kirsten patiently worked with him to whittle it down. He was granted full custody of his two children from a previous marriage, Natalie and Alex, who are delightful and wear the biggest smiles. Alex always forgets my name and yells, “Who are you, again? I can’t remember!”

  We met at the coffee shop recently. Erin said, “Five years later, I’m nowhere near where I was professionally, but I’m happy. My identity was wrapped up in my stuff. Why did I need a V8? Now, I put my kids to bed and think, ‘I get to be a dad.’”

  Erin’s father came to know the Lord later in life. He visited our Celebrate Recovery group one night and shared his testimony, one that included everything from spiritual attacks to heavy drug use and multiple prison sentences. He leads the Celebrate Recovery ministry at his church in Ventura. It’s comprised mostly of young people, but they respect him. Makes me think there is no age or generation gap when people speak honestly about brokenness. He finished his testimony and sat next to Erin, with Kirsten sitting on the other side. She’d been able to attend that night, as a friend from church volunteered to babysit the kids. I looked at them and thought, “It’s almost scandalous how much grace is being showered upon this table at the moment.”

  Erin speaks of his life and its heartbreak with eagerness, though not without effort. He suffers from anxiety, the main reason he started drinking, and becomes extremely nervous speaking in front of people, no matter how large the group. He agreed to give his testimony in front of the congregation at both worship services. I talked to him before the first. He was jittery and sweating. It made me nervous just looking at him. But he did it, no less. He stepped onstage in front of a combined 1200 people and shared his story…a little rushed, but he often speaks hurriedly when nervous. He told the truth and that’s all any of us can do.

  Why did Erin do it? Why would he reveal embarrassing details of his life in front of hundreds of strangers, when it filled him with anxiety and caused him to lose sleep for fear? There are many things we’ll do for a cause. Erin wanted his life to be a witness and if it meant personal embarrassment, so be it. There have been worse scars to heal.

  King David, a man after God’s own heart, committed heinous sin after walking with God for years, having written hundreds of Psalms. I think we, as Christians, would like to believe David ordered Uriah killed and slept with Bathsheba during his “new Christian” days. The explanation aligns itself more closely with our view of the Christian walk: We start down the road, get better; years pass, we struggle with sin less; before we know it, we can hardly remember the old way of life.

  No, David fell into murder and adultery after following God for years. That’s the point. We stop seeing ourselves as needing mercy, as having to fall to our knees daily in prayer and lament, begging God for forgiveness. It’s a powerful witness to see men whom you’ve known within church walls speak in anonymity, with no judgment, about their struggles. Strip clubs. Men who can’t stop looking at internet porn, drowning themselves in alcohol and dealing with the shame of it. Those who know at any moment they could slip back to an old way of life…that one is never too far along in his faith to be immune from backsliding.

  My friend Owen, a teacher, struggles with pornography to the point of beating himself up for days on end when he relapses. One night, he missed Celebrate Recovery because of a parent-teacher conference. Per his request, when we broke into prayer groups, we called and put him on speakerphone. He said he desperately needed to talk to us that night, that it had been a grinding week for him.

  “Right now, I want to beat something up,” he said. “I feel like the worst teacher in history, like I don’t have any idea what I’m doing anymore. This week, I couldn’t remember my students’ names. I always have every student’s name memorized after the first week. I’m three weeks into the semester and can’t remember them. I know it’s carrying over into my thought life and spiritual life. I’ve been looking at porn and fighting the desire to go to a strip club or get a massage.”

  We prayed for him and told him we loved him. Strength is admitting we are weak. It’s a paradox, surely, but so is the Christian life, marred with paradoxes. When we think others are doing as well as they say they are and we’re dying on the inside, it cripples us. We think we’re the only ones hurting or fighting temptation, so we put on a manufactured smile, a bit too wide to be natural, and keep up the charade.

  Recently, Marshall, our assistant pastor, preached a sermon on the divinity of Christ. For me, it seemed an introductory sermon to Christianity—the Gospel 101. I wasn’t able to focus or pay attention. Part of me thought, “I’ve heard this a thousand times. I’ve got it already. Let’s move on to something more challenging, some theme I haven’t explored yet. Perhaps how to incorporate the beatitudes into the workplace or create a healthy dating environment at PCC.”

  That afternoon, I wondered why I couldn’t concentrate on the sermon. Was it because the Gospel wasn’t fresh? I likened it to a band that wrote a hit song years ago and still plays it in concert. How do the band members keep it fresh after so many years, performing it night after night, show after show? The only way is if the singer believes in the words and the song still moves him. Otherwise, he’ll simply go through the motions, and it will be obvious to the fans in attendance.

  Why does the Gospel grow stale over time? Or at least, stripped to its bare fundamentals, less interesting unless it’s coupled with applications on how to live a dynamic and vibrant life, or foster spirit-filled conversations in the workplace?

  I grew up in a town where most everyone considered himself a Christian, though the churches were often spiritually vacant and crowded only once a year—Easter Sunday. I can’t remember hearing true confession or seeing anyone admit to struggling spiritually. Christianity, for the most part
, was married to morality and politics. A set of rules makes the Christian life go down easier. With morality, there’s less grey area.

  What’s not addressed, however, is the reason behind the actions, the impetus for the behavior. I could get away with anything growing up. I was an angry child with a horrible temper and lashing-out tongue, but I got away with back-talking my mother because I didn’t drink, smoke or have sex. All I had to say was, “At least I’m not like (insert classmate’s name here). He smokes and drinks.”

  That always silenced her. She realized I was right. Town opinion was swayed by public image. Drinking brought gossip. My image in town was better than (classmate’s name), our family name more respected than his. Never mind that my soul was aching, that I was longing for something and lashing out in desperate attempts to fill what was missing. It was a matter of the heart, but one’s image was based on behavior and keeping a good reputation. The trouble with living by grace is that it’s hard. It’s staggeringly hard. It would be much easier to live by morality, a strict code of behavior. It’s how I lived the first eighteen years of my life, avoiding the visible and looked-down-upon sins. Never mind I was a smug, self-righteous jerk.

  When I moved to the West Coast, I thought I had finally found my niche. Not only was Christianity not the norm, it hardly registered on the religious radar. In the Pacific Northwest, the dominant religion is no religion. I found it invigorating, though. I saw myself as Joseph or Daniel, living in Egypt or Babylon, a city filled with people who needed to know the love of God and be shown what the Gospel stood for, not a flavorless morality. When I was growing up, the common teaching was, “Turn your life to Jesus and your struggles will go away.” I saw this wasn’t true. One will still struggle. But in an environment where it’s not discussed, those suffering often drown in secrecy.