Arresting Grace Part 5

"Be careful."

"I will, I promise."

The plan was to drop me off at the hotel while she went home and dressed for the wedding. It gave me an hour. Should I take a shower? I only woke a few hours ago and hadn't done anything that would cause me to sweat. I decided against it. I made ready my gift bag for her: a box of tea (I'd researched shops in West L.A. and found one that carried several types of green tea, her favorite), several packs of her favorite gum, chocolate bars and a 2-CD compilation mix I'd made. We could listen to it on the way-it was an hour-plus drive into Berkeley.

I watched a few football highlights on television, changed into my suit pants and s.h.i.+rt and brushed my teeth. The day before, Jon and I had finished Chapter 11 of Acts and I decided to get the jump on him and read Chapter 12. In that chapter, Herod imprisons Peter. "But the church was earnestly praying to G.o.d for him," the Scripture says. That night, an angel visits Peter and says, "Quick, get up." The chains fall from his wrists, and he and the angel walk out of prison. Peter says, "Now I know without a doubt that the Lord sent his angel and rescued me."

I knelt at the bed and prayed. "G.o.d, you work miracles. You free people from prison; you can do anything. You are bigger than my problems or circ.u.mstances. Would you write the pages of my life from here on out?"

She called when she had arrived and I went downstairs to meet her. She was stunning. A pink dress, accentuated by the up-do. I told her I'd be careful but had to give her a hug; she looked too good not to. I put in disc #1 of the compilation mix and we drove to Berkeley. I didn't know what was going to happen or where we stood in our relations.h.i.+p, but I wasn't going to press the issue. We could talk about it on Sunday. Today was her friend's wedding. Besides, the drive was playful and fun. She'd won her court case and was eager to tell me about it. I managed to get us lost in Berkeley, for which she teased me. We found the correct address and arrived at the park early.

Jessie was overweight as a child. Being chubby and new to the area, she didn't have many friends in school. Dar befriended her when few did. I wanted her to enjoy seeing her friend get married. We'd have our time together, but for now I was there to support her, which, at the moment, meant opening the gate for arriving guests while she handed out programs. An older couple arrived. She introduced them as the parents of Anthony, the Best Man.

Anthony's father was a divorce lawyer in San Jose. Had to be early 60s, still in his hippie stage. The fingernails of a guitar player, though he didn't play. Rings on every finger, gold bracelets stacked to his elbow. Long hair (He still had his hair, which was impressive). His wife looked to be his female counterpart. Flowing silk dress. Braids peeking through the locks of hair and a tattoo on her shoulder, barely showing itself from under her dress. Jessie gave them both a big hug. She hadn't seen them in several years, as with most of the guests here. Some in over a decade.

The ceremony was what one might expect from a Berkeley wedding, held in an outdoor amphitheatre in a densely wooded park. One of Dar and Elliot's friends from college was a cla.s.sical guitarist and performed the music, while Elliot's aunt, wearing a bonnet, officiated the ceremony. During the exchange of vows, she asked, "Do you, Dar, take Elliot to be your husband, for richer or poorer, impotent or potent?"

After the vows, Benjamin, the guitarist, played the song "Faithfully," as one of Dar's bridesmaids sang the solo. She was off-key most of the time, but by the second chorus, the bride and groom had joined in, as well as the rest of the wedding party. By the end, the wedding guests were singing along. I've been to more weddings than I can count. I've heard "Be Thou My Vision" played dozens of times; I've sung in a handful. This was the first time (and probably the last time) I'd heard Journey played at a ceremony. I found it refres.h.i.+ng.

The wedding, however, drained me. I don't know why. There was a host of reasons, I'm sure. The uncertainty of last Thursday, the reasons still unknown (though I had my suspicions), meeting dozens of new faces, not to mention I've never felt comfortable in a suit. That sounds trivial, but when a person is comfortable, he feels more confident and secure. I'm more of a jeans and t-s.h.i.+rt guy. Following the ceremony, Jessie introduced me as her friend. I'm sure it prompted some to wonder as to the nature of our relations.h.i.+p. I didn't resent being introduced as a friend but would have liked to have been introduced differently.

There was a two-hour wait before the reception. We told some friends of hers we'd meet them later for a bite to eat. I ditched the suit jacket, Jessie changed into flip-flops, and we went to explore the arboretum. It was good to be alone together and I felt my energy return. I took two pictures of her in front of the rose garden. She made me delete the first and let me keep the second.

We were the only Christians at the wedding. Having both grown up in the church, we thought it strange, and perhaps sad, to see a wedding void of any reference to Christ. Or sin. Or the church. Why was it, we asked, that the Christian divorce rate was higher than the secular culture's? Neither of us had an answer, the only explanation I could offer being that we over-a.s.sume the blessing of G.o.d and start taking things for granted.

We met her friends Wayne and Karen at the restaurant they'd chosen. When the food arrived, Jessie bowed her head and silently prayed. After we finished our burgers and basket of sweet potato fries, we told Wayne and Karen we'd see them on the boat and went to find coffee. We saw two cafes, almost side by side, one serving Blue Bottle, my preference, and the other serving Philz coffee, a brand she claimed was equal to Blue Bottle, if not better. I ordered a cup from each. She decided to give me a blind taste test and told me to shut my eyes.

I scoffed. "There's no way I can lose this challenge. I'd know Blue Bottle anywhere."

She handed me the first cup. I wrinkled my lips. "That has to be Philz. No way is that Blue Bottle. It's terrible."

"Okay, here's the next one."

She handed me the second cup. I sipped it and smiled. "That would be the Blue Bottle. It's like going from the slums to the penthouse."

I held the cup high, with a grandiose gesture, turned on my heels and headed up the street. I looked to see if she was following. She wasn't. She was laughing, instead. She'd tricked me. Both had been Blue Bottle. She hadn't switched the cups. The only thing for me to do was laugh with her. Like I said, she was much smarter than me.

We joined the other guests at the marina. After boarding the yacht and briefly mingling, we gathered on the upstairs deck for the meal. The waiter served wine to our table. Jessie asked for a gla.s.s of red; I asked for Chardonnay. I made conversation with two women across from me, Colleen and Melissa. Colleen was from L.A. Her parents owned a Santa Monica restaurant with which I was familiar. Jessie kept me involved in the conversation at one end of the table, while the rest of the time I spoke to Melissa and Colleen. The wedding party entered and sat at the head table. The waiters served the food and refilled the wine. The guests toasted the newlyweds with great speeches. "Open bar," Elliot announced. "Let's go downstairs and get the party going!"

The staircase was narrow and steep. Coupled with the rocking waves, the walk downstairs proved tricky. I went first and then helped Jessie. We stopped at the bar. She ordered a gla.s.s of red. I saw a bottle of Hennessey and perked up. It's Jon's and my special drink. Years ago, I flew to Chicago and drove to a small town in the middle of the night to help his band sell merchandise at a popular music festival. The first night I was there, Jon and Randy (the ba.s.s player) and I went to a nearby restaurant for dinner. Jon thanked me for coming and ordered us each a shot of Hennessey to celebrate. Since then, whenever we see each other, we toast the other with a shot.

"Make it a double," I told the bartender. It was a wedding, after all. A cause for celebration.

"Are you going to be okay?" Jessie asked.

Such power through simple words. I was at a wedding reception on a chartered boat, a beautiful night out, clear skies (though a brisk wind), with a woman I was starting to adore. Nowhere else I'd rather be. Why would I need a double shot of Hennessey? I dumped the gla.s.s and led her to the dance floor.

I have great memories from that night: Jessie and I walking to the front of the boat, the wind blowing strongly, the boat cruising at top speed, and putting my arms around her; singing "Bizarre Love Triangle" by New Order into her ear; slow dancing with her. What I remember most, however, is talking with the hippie dad at the end of the night.

"She's an amazing woman," he said. "I hope you know that."

To be respected and loved, by friends and family, non-Christians and Christians alike, I can think of few higher praises. My answer was quick: "I know."

The next day, Pastor Ken preached on Mary and Martha, the sisters who welcomed Jesus into their home. In the pa.s.sage, Martha remains distracted during Jesus' visit, performing numerous tasks, while Mary sits at Jesus' feet and listens to what he says. Martha asks, "Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her to help me." But Jesus answers, "Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things, but there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her."

Pastor Ken made several good points, included among them the idea that we should live in the moment, being present with others. "Quick to hear and slow to speak," he said. "We never know when someone will be leaving our lives and should always be ready to enjoy the gift of friends.h.i.+p."

After the service, Jessie and I discussed places to eat. She wanted to take me to a cafe in Los Gatos known for its French toast. "The best you'll ever have," she said. "They make an apricot French toast I know you're going to love, especially with your sweet tooth. Will you call and see if they're open?"

I found the number and called. They were open but the average wait time was thirty minutes. Hardly a matter. Spending time with her was easy.

We were on the second CD by that point. The last song I hear often gets stuck in my head. This time it was a song by Wilco. I only knew a couple of lines but sang them repeatedly, and was still singing them long after we'd parked and walked to the cafe. There was a stream of people waiting outside. The sun was blaring and most were sheltered under the few available umbrellas. I put my name in with the hostess and, surprisingly, she called us right away. We didn't know how it was possible, but weren't about to complain and sat at a table in the corner next to the condiment trays. She asked about the children's fantasy book I'd written.

I read somewhere that Springsteen, when asked about making his "Born To Run" alb.u.m, said it was his "shot at the t.i.tle." That resonated with me. In the life of an artist, there has to be that one work that consumes him. His shot at the t.i.tle. My first book was mine. I wanted to write a book that would move people emotionally. I wanted it to appeal to mothers, as well as kids. I made it long and stuffed with fun, loaded with ambitious themes-but also heavy-handed and way too melodramatic. What I failed to realize was that middle-grade kids don't want to be moved emotionally, nor do they care for ambitious themes. They want all action. All fun.

I told her the story. "I didn't realize it was so detailed," she said.

I quoted one of the sappier lines to her.

"You are so melodramatic," she teased.

"Oh, just wait. There's more."

She laughed. I paid the check and we left the cafe, holding hands and swinging arms, while I sang the only two Wilco lyrics I knew and quoted lines from my overly dramatic first book.

I had reminded her to bring a blanket that morning, as we wanted to spend the afternoon at a nearby park. She'd forgotten. All we had available were her sleeping bag and a metallic-looking tarp, rolled up. We found a spot near a tree and I spread out the tarp. Unrolled, it looked like a giant sheet of aluminum foil. Between that and the sleeping bag, we were going to be very warm. It was the first time we'd been able to sit and talk with no place to go, no rush to be somewhere else. The park was jammed with people, but that's what we enjoyed, people watching.

A man has a difficult time knowing how much of his past to divulge to a woman. I'd talked to several of my friends about this: How much do you reveal to your wife or girlfriend? I received different answers. A few still hadn't told their spouses certain parts of their pasts. ("Some things she doesn't need to know.") Some told their wives everything. For me, I decided there were important things Jessie needed to know, some more serious (mistakes I've made) and others that might sound silly but highlight the person I was at the time. For example: I have porcelain veneers on my top front teeth.

All too often, acting success is based on qualities like one's appearance. I remembered what Jessie said on our first date: "I feel more vain here." It's true. Los Angeles will do that to a person, especially one pursuing a film career. When I was pursuing it, I spent most of my money with the question in mind, "Will this help my career." Porcelain veneers were a large chunk of those dollars.

"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 G.o.d 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 dealers.h.i.+p. 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 relations.h.i.+p. 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 G.o.d 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, 'G.o.d, 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 G.o.dly man? A G.o.dly 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 G.o.dly 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 a.s.suredly. 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 G.o.d, 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 friends.h.i.+p. I was young, fresh in my faith, living free, living loud-pa.s.sionately and vibrantly. It's easy for the years to slip away when life is lived with pa.s.sion 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 G.o.d has called me here to be a witness." But often what we mean is, "G.o.d'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 G.o.d. 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 G.o.d would make it so. I continually grew downcast and disillusioned when opportunities fell through. For a beginning actor, the smallest and most ba.n.a.l 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sion, that there's often not much left over for relations.h.i.+ps, be it with G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d; 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 G.o.d was of an enormous, active G.o.d, wielding His miracle-working hammer-which is correct, and I need to believe in that G.o.d. 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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, "G.o.d, I need you." I empathize with that prayer. I don't need a back-pocket G.o.d, one who only shows up on Sunday morning. I need an all-intrusive, consuming-fire G.o.d who takes control the helm of my life. For too long, I heard Christians parroting cliched slogans-b.u.mper sticker sayings for a b.u.mper sticker culture-when it seemed they didn't have any idea what the slogans meant or why they were saying them. "G.o.d is my co-pilot." "Know Jesus, Know Peace." I grew to despise the cliches. Without a doubt, the one I despised the most was, "Let go...and let G.o.d." 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 plat.i.tude of "Let go...and let G.o.d." I was able to divorce the meaning behind it (trusting G.o.d 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 b.u.mper seem to attract trouble?" She had hit a concrete divider and her b.u.mper 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.