Arresting Grace Part 9

I paid careful attention not to make eye contact with anyone speaking. The format was arranged that the person sharing randomly chose the next person. I didn't want to get called on. What would I say? I wasn't sure. I'd probably invent it on the spot, making it quick and unrevealing. Would I say I was an alcoholic? I didn't have a choice, the way the meeting worked. I was fine with saying it. I'd rather say I'm an alcoholic and prove myself not to be than deny being one and turn out to be a liar. I simply didn't want to stand and have everyone know I was there on court order. To them, I'd be another person who didn't want to be there and was only suffering his six weeks until he could walk out and never come back. Thankfully, I wasn't called, though I heard some amazing stories.

One woman introduced herself as Helen, an alcoholic.

"Hi, Helen."

Her husband wasn't a heavy drinker but bought alcohol from Costco in bulk. He went out of town one weekend and Helen drank a case of beer by herself. Ashamed of what she'd done and not wanting her husband to find out, she went to Costco to replace the beer, but the store was sold out of that particular brand. She bought a case of a different beer, peeled the labels off the empty bottles and glued them onto the full ones.

"The things we'll do to avoid being caught," she said.

Though sad, it was one of the more humorous stories. The young girl was called upon and stood. I couldn't have been more wrong in my a.s.sumption. She was only sixteen but had been in and out of asylums and recovery centers since she was twelve. She had attempted multiple suicides but not succeeded. On the bus ride to the meeting, she had been tempted to call a friend in the Marina who was a drug dealer.

"I can see two roads," she said. "The road to heaven and the road to h.e.l.l. Why do I keep choosing the road to h.e.l.l? I still don't know what I'll do when I leave here, but the message I'm getting from this meeting is that I need to pray. And I need to pray for others, not just myself."

I found it comforting the way others in the room supported her. No one belittled her pain because of her youth. In the room were men and women of different age and social status, but the differences were overlooked, if noticed at all. An older man stood. He looked visibly shaken and his voice warbled when he spoke.

"Hi, my name is Paul. I'm an alcoholic."

"Hi, Paul."

"You don't know what it's taken for me to get to this point, standing in front of you all. I'm 62 years old. I never drank before in my life. During the last year, I broke my hip playing basketball, I went through a terrible divorce, and my best friend died of an unknown disease. At first it was to deaden the pain, but I kept doing it. After 62 years of being sober, how could I let this happen now? I've avoided coming here for six months because I didn't want to say I was an alcoholic. It was too painful an admission.

"I spent eleven years in the woods of Southeast Asia. I saw men being shot and killed. These were better men than me. My closest friend had his legs blown off. How come I wasn't injured? Not a scratch. How come I'm still here? It destroyed my faith in a higher power. But now I'm desperate, and I'm hoping to find it."

"I'm called to live between memory and hope," he said.

Chapter Thirteen.

My 39th birthday fell on a Tuesday. Jessie and I decided to celebrate the weekend before. She was co-hosting a mission banquet Sat.u.r.day night and I agreed to help out wherever I was needed. The banquet was in Palo Alto. She'd been wanting to show me Stanford. We decided to spend the afternoon there. She baked pumpkin chocolate chip cookies and m.u.f.fins the night before and presented them to me in a plastic bag.

When thinking of Stanford (or Palo Alto, for that matter), I expected tall redwood trees and a temperate climate. I don't know why. It was simply the image I envisioned. I couldn't have been more wrong. Lush palm trees lined the main street of campus. Dozens of s.h.i.+rtless men and tank-topped women played volleyball, tanned on the gra.s.s and threw Frisbees. So much for expectations. But isn't that one of the joys of life, building an image of an unfamiliar place in our minds and seeing how different the image is from the truth? Palm tree after palm tree, followed by another...followed by another.

We walked through the courtyard. A wedding had just ended and the bride and groom were taking photos with the guests outside the chapel. We waited until they finished and went inside. A crew was setting up for another wedding and we pretended to be guests for the ceremony. We knew we'd be asked to leave; we simply wanted a few minutes inside the sanctuary, awe-inspiring with its stained gla.s.s windows, extensive mosaics and ornate pipe organs.

Jessie spent many nights inside the chapel during her time there. She would sit in one of the back pews, praying and studying the details of the intricately painted ceilings and walls, of the saints and the Christ crucified. I could see the memories surfacing and knew the significance this place held for her.

A woman wearing a nametag approached and politely asked us to leave. Of course. We walked the campus slowly, in no hurry, as she told me stories from her time there. I'd heard her speak of her time in the dorm and the comfort given by the chapel, but seeing the grounds cast it in a more detailed light. We drove to the art museum. Specifically, the Rodin Garden and The Gates of h.e.l.l monument.

Rodin spent thirty-seven years working on the sculpture, inspired by Dante's "Inferno," the first section of the "Divine Comedy." He died before finis.h.i.+ng it. One hundred and eighty figures, representing anguish of every form, pa.s.sing through h.e.l.l's bronze gates.

How does someone invent something like that? How does it foster in his mind? Creativity will always amaze me. Why is it that we stare at a painting for five minutes, fifteen minutes, an hour? What does it speak to us? The spirit of G.o.d breathes through creation-and through art, whether it be sculpture, painting, words or music. Was it on purpose, Jessie asked, that Rodin's Adam sculpture was placed only a few steps from The Gates of h.e.l.l? Surely, but how many stop to consider the implication? All the pain, suffering and bloodshed-the result of one man's fall, thousands of years ago. It's overwhelming to think about.

We studied every face and figure upon the doors. Some placed on the sides of the gates, detached from the company of others. Babies and small children, separated from the grasp of their parents, being hurled into h.e.l.l. So many faces, all in torment and pain. But the sculpture, in its entirety, couldn't have been more beautiful. Beauty through the depiction of suffering. How can that be? We stayed there longer than antic.i.p.ated. Such a solemn work, one of lofty weight, calls for introspection. It can't be dismissed lightly or with a glance.

Before we left, we stopped at the museum deli for a hot dog and old-style Coca Cola. It looked too good to pa.s.s up.

I asked Jessie to go to Banana Republic before the banquet. They had sent me a gift certificate for my birthday and I wanted to get something to wear. There was a store located in an outdoor mall near the campus and we decided to go there.

I loathe shopping. Even more so, shopping malls. If I must go, I will run to the clothes' rack, pick out something in black or brown (possibly navy blue) and leave as quickly as I can. I have more black s.h.i.+rts than I can count. I can't ever remember owning a pastel, certainly nothing with stripes. At Banana Republic, I went straight for the dark-colored sweaters. She stopped me. Urged me to branch out from my comfort zone.

"Alright, I'll make you deal. You get to pick out whatever I buy."

She liked that idea and went to peruse the store. She returned, carrying an armful of clothes. Now, on my own, I would never reach for an orange sweater and would never in a million years consider wearing khakis, the two items she picked out. (To note: I have no b.u.t.t, or at least not much of a b.u.t.t. I've tried everything to get one, but no matter how hard I exercise, my b.u.t.t remains flat. She often teased me for it. I also have a lot of chest hair.) She sat in the dressing room hallway, giving nods of approval or disapproval as I tried on multiple s.h.i.+rts and sweaters, jeans and (of course) the khakis.

I've always considered my father something of a nerd. He's definitely not cool and would admit to not being so. Left to his own devices (and fas.h.i.+on sense), he will wear mismatched socks and whatever castoff clothes my brother and I leave at my parents' house in Tennessee. He gives no concern to what he wears or what he looks like. My mother, however...

She decided several years ago she was going to give him a gentle (perhaps more of a forceful) nudge in the right direction and began ordering him stylish clothes for his birthday and Christmas: tailored pants, Brooks Brothers s.h.i.+rts. I don't think he cared one way or the other, but he gladly wore whatever she bought him. I always thought he should be more a.s.sertive-maybe tell her, "I don't want to wear that...who wears yellow?" or, "I don't like French cuffs."

But I realized, for a woman he adores, a man will gladly (with a smile on his heart) wear something he otherwise wouldn't be caught dead wearing-and he won't think twice about it. Look how far I'd come. I'd not shaved my goatee or moustache in years, since working on the set of the first "Pirates of the Caribbean." Yet here I was at an outdoor mall, trying on khakis and a pastel sweater while sporting a shaved chin. And I'd do it again in a second, with cheer.

It was amazing to see my defenses being stripped away (and to see how many defenses I had). With her, I wasn't cool. I was actually quite a nerd. The former protective instinct of judging myself on appearance was crumbling. Thankfully, she didn't like the way the khakis fit me (specifically, my b.u.t.t) and the sweater was a v-neck and showed too much of my chest hair. But we did find a nice striped s.h.i.+rt and a high-collared sweater that zipped at the top.

I paid for them using my birthday coupon and we left. There was a Pinkberry near the parking lot and we ordered a large serving of frozen yogurt to share, compromising on the toppings. We sat on a stone wall and watched the people walking by. The adjacent store sold men's dress clothes and the mannequin was outfitted with an extra wide tie, a fad currently gaining momentum.

"I could pull that off. The tie, I mean."

She quickly sized me up. "No, you couldn't."

"You don't think I could wear that tie?"

"I can see you in a sleek Hugo Boss suit with a thin black tie. Not that one."

Part of me still wanted to buy it, and I don't even like ties. I only wear them when I have to. Then again, I never thought I'd try on a pair of khakis. We finished the yogurt and hurried to the car. We were running late and still needed to change clothes. I wasn't sure what the dress code was for the banquet but was sure it wasn't faded jeans and a Beatles t-s.h.i.+rt.

We drove to the restaurant, which shouldn't have taken long, but we didn't account for the Stanford football game and got stuck on the main drag in town, watching hundreds of Cardinal fans trekking to the stadium. Who could blame them? It was Stanford's year, ranked in the Top Ten with an All-American quarterback. Home game, beautiful weather...what more could a college student ask for? Finally, we pa.s.sed through the blockade of cars and found the restaurant, a Chinese restaurant nestled behind a quaint shopping center. Lynn and Arthur, the other leaders of the team, were already setting up in the back room.

"This is my friend Michael," Jessie introduced me.

I shook their hands and went to the bathroom to change. When I returned, I asked Arthur what I could do to help. What he needed was for someone to drive to Walgreen's and pick up a roll of developed film he'd forgotten. Jessie and I volunteered, though it meant driving through stadium traffic again. We said we'd be back shortly and left. She still hadn't changed clothes.

As soon as we were alone, she said, "I should have introduced you as my boyfriend. Does it bother you that I didn't?"

We were still in that murky, grey area. We were dating, but at what point did we go from dating to being girlfriend and boyfriend? I thought we were there already but understood her hesitation. Also, Lynn seemed distracted and a shade high-strung. I'm not sure she would have noticed one way or another.

"It would have been nice to be introduced as your boyfriend. It didn't bother me, though. I understand."

"Thank you," she said and zipped the top of my sweater.

We took back streets to the drug store and picked up the film. When we returned, we attached the pictures to the frames Lynn had given us and hung them on displays around the dining room and entrance way. The sun was going down and the guests would be arriving soon. Jessie went to change and, when she returned, she and I manned the ticket booth.

She had ordered luggage tags for everyone who served on a mission trip and we handed them to the volunteers as they arrived. They weren't normal-looking luggage tags and "What's this?" became the common response. Eventually, I began preempting it by announcing what they were. Once the majority of guests arrived and were seated (a few trickling in late), I counted the money and Jessie took a count of attendees. She took my hand and squeezed it.

"Thanks for your help. It means a lot to me."

"It was my pleasure."

We locked the money box and went to the dining room to find our seats.

I've always heard that one can tell a lot about a person by the way her friends react to her. Well, Jessie was a superstar that night, presenting several of the awards and appreciatory gifts. Lynn informed her, without notice, that she and one of the men from the team would be doing a comedic sketch during the presentation, sort of a "Who's on first?" type skit. She took it in stride. They rehea.r.s.ed for two minutes and pulled it off without a hitch.

After the banquet, I offered to help clean up but Arthur insisted we leave. "You flew up here to see Jessie and have spent the entire time working. Leave before you get roped into cleaning up."

I took her hand and we left. Arthur was right. We drove to San Jose, found a cafe still open and spent the rest of the evening drinking tea and talking.

For weeks, Jessie had raved about a Chinese restaurant in San Francisco that served "the best chicken wings in the world." I challenged her on it. I'd been to several I was sure could give it strong compet.i.tion. After church on Sunday, we drove into the city so I could finally try the wings I had heard so much about. Her friend Gene was meeting us for lunch. I hadn't met Gene, but I already liked him. He'd given up his spot at the wedding so I could take her. According to Jessie, he had somewhat of an acerbic personality. He spoke what was on his mind and didn't hold anything back. "It rubs some people the wrong way," she added. But he was one of her most loyal friends and helped her get through a rough time when she was living in San Francisco, overworked and overstressed, putting in eighty-hour weeks.

"I hope you like him," she said.

He was there when we arrived. Shorter than I expected. The hostess seated us and we ordered a plate of wings and some sides. She was right; he spoke his mind, no filter. But I enjoy people like that, somewhat brazen. A friend of theirs, a doctor, had moved to Chicago to become a plastic surgeon. He wasn't enjoying his job and missed California. "At this point," Gene said, "he probably just hangs the women up by their sagging parts, cuts them off and pulls over the rest."

His speech hadn't been churched up, that was for sure. What I noticed, though, was he was incredibly transparent, speaking honestly about his desire to be married, and also the trials of being a single man in San Francisco. But he said those things with an edge, not afraid to speak coa.r.s.ely or drop an occasional curse word. In the end, I saw a man trying to live a good life and wors.h.i.+p G.o.d in spirit and truth. And the chicken wings were everything Jessie had described and more. A sweet, smoky flavor. Gene ordered an extra plateful when he saw how much I enjoyed them. He paid the check (insisting upon it) while Jessie went to the restroom.

"It was good to finally meet you. You seem to get along really well together. You sit with your arms touching. She's got red in her cheeks. She looks happy."

"My friends tell me I have a glow."

We saw her come out of the restroom and pretended to be talking about something else. When she returned to the table, she was laughing.

"The bathroom has a sign over the toilet that says, 'Press here to blush.'"

We joked about the spelling mistake as we left the restaurant. Outside, Gene was going one way; we were going the other. "Don't be a stranger," he told Jessie, hugging her goodbye. I shook his hand and thanked him for lunch; Jessie and I walked to the car.

"What did he say when I was in the bathroom? What did you two talk about?"

"I can't tell you."

She gave me the fake, pouting look she sometimes gave. "Tell me."

"He said you look happy and your cheeks are wonderfully red. Does that embarra.s.s you?"

"Press here to blush," she said.

We drove to the north end of the city. Dinner was a surprise. Our reservation wasn't until 6:00. Until then, we found a cafe in Little Italy and drank coffee and tea while working on a crossword puzzle. On the way to the restaurant, a police car drove by, briefly flas.h.i.+ng its light and siren. How long had it been? Four months? Seemed a long time ago, but it was still raw and something about the reminder of the night in jail and my birthday and financial unrest I was in combined to put me under a cloud. It disconcerted my spirit, though ever slightly. It was minor, just below the skin. I was 95% engaged in our conversation, ecstatic and gleeful to be spending my birthday weekend with the person I most wanted to be with, but it was the other 5% that threatened the evening. I told myself to stay in the moment, to focus all my attention on her, where it should be anyway.

We pa.s.sed a homeless man on the sidewalk. He did a double take, then looked at me and said, "d.a.m.n, you're lucky."

I always got the greatest joy out of hearing that. I knew it was true.

She had done thorough research when choosing the restaurant. Cafe Jacqueline was said to be the most romantic restaurant in the city. They served only souffles. The owner, Jacqueline, had baked every souffle served in the restaurant for the past thirty years. She supposedly sat in the kitchen all night, stirring a huge bowl of eggs. The pathway to the restroom took customers through the kitchen and when they pa.s.sed her on the way, she greeted them with a kind "Merci."

The server placed our jackets on the coat rack and sat us at a table by the wall. A small table, intimately lit. I was at a romantic French restaurant in San Francisco on a lovely Sunday night, two days before my birthday, with my favorite girl. It was a dream moment, but I was heavy-hearted for some reason. Was it getting older? The DUI? Was I feeling unworthy of this woman and her affection? I didn't know. I'd probably say it was four months of conflicted emotions: the anxiety and uncertainty of the future trying to wrest the joy I was receiving from both G.o.d and her. It had no place here; but in this life, doubt and fear often have no rightful place at the table, but they find a seat anyway. I couldn't let that happen.

We ordered the crab souffle for an entree. I began talking. I didn't know what I was saying, simply expressing the words as they arose. From heart to lips. I needed to tell her what I was thinking and feeling, for fear of becoming withdrawn. She'd done this for me, taken me here, and I wasn't going to mar it by being withdrawn or uncommunicative. I expressed what was on my heart, even if I didn't know myself. Surprisingly, I went back to our first weekend together-after I'd been arrested, how I didn't know if I'd be able to come see her.

As I spoke, I reflected on my life. The words I remember were, "It's grace upon grace. Mercy after mercy." I realized if I hadn't been arrested, slept in jail, been forced to take AA meetings and the court-ordered program, I might have spent that weekend trumpeting the years I'd served in church or the Bible knowledge I'd accrued. But it would have been vain trumpeting. Doubtful I would have spoken with such honesty and rawness. Had I not been broken in such a manner, I didn't know if I would be with her then. I didn't want to find out, either.

For dessert, we ordered the Grand Marnier souffle. Jessie excused herself to the restroom, primarily to see if the rumors about Jacqueline were true. She returned shortly, wearing a smile that verified them so.

"I have to see this," I said and walked through the kitchen door. Sure enough, an older, pet.i.te woman, stirring a giant bowl of eggs, smiled at me and said, "Merci."

When the Grand Marnier souffle arrived, we didn't speak for several minutes. Words were replaced with "mmmms" and "ohhhhhs." She rolled her eyes in disbelieving pleasure. "I won't say what I was thinking. It's scandalous."

"I know what you were going to say."

"It's...o.r.g.a.s.mic. The only word I can think of to describe it."

She was right. It was o.r.g.a.s.mic. The best dessert I've tasted, quite surely.

After dinner, we stood on the sidewalk and kissed. A man walked by and said, "Nice kiss."

We laughed. I put my arms around her and squeezed her tightly. "Thank you for a wonderful birthday."

"Thank you for being who you are."

We walked to the car, several blocks. Her stomach had begun to cramp. It had been hurting sporadically throughout the weekend. We turned by the waterfront, heading to the bridge, and she asked, "Will you pray for me? I'm in a lot of pain right now."

I did, on the spot. I put my hand over her arm and prayed. "Thank you," she said when I'd finished.

At the hotel, she gave me a card, with instruction not to open it until my birthday. It was the first thing I did Tuesday morning. On the front, she'd written, "Things I like about my Michael Joel." On the inside of the card, she'd listed thirty of them, the two I'm willing to share being: Shares his bacon with me and His heavily-underlined Bible It's the small things, those we don't antic.i.p.ate. The moments we could have never planned. It's not the grand vacations, though they are wonderful and worthy of the room in our sc.r.a.pbooks and money they require. But who can understand the human heart, moved to affection by a gesture, warmed by a "thank you," a kind salutation from a friend?

Chapter Fourteen.

Walter was married for eleven years. At the time, he owned his own business and was doing well financially. He and his wife lived in London and other parts of Europe. After she died, he went to help a friend with his struggling business. The friend ran a treatment center, consistently operating in the red, and asked Walter for financial advis.e.m.e.nt. What Walter found was he enjoyed working with the patients-all creeds and races. He'd been an addict himself. He went back to school to get his masters degree in addiction therapy and changed careers. He's not well-paid. He does it because he enjoys it. Some of the other 541 instructors around town have been accused of taking money under the table and signing cards for the students without them showing up for cla.s.s. Walter knows many of them, but said he would never do what they were doing because he cares about his students. From what I'd seen so far, he was telling the truth.

One night he asked, "Why do we get drunk, wake up with a terrible hangover, tell ourselves we won't ever do it again, but eventually do it again? I don't know the answer. Is it something in our spirit? It's like if I jumped off a cliff, fell and broke every bone in my body, then climbed back up the cliff and did it again. Why do we do it? Again, I don't know the answer."

Someone said, "Peer pressure." Others agreed.

I spoke up. I was compelled to-it was too good of a question. "Take the focus away from drinking. Imagine if someone has just p.i.s.sed you off, insulted you and made you furious. In that moment, you can't calm down. Someone can tell you to relax or to think clearly, but your knuckles are turning white. You can't think clearly. Or imagine two teenagers making out. In that moment, all the s.e.x-ed cla.s.ses in the world won't help. They can't stop. Everyone here has been to AA meetings. That's the first commandment, or whatever they call it: G.o.d needs to restore us to sanity. We're not sane in that moment. It's the same with alcohol. We want to numb the pain of life. We say it will only be a drink or two, but we want to keep the feeling going so we drink more. Before we know it, we're hung over again."

I told them of a friend of mine, Doug, who left his wife and daughter a little over a year ago. Doug was a pension administrator. On the outside, very self-sufficient, very secure. According to him (and his worldview), success and happiness were determined by one's work ethic and choices. No other factors came into play. His thinking was, "Everything I have is what I've earned." It gave him the right to judge others. When he saw those living homeless on the street, he dismissed them. "They made their choices."

After his separation, Doug became depressed. He couldn't sleep from crying every night. His doctor put him on lithium.