Arresting Grace
Page 6
I told George about the book I was writing and mentioned what an encouragement Robert had been. Robert is George’s best friend and godparent to his sons. He’s read every book I’ve written and given me invaluable criticism and feedback. George knew about the book—Robert had told him, and paid me a compliment as well. “Mike’s one of the best writers in our group,” he said. “It comes naturally to him.”
George needed to leave and we said goodbye. Friends with families keep different hours than those without. “I want to thank you for sharing,” he said. “It’s good you’re able to be so open about it. If you don’t mind, can I tell Summer? I know it will be encouraging for her.”
“Of course not. I trust you and Summer implicitly.”
Saying that made me realize: I trusted most of the people there implicitly. It was why the rumor hadn’t circulated throughout the church. I’ve been exceedingly blessed to have so many trustworthy and amazing friends.
I listened to the band play one more song but couldn’t shake the idea of buying a harmonica for Jessie. I checked the time. Ten o’clock. Doubtful any of the music stores around town would be open but it was worth a try. I said goodbye to a friend standing next to me, Marshall, then ran to my car and drove to the Guitar Center on Westwood. Closed. I drove to West L.A. Music. Its clientele was more blue collar and party-going—maybe it stayed open late. No such luck. I was determined by that point to buy a harmonica. I’d have to make time between Serve the City and the airport. Hopefully we’d have enough volunteers to finish early.
It was my third year leading a project. PCC organizes Serve the City every July. Dozens of service projects sprinkled throughout the city, teaming different churches in the area to serve those in need. The first year, my group went to a missionary’s home near USC for what we were told would be light landscaping. We spent eight hours demolishing his backyard. Saw-sawing chain-link fences; busting concrete with a jackhammer. Most of us had never used a jackhammer before and several had worn flip-flops, including two of the girls, who couldn’t have weighed more than ninety pounds each. I almost screamed when I saw my friend Nash using the jackhammer, its tip only an inch away from his sandaled foot. I’m convinced the missionary would have worked us until midnight if I hadn’t intervened and told him we were following a curfew and could only work another half hour.
The next year, I searched for a project not as demanding or time-consuming. My team partnered with a group from Reality L.A., a church in Hollywood I’d heard good things about, to serve at a home for senior citizens in Torrance, grilling burgers and playing bingo with the residents. I asked Jason if he’d come and play music, and he and three of the women in the group sang songs while the residents ate lunch.
This year, I was reaching for the middle ground, a balance between the two. I decided on the Central City Community Center. The center, located on Skid Row, provided outreach and shelter for homeless children and their parents. We would be cleaning and painting, making general repairs. Again, I’d partnered with a group from Reality L.A. and also asked my friend Annie to co-lead with me. I almost felt guilty—Annie had probably done twice the work I had. She bought all the supplies and food, including two huge sandwich platters from Costco.
I arrived an hour early. I met Brenda, the woman in charge, and she showed me around the facilities, informing me that the center was infested with cockroaches. Annie arrived with the sacks of food and supplies and I helped her carry them in.
I didn’t anticipate the number of volunteers that showed up. I had picked up fifty t-shirts earlier that week, but between the Reality and PCC groups, we were thirty short. Many of the volunteers stood around with nothing to do, trying to appear busy. We had the room painted before noon, all the roaches killed and the computer room cleaned. All that was left was minor scrubbing of the restrooms and a few odd jobs. Nothing for Annie or me to do except bark orders and I was able to leave as soon as we broke for lunch, for which I was grateful. I had a gift to buy.
I sprinted to my car, dirty and sweating, but even more excited, and navigated my way out of Skid Row and downtown, onto the freeway and back to Westwood to the Guitar Center. The salesman talked me into buying the most expensive harmonica in the store. Fine. I paid for it and left. I was cutting it close. On the drive home, my windows were down and the receipt flew out the window. I contemplated turning around but decided against it. I got home, showered, changed clothes and finished packing. My friend Doug picked me up and drove me to the airport.
Chapter Five
This was my second trip to see her. I was surprised how nervous I was at the airport. The flight was delayed, which gave me extra time to overthink things. I called Jessie to tell her I’d be late. Her parents were out of town for the week and the house was “unusually quiet,” she said. She was making a cake for me. She also mentioned having cramps.
“This should be a fun weekend,” I joked. “Maybe I should go back now.”
I told her I’d see her in an hour or so and went to board the plane.
I think my worry was, “Will it still be there?” Of course, what was it? Connection? Chemistry? Whatever one wants to call “it,” it was there with Jessie and me. Undeniably. But most of our communication was over the phone. I think my worry was it wouldn’t be there when we were face to face. C.S. Lewis said friends stand side by side, but lovers stand face to face.
When I started performing, I struggled terribly with nerves. The fact I became so nervous caused me to doubt myself, the talent I had. Surely true professionals didn’t struggle as much. I tried any trick imaginable to calm myself and get rid of the nerves. I finally realized, after stepping onstage enough times, that the solution wasn’t to get rid of the nerves but to embrace them. Everyone gets nervous—this is what I’d failed to see. In situations where the stakes are high (be it a play, concert, or flying four hundred miles to see the woman I was growing increasingly fond of), it’s not only nervousness, it’s adrenaline. It’s passion. I can’t deny it or try to quash it. I need the nervous energy. It lets me know my heart is alive. What a sad existence it would be if we never had moments that filled us with life and energy and hope. Was it going to be there when we saw each other? I didn’t know but was excited to find out, and I spent the hour on the plane talking with God, thanking him for the chance to spend the weekend with such an amazing woman. Though we’d only known each other five weeks, I couldn’t imagine a more joy-filled time.
She was standing by the car when I stepped outside. I knew right away—there was no need to worry. It was there. I gave her a huge hug. I didn’t know how it was possible, but she got more beautiful every time I saw her. We stood at the curb holding each other. The one thing I’d come to appreciate about San Jose International, aside from shorter lines and more lenient security, was the freedom to park curbside and not worry about getting a ticket for kissing one’s girlfriend.
We’d discussed Korean barbeque for dinner. It was getting late so we went directly to the restaurant. The line was long and Jessie asked the hostess, in Korean, how long the wait would be. An hour. No big deal. We decided to do what any couple would do, given an hour’s wait: We’d get dessert first. We drove to a local gelato store and split an order of tiramisu. It wasn’t very good but it’s the company that matters, and besides, we had a lot of catching up to do. She asked about the project. I told her everything we’d done—the cleaning, the painting. She was grossed out by the roaches.
“You know,” she said, reaching into her purse, “when you joked about it not being a fun weekend, I almost decided not to give you these.”
She pulled out two tickets. Dodgers vs. Giants. Sunday Night Baseball. ESPN. Rivalry game, both teams battling for the division title. The game had been sold out for weeks. She bought the tickets off Craigslist, paid double for them. I didn’t know what to say. She’d done that for me? It took a few seconds to get over the surprise. I leaned over and kissed her.
When Rankin met his wife, he told me, “M.G., I o
ut-kicked my coverage with this woman.” Though an obscure football metaphor, the meaning is simple: She was out of his league. Well, I was out-kicking my coverage with Jessie—and then some—but was going to enjoy every minute of doing so. What excited me most about the baseball game was we’d be taking the train into the city. I’ve always enjoyed train rides. There’s something peaceful and lulling about them.
We left the gelato store. I asked her to open the trunk so I could get something out of my suitcase. My gift didn’t compare to Dodgers/Giants tickets, but I still wanted to give it to her. Her face lit up when she saw the harmonica.
“I love it!” she exclaimed. I opened the box for her and she played several notes. “You get a kiss for that.”
On the way to the restaurant, she kept it on her lap, putting it to her lips while stopped at red lights. “Do you think I’ll get a ticket for driving and playing at the same time?”
“My friend Graham puts a brace around his neck so he can practice in the car.”
“That’s what I need. The next time we see each other, I’m going to have a song learned for you.”
The dinner was good, not great by any stretch of the imagination. (I’m spoiled by living in Los Angeles with several dozen Korean barbeque restaurants.) We were both disappointed with ourselves for eating so little. An all-you-can-eat buffet and we’d hardly put a dent in it.
“Do you know what we could do after this?”
I took a couple of wrong guesses. “Truck and tractor pull?
“Nope.”
“The ballet?”
“Nope.”
“I’ve got it! We can rent a horror movie and watch it at your house.”
She nodded.
Secretly, I’d entertained the same idea. I asked for the check and gave the waitress my credit card without looking at the bill.
“Let’s get out of here.”
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d entered a video store, much less the “Horror” section of one. We spent more time laughing at the cheesy titles than searching for a movie. The selections were limited (the horror genre not being what it used to be) and we wanted a movie neither of us had seen, which further shrank the options. We chose a movie about a haunted house in Connecticut and took it to the counter. The cashier was a heavy-set man in his late 20s with “Madden 2010” painted on his face. Once outside, we laughed about it.
At her house, I saw a large, free-standing refrigerator in the garage and asked, “What is this?”
“It’s a kimchi refrigerator.”
“Can I open it?”
“You can, but I wouldn’t. It smells pretty bad.”
I opened it, of course—and quickly shut it. I should have listened.
While the water for tea was boiling and cake was heating (chocolate lava with fresh raspberry sauce), she gave me a tour of the house. I convinced her to play a couple of songs on the piano, which was out of tune and never touched except when her nieces came over and banged on it. She made fun of my passport picture, which looked more like a mug shot.
We took the tea and cake upstairs to the TV room and put in the movie.
We didn’t expect it to be very good—and it wasn’t. As said, it’s the company that’s important. So many times, we need to fill our evenings with the most acclaimed dining and entertainment. I would argue it’s because we don’t trust that two people sitting together on a couch, doing nothing, can be more emotionally fulfilling than the finest entertainment. That isn’t an excuse to be lazy; there’s a balance one needs to find. But for us, we’d known each five weeks and had seen each other less than a handful of times. I didn’t want to spend too much time looking at the side of her face while she was driving. I wanted to sit and talk, laugh with her, and continue to get to know her.
She asked, “Why do you think we are connecting so well?”
I’m fascinated by the way humans connect with each other, especially as it concerns dating. It seems there is often attraction but no friendship, or friendship with no attraction. I had never connected with someone on all four levels—spiritually, physically, emotionally and intellectually. This was different and I’d been quick to notice. Obviously, there was physical attraction. We enjoyed looking at each other, holding each other. But we also spoke with intimacy and depth, which struck on an emotional level. I knew her well enough to know she was a woman moved by words and by speaking on the level of the soul. Intellectually—well, she was much smarter than me. I won’t deny that. As for a spiritual connection…
I’d been leading a Bible study on the book of Daniel. What I found most compelling was the way Daniel consistently deflected attention from himself and put the focus on God. It was God who revealed the meaning of the king’s dream, God who had given him wisdom. Daniel always exalted God over himself. Any lasting relationship, at least one I desired, was one that pointed to God, the author of our faith. Here was a woman who loved God and loved others. It was obvious.
“That’s why we are connecting so well,” I answered.
She asked, “What’s the best compliment you’ve ever received?”
I took my time before answering. We peppered each other with many questions, some light-hearted and answered off-the-cuff, some given careful consideration. For this one, I dug deep for an answer. Two came to mind. The first was Robert’s from the night before. Robert is a close friend and brilliant writer. If he says to change something, I change it. Delete it, shorten it, whatever he suggests. My first book was a children’s fantasy book. I had no idea what I was doing, simply learning on the fly, finding the speed bumps as I drove over them. I sent the first fifty pages to him with the simple question, “Is this worth pursuing?” I was still acting but my passion for it had disappeared (not for the craft itself, but the frustration that accompanies it).
After reading it, Robert answered, “I’m way impressed by the depth of this. I’m proud of you for doing this, Mike, just following the urge, following the story. I’m looking forward to reading more.”
It inspired me and gave me a clean conscience to give up acting. I’m stubborn and don’t believe in quitting anything, but after his encouragement, I was able to. I saw it as trading one artistic vehicle for another.
Anyone who has pursued an artistic endeavor knows how fragile confidence can be, especially in pursuits where success is determined by the subjective tastes of others. An artist can feel he’s on top of the game one moment, like an imposter and fool the next. It’s not healthy to need continual validation—an artist is never in a sound place unless he’s developed thick skin—but an occasional compliment, delivered at the perfect time, can do wonders for inspiration.
Robert’s was the first compliment that came to mind because I heard it the previous night, but it wasn’t the best…not even close. That’s a vocational compliment. It’s secondary, meaningless in the long run, the sweeping framework of our lives. In the end, all we have are people and memories. Our lives will be measured by those we’ve known, loved and have been able to bless. There was only one answer to her question. My best compliment was given years ago and none since had come close.
I worked in a coffee shop in Seattle for three and a half years while playing in bands. In those days, I was on fire spiritually and it carried over to how I interacted with people. The coffee shop was on the second floor of an office building, occupied by a software company, law firm and several adjacent businesses. I served a regular stream of customers, probably two hundred every day, and kept a notepad under the cash register that I filled with customers’ names and information they told me about themselves (where they were from, interests, etc…). I read through the notebook daily, memorizing it. When one of my regulars entered, I’d usually have his drink ready by the time he got through the line to order. Customers often invited me to lunch or to go out with them after work. Several nominated me for “Best Barista in Seattle.” I’d hang out with anyone, anytime, especially if I could steer the conversation toward faith and God.
“I’m a Christian,” I said.
“Oh, I know.”
It caught me by surprise. “How did you know?”
“It’s obvious,” she replied.
I still get chills when thinking about it. The best compliment of my life, at least up to that point. I didn’t know I was about to receive one that equaled it.
“That’s one of the first things I noticed about you,” Jessie said. “You respect people. It shows. It’s not done with ulterior motives.”
It was hard to believe the compliment in the coffee shop could ever be replaced, but I think it was at that moment. I don’t know how the rest of my life turns out on this fickle earth, but I hope when it’s all said and done, one day when I draw my final breath, those who knew me will say I had a deep respect for people.
I turned the question around on her.
“I’d probably say it was when someone told me I had a big heart and an inner beauty that matched the outer.”
“Who said that?” I feigned ignorance, wanting to lighten the mood. Not too much, though.
“I forget.”
“I meant it. It’s been a joy getting to know you.”
It got late. Time seemed to disappear when I was with her. Every time I said, “Five more minutes,” thirty would pass. At 3 a.m., she drove me to the hotel, though I didn’t fall asleep until much later, recounting the moments of the evening, the joy from them, the heart blush I was feeling.
The next morning, Pastor Ali, the assistant pastor, was preaching. “Our circumstances,” he said, “can weigh us down so heavily that all we see are those circumstances. But if we focus on the character of God, the circumstances will take a healthier, smaller perspective, in light of God’s power and love.” Again, the sermon met me exactly where I was in my life. After the service, Jessie and I walked to the front to meet him. I thanked him for his words. We said hello to a few of Jessie’s friends but left as soon as we could. We had a train to catch—but not before we watered her parents’ yard.