Arresting Grace

by Michael Joel Green

  “The hard truth is it takes money to live in this world. It’s always going to be an issue. You’re in for a long, hard road—probably several years. It’s going to be an uphill battle. But it’s up to you. You have two choices: You can stay in or you can get out now. It’s up to you. If you stay in, you need to know what you’re in for.”

  “How does that make you feel?” he asked.

  This was my life. I couldn’t snap my fingers and switch to someone else’s. Part of me wanted to disappear, to be anywhere but there. But it was a small part. When I believe in something, I’ll fight for it. When I think something is virtuous and wonderful and see the potential of what it could be, I don’t give up. Perhaps it’s stubbornness and God knows it’s bitten me in the past, but I don’t give up. I wasn’t always like that. I quit several things in junior high and high school. I went out for football in eighth grade. I lasted one week, after getting my butt kicked by Reggie Lyons, who chased me after the whistle had blown just to knock me down. The coaches encouraged him. I guess they saw me as a short, over-privileged white kid. I also quit freshman basketball. All I wanted back then was to play basketball—again, the short, skinny guy. I became the team manager instead, to my embarrassment, having to wipe the floors during halftime while my friends looked on from the stands. That was many years ago. With those as the exceptions, I couldn’t remember the last time I quit something. Somewhere down the line, my skin thickened. My resolve strengthened. The one blessing of pursuing endeavors based on subjective tastes—one must become tough because he’s going to get knocked down over and over again. My attitude was, “I may get knocked down, but I’ll get up that final time and be the last one standing.” That is, for something I believed was worth it.

  I have a strange part of my personality. When circumstances get hard, I daydream of running away. “Through the nearest exit,” I call it. I picture myself disappearing, slipping away to some small coastal town, working in a bait shop or fishery and living out the rest of my days in simplicity, with resignation and no expectations.

  Was it a possibility? Would I really do this? Not a chance. It would be quitting. When I left Seattle, I knew it was the right thing to do because I was running to something, not away from something. There’s a sea of difference. Running from something is quitting, giving up. Running to something is living by faith, trusting in the Lord that He is bigger than one’s circumstances or problems. I enjoyed every day I lived in Seattle. Yes, there were difficult times. I was a new Christian, struggling to figure things out. I went through spiritual attacks and oppression, suffered scars that took months, if not years, to heal. But the suffering never diminished my endearment for the city and my church and friends. I wasn’t running away from problems, disappearing because I couldn’t endure them anymore.

  Sitting in Pastor Ken’s office, I allowed myself a moment to imagine. Quitting before the going got tough—really tough—which, according to him, was how it would play out. Did I really want to endure that? To suffer such slings and arrows? I imagined saying goodbye to her…a final kiss and I’d be gone.

  The thought didn’t last long. In fact, the imagining is what made my spirit downcast. I had come to know her in my life. Trying to imagine her not being there was agonizing. There was never a chance I would take that road. Never a passing doubt, an ounce of hesitation. This woman was worth every insult I could bear, every fight I’d have to engage. Up until then, I assumed we’d be together. We were too good not to be. But meeting with Pastor Ken made me realize: Nothing is a given. Our obstacles were deeper than I knew, and the financial hurdle was the biggest to overcome and the one I hadn’t dealt with over the years. Now, I realized the failure on my end to create a career for myself could very well cost me the healthiest, most dynamic relationship I ever thought possible, one that pointed to God at every step and sought integrity and holiness. It hurt. It hurt like hell, actually. Had I been that much of a fool? And was I going to pay the steepest price for my foolishness?

  We wrapped up the meeting. Jessie and I were joining Young in San Mateo for dinner. Pastor Ken prayed for us and walked us out. I thanked him again and told him we’d see him at church the next day. It was a quiet drive. Listening to the thrum of the tires on the road, the rain spitting on the window. She asked what I was thinking.

  I spent a moment collecting my thoughts. I wanted to speak wisely. I told her about the “through the nearest exit thing,” but assured her there was never a chance I’d take that road. It was a fleeting, escapist thought, but nothing more than that, a passing moment and one I’d dismissed as quickly as it came. I told her she was worth it and that wasn’t going to change.

  I expected the meeting with Pastor Ken to be difficult. But I also believe hard words make for soft hearts, and soft words produce hard hearts. Though the words sting, they heal. It was the sting I felt during that ride to San Mateo. It left me with fewer words than normal. The good thing was Young knew (at least partly) of the situation. I had told him we were meeting her pastor to discuss these issues, so if I seemed somber or subdued he’d understand why.

  To recap, let me count the ways in which I’d screwed up:

  DUI

  Sacrificing career

  Wasting talents

  No, take that one back. Anyone who knows me understands how hard I’ve worked trying NOT to waste my talents. Dan recently told me I was one of the hardest working guys he knew.

  “You bust your butt,” he said. “I respect you for it more than you know.”

  He had no idea how much I needed to hear that. I’ve given everything I have trying to bring out my talent, to let it flourish, and in the meantime, always making time for friends and church relationships. I’ve spent myself and given everything for them. I can honestly say that. If I have a legacy on this earth, it’s my friendships and relationships. I can’t barter with financial success or business acumen, but I can make my case based on those I’ve known and loved and given myself for—and the blessings they’ve given me in return.

  Sometimes I wish I’d never heard the quote by Augustine. If I hadn’t, maybe my living conditions would be improved and my retirement plan better diversified. But I heard it and it exploded inside me. “Trust God and do what you want to do.”

  I’ve spent a lifetime running somewhat carelessly, free-spirited, whatever one wants to call it, always with a vision in my head and sprinting to make it happen, pushing myself. But I was starting to realize these were bigger issues than I imagined. PCC is an almost even split between Caucasian and Asian-American. Although many of my friends are Korean, I didn’t realize the cultural impact. For so long, I’d seen myself as the artist type—the creative, soulful bad boy. But if it was a selling point when I was 30…31, 32, maybe, it was an obstacle now, something I hadn’t dealt with and had to deal with. Soon.

  It was raining the next day. Heavy rain and a heavy heart. For me, that was, still shaken by the thought that my actions over the last fifteen years could cost me the heart of such an amazing woman, with whom I enjoyed a close-knit bond, able to speak freely the thoughts in my head, the words I wanted to say, and who enjoyed hearing them and put me at ease. I started crying. I tried to stifle it but it didn’t help. I never knew I was soft until I met this woman.

  “What’s wrong? Why are you crying?” She looked devastated.

  “I can’t imagine not being with you. It hurts.”

  We held each other in the parking lot. Not much said. More silence than speaking. Perhaps it was better. Sometimes words only get in the way. One of the qualities of our relationship I appreciated most was that neither of us was afraid of silence. We could look into each other’s eyes without saying a word, without being embarrassed and having to laugh or look away. I often said if I could find a woman who wasn’t afraid of silence, I was going to make her mine.

  Driving home, the wind over the pass was so bad it blew my car from side to side and I had to white knuckle the steering wheel with both hands. Took seven hours to
get home. Snowing on the Grapevine…semis filling the highway. Rain coming up from the ground and sideways from the sky. I listened to the double-CD Christmas mix she’d made for me. Maybe there’s grace to driving in the elements: All of one’s focus is spent on staying on the road and in one piece. There’s no room for thinking of other matters.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The week of Christmas began my Hard 30. Several in the 541 class were driving on suspended licenses. Louisa had been doing it for a year and I was fairly certain Courtney would take the same approach. I’ve read that thieves, after robbing a place, will set the cruise control to 2 mph over the speed limit because they know their adrenaline will cause them to accelerate. The opposite is true for those driving on suspended licenses. An overly attentive sense of caution causes them to decelerate. In my case, it didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to do it, anyway. Sherrill offered me her bike and drove it over to my place to deliver it, along with Jason’s gift to me, a box of See’s chocolates and Tim’s Cascade jalapeno potato chips. He knew me too well. I memorized the bus schedule to work. Biking and bussing…my life for the next month.

  That night was the last of my three-hour classes. One hour for the next three weeks and I’d be done. Benton brought potato chips for the class. He put the bag in the center of the floor where everyone could reach it.

  “For the first hour,” Walter announced, “I want to go around the room. Tell me your favorite Christmas, the best gift you’ve ever received and the food you enjoy most during the holiday.”

  Benton was the first to speak. His mother died when he was in sixth grade.

  “How old would you have been?” Walter asked. “That would have made you about twelve, right? That is tough.”

  “My memories of Christmas are of my mother and father and me. After she passed, Christmas was never the same. Oh, and my best gift? The best gift was a Nintendo. I played the heck out of that thing.”

  Samantha piped up. “Those things sell for a fortune. You should eBay those puppies!”

  Courtney was from Virginia and missed the southern cooking. Her stepmom in L.A. was a hard-core vegan, and she was always glad to go south and load up on meat.

  “Virginia has some of the best barbeque,” Walter said. “When do you leave?”

  “I fly out Sunday morning. I get into Alexandria at 4:30.”

  “From the airport to Alexandria, with no traffic…you should be okay. It shouldn’t take more than, say, forty-five minutes.”

  “Hopefully there will still be some wine when I get there. Someone better have saved me a glass.”

  “What about you, Charles?”

  “I miss the barbeque, as well.”

  “What meat do you use?”

  “Beef and goat.”

  “I’ve had goat in Kenya,” said Walter. “It’s okay, but what I really like is the cheese there, so I think it’s better to keep the goat alive.”

  He addressed the class. “I was in the country for two weeks. Guys, you’ve never seen a sunset until you’ve seen a Kenyan sunset over the top of an acacia tree. And the people there are some of the most beautiful people you will ever see. The Masai tribe. Tall, angular features. Beautiful dark skin. I doubt they are celebrating Christmas, though. They worship a tribal religion.

  “What was your favorite gift?”

  “I’d have to say it was a bicycle. But they were all good. My brothers and sisters and I looked forward to Christmas more than any other day. We got new clothes on Christmas and my mother would let us wear them to church. I still miss it. It’s summer there now—not too hot and never cold.

  “Perfect,” he added in a Swahili accent.

  Javier, an advertising executive, said he didn’t have a favorite Christmas but always enjoyed the holiday because his family traveled to Mexico City for it. Tamales, the lights and singing—they made for fond memories. “I remember it being a lot of fun,” he said.

  “Michael?”

  Being from the South, I missed cornbread stuffing. On the West Coast, people serve oyster stuffing, which is a shame. When I go home, my mother will always have cornbread stuffing hot out of the oven as soon as I step through the door. “And, of course, I miss pork barbeque. Memphis has the best barbeque in the world. No offense, Courtney.”

  My favorite Christmas? I wasn’t sure. I’d narrowed it down to two. The first: when I was young, elementary school-aged. My uncle’s family from Florida came to visit and it snowed on Christmas Day. We took my cousin Heather outside and made a snowman in the yard. The second: when I was living in Seattle. My sister’s kid, Asher, was a baby at the time. I stayed up late one night watching a year-in-review montage on ESPN, accompanied by a song I had always liked. Asher woke in his crib and began crying. I picked him up and walked him. When I put him down again, he cried. If I held him and sat in the chair, he’d cry. The only way he didn’t cry was if I walked him, and I did that most of the night. That’s the Christmas I told the class about. Something about the ESPN montage, set to one of my favorite songs, and walking Asher while everyone was asleep. It’s a special memory for me.

  As for my favorite gift, I’d also narrowed it down to two. One of my favorite songs is New Order’s “Regret.” Jon knows this and that week had sent a song he’d written and recorded for me: his own version of “Regret.” I was bowled over by the gesture. However, I didn’t know if the other students would appreciate it as much as I had, so I went with something safe. “My Atari 2600.”

  “You can sell those for a fortune!” Samantha, again.

  “I'm staying here this Christmas, though. All of this being a big part of the reason.”

  Walter interrupted. “Well, I have to say this—it’s my job. Our choices affect others, as well as ourselves. I had one student tell me, ‘It’s about me and nobody else.’ ‘No,’ I told him, ‘it’s not just about you.’ What we do affects those we love, both time-wise and money-wise. Your family members won’t get to see you now. You’ve taken that opportunity away from them.”

  Samantha was next. Leave it to an actress/karaoke host from Vegas to steal the show. She’d been in a three-girl choir in junior high. “The Bobbie Dazzlers.” She said it in a booming Australian accent. “We wanted it to sound exotic. Our coach was Marlene Tibbs.” Samantha began speaking in a raspy, hoarse voice. “She was old-school Vegas. Chain smoked while she was singing. That’s about the most she taught us, how to smoke in between the songs.”

  “What did you sing?”

  “Showstoppers,” she belted out in a loud vibrato. “We sang as loudly as we could, yelling on top of each other. It was like Ethel Merman trying to harmonize with three of herself. We sang at slot parties and backyard barbeques.”

  “What’s a slot party?”

  “What, you don’t know what a slot party is? Come on! A slot party…you know, all the seniors with their cards for the slot machines. The hotel would set up a buffet for them and we’d sing. Here we are, twelve-year-old girls singing for the old people in the casino while they blew smoke in our faces and Marlene yelled at us (raspy voice again), ‘Good, darling! Sing louder.’

  “That Christmas, Marlene got us a gig. Wait...are you guys ready? Hold on…that’s right, Steve Saka’s Christmas special on TV! It was the local public access channel, mind you, but TV, nonetheless! The Bobbie Dazzlers were hitting the big-time. Steve Saka hosted it every year. The only people who watched were grandparents, but we didn’t know that. This was our chance. We took sweatshirts and turned them into dresses. Sequined them from top to bottom and sewed imitation fur around the collars. We sang all the standards. (In a loud vibrato) ‘Walking in a winter wonderland,’ (Singing) ‘Sleigh bells ring, are you listening?’

  “My dad couldn’t stand Steve Saka. He worked at his casino. ‘Steve Saka-you-know-what’ is what he called him. ‘That son of a…,’ my dad would say in his slurred, Italian accent. ‘He doesn’t tip and he’s a jerk to his employees.’

  “After that, we decided to change our name to �
�Immortal.’ Bobbie Dazzlers was outdated. ‘Immortal’ was going to be our big break. Then Amy Ferguson left. Moved to New York to make it on Broadway. That was the end of our group. Marlene died a few years ago. Lung cancer.”

  “What ever happened to Amy Ferguson? Did she make it on Broadway?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I can picture her now, auditioning. ‘But don’t you know who I am? I was a Bobbie Dazzler!’”

  “Louisa, what about you?”

  (Good luck following that. Probably best to keep it simple.)

  “My favorite part of Christmas is giving gifts to my children. I enjoy seeing the looks on their faces.

  “My mother was a gourmet chef,” said Walter. “Every year she cooked for a local shelter. Over a hundred and fifty people. And this wasn’t your typical food. I’m talking chicken cordon bleu. My mother was an amazing cook. I asked her once, ‘Why do you do it, year after year?’ I knew how much work and cleaning went into it. She said, ‘The look on their faces.’

  “My wife, on the other hand, couldn’t cook a thing. She tried one year to make Christmas dinner from scratch. She made empanadas. Her mother came over and took pictures of it. I’m dating myself here, but she used an old Polaroid Instamatic. My wife was so proud of herself when she finished. She wanted me to try the first one. I bit into it and lost a tooth. No, not really...but almost. It was bad. I mean, really bad.