Arresting Grace Part 10

"Why is this happening to me?" he asked. "I can't get happy."

I said, "It's easy to be hard-boiled in the morning. At night, it's another thing."

I'd quoted Hemingway. Walter, to my surprise, quoted Christ. "Judge not, lest you be judged." I wasn't expecting that.

Angelica, a Brazilian woman who had lived in France for several years, was arrested for mixing alcohol with her cancer medication. She was working a catering job (She manages an Italian restaurant) and made the mistake of drinking half a gla.s.s of champagne after finis.h.i.+ng. She'd completed several weeks of the 541 cla.s.s but went into such a heavy depression that she left cla.s.s for three months. She couldn't deal with the strain and despondency of her life-the sickness and the arrest. This was her first night back. When I mentioned Doug, she scoffed and shook her head.

"It's not a choice. It's a disease."

I was still thinking about these things when I got home. Is it a choice or a disease? Obviously, it's both. But that's the point: The answer's not black and white. We have to explore those moments when it stops being a choice. The a.s.sumption that we're all playing on a level field. That was Doug's thinking. But when his life went to h.e.l.l and back, all the beliefs he held about control and IRAs flew out the window. It was just him, an empty studio, an 18-inch television with fuzzy reception and nowhere to go, no one to hold. It's in that moment that grace either steps up and saves us, or disappears into the cracks of the studio wall. It's in that moment, when we're white-knuckled and about to have the third drink that pushes us over the edge, or when our spouse has insulted us and we're furious, that we don't hearken back to the s.e.x-ed cla.s.ses or the pre-marriage counseling. It's in that moment we need grace. It either steps up or shrinks back, leaving us to folly, to respond to our spouse with hateful words or to take out the last $7 in our pocket to give to the bartender. These are the moments they don't teach us about in Sunday School, the ones they don't warn us of in youth group. But they're the moments that define our lives.

What was wrong with me to make me behave as I did? Later, when I traced back the cycle of events, I remembered something that happened the week before my arrest. I'd recently met Jessie and was excited at the thought of getting to know her. The book I'd been working on for a year was taking shape, enough so that I could realistically be finished in the upcoming weeks. After a great night of writing, I was struck with the thought, "My s.h.i.+p is coming in." I walked outside, praying, "Lord, thank you. Would you give me grace and direct my steps?"

Sometimes, however, it takes a crus.h.i.+ng blow to get our attention, especially for us stubborn types.

I thought I was in a good place-mentally, spiritually and emotionally. But we have our blind spots and that's what we fail to recognize. We see the folly of others and are quick to find fault. My grandmother (G.o.d rest her soul; I love her and still remember lying in her bed the week before she died, weeping as she told me those things) was one of the prudish, most judgmental women I've known. Once, my sister's baby was running through the house naked after a bath and Granny yelled, in a crackled voice, "Beverly, I can't believe you let her do that."

With a downturned mouth, we mature in our spirituality.

When I was first getting to know Jessie, the way we communicated was over the phone. There's no subst.i.tute for the real thing-holding a woman, cuddling with her-but words were the instrument I had so I riddled her with questions. One of the best answers she gave was when I asked her the one quality she hopes to still possess when she's an old woman. I thought maybe she'd want a youthful appearance or to be able to climb stairs without her knees creaking. I didn't expect the answer she gave, though now, having known her, it's the only one I would expect.

"I hope I'm still laughing," she said.

Her answer struck me. She asked me the same thing.

"I don't want to be one of those old men with a downturned mouth."

What smiles, to laugh as children, unenc.u.mbered by fear and regret? What would it be like to run free in the wind?

Somewhere my grandmother is in heaven, enjoying a world without the curse of sin, loving the Lord Jesus, wors.h.i.+pping and singing songs of wonderful praise...and I hope I'm not discrediting her legacy on this earth. But she was wrong. There is nothing wrong with a child running naked through a house. Anyone can see that, but we have blind spots. After years of bubbling ourselves in the safety of the church and casting judgment on those outside, we stop smiling and our expressions take the shape of scorn. We lose our joy. Perhaps it's because (or at least partly because) we've stopped embracing mercy. And grace. And it seems almost impossible to avoid.

I don't know the answer to Walter's question. I don't know why some of us jump off the cliff again and again. I don't know why we become hardened and jaded and disappointed. I could point to sin and the curse of Adam. I could stress the materialism of America and attribute it to a sense of ent.i.tlement. But I don't have an easy answer. Walter mentioned the "creep" during my first cla.s.s. I decided to explore the Christian creep, at least that's what I named it. The same way a drunk creeps back into old habits, a Christian creeps back into legalism and self-righteousness, with maybe a sprinkling of bitterness, as well.

When I was working in the coffee shop, I knew every customer's name, birthday, dog's name, favorite ice cream...whatever detail I could learn. That period of my life was marked by joy and pa.s.sion. I couldn't believe the grace I had found. It overwhelmed me and flooded my soul. I wanted to talk to everyone I could. Why did I quit doing that? Why did I stop writing in the notepad? Did I grow sour? Was it disappointment because I hadn't become a rock star? Had G.o.d deprived me what I was due?

It's worth mentioning my grandmother's mother. Mamaw, we called her. She lived in a nursing home in town and my mother took my sister and me to visit every week or two. Cathy and I hated going-it scared the daylights out of us. Mamaw was old and cranky and the nursing home reeked of urine. Mamaw claimed she hadn't sinned in fifty years, not since becoming a Christian.

It's an absurd claim, but that's what Granny grew up with. The more years we spend in the church, the more insulated we become with fellow believers who look and talk and dress the same as us. We rarely see the big-ticket sins being committed, the ones making the Top 10 lists. Over time, the prayer requests in our small groups strike more disingenuous and hollow.

When PCC was small, still meeting in the Seventh Day Adventist church, we went once a month to serve ice cream at a homeless shelter in Santa Monica. One night, we met a man there: Stefan, a transvest.i.te. He started coming to church on Sunday. Every week, he sat in the front row. He attended our Bible study. It was great. We enjoyed having him.

We have an image of how a Christian is supposed to look, and we try to model the church and its people accordingly. But we forget one essential truth: grace. That Jesus received the tears of the harlot rather than the praise of the Pharisees, the moralists of his day, should leave us floored. It begs the question: What if a harlot walked through the door of one of our churches?

Perhaps it's the only question that matters. If she's received without judgment, with open arms, it's a good indication that church understands grace-and the Gospel.

I came to faith at age 23. I grew up a Christian. I had been baptized, been on Young Life trips, had those mountaintop experiences where I felt the presence of the Lord. But it never stuck. Once the feeling wore off, I went back to the same person I was before. One summer, on the bus ride home from Windy Gap, Young Life's most popular trip, a friend asked, "How do we keep this going when we get back to town?" We truly desired to.

But one always has to come down from a great height, and we soon found ourselves slugging through the mire of high school life and Windy Gap was forgotten, a breeze of what could have been. The set of rules and image we were supposed to uphold was too difficult. Seems like it should be easier in a town full of Christians. We went to college and most of us fell apart. I didn't go to church once during college.

Several years later, I went home for Christmas. This was during a season of life, living in Seattle, when I was as fervent as I'd ever been. I kept a copy of "Pilgrims Progress" with me at all times and read every book I could get my hands on regarding the Christian faith. I was playing in the band, leading Young Life, even coaching the Roosevelt junior varsity tennis team. I'd like to think it was all G.o.d's doing. I don't know who else to give the credit to. As soon as I stepped through the door, my mother wrinkled her face in disgust and told me how horrible my hair looked. It was halfway down my back in those days.

I had visions in my head of sitting down with my family members and discussing matters of faith and G.o.d. My parents and siblings are Christians-surely we'd spend the week sharing our testimonies and praying together. Yet, the first thing my mother said was, "You look horrible." Wrinkled mouth; eyes casting scorn. It was all I heard for days, how terrible my hair looked and how I used to be such a handsome young man.

There were no lofty prayers or epiphanies that week, no "let's heal our broken relations.h.i.+p" moments. Simply a constant nagging about my hair. Finally, my father, who'd been pressuring me all week to get it cut, threw the guilt card at me.

"You know, she does a lot for you. You could at least show her you love her by giving her what she wants."

So I went and got my hair cut. My father had made it a test of how much I loved her. She was overjoyed when I came through the door with a nice "man's" haircut. I guess I'd proven my love. And when relatives came over or we went to church for the Christmas Eve service, I took out my earrings.

"Oh, thank heavens," my mother said. "Now I don't have to worry about anyone thinking you're a girl."

I went back to Seattle after the holiday, wondering if there ever existed those great "understanding" moments we dream of, when parent and child finally reach an appreciation of the other and connect on that deep, familial level emblemized by television and books. I had the sneaking suspicion it didn't. Maybe the answer was simply to return home once a year, keep the peace without any major blowups, and get on the plane and go back to the place where you're comfortable and people with whom you're accepted. Besides, parents are too stuck in their ways. They don't change.

Chapter Fifteen.

For the week of Thanksgiving, we decided to have a potluck in the 541 cla.s.s. Each of us signed up to bring different food items or drinks. I was bringing drinks and a side. I didn't expect much. The cla.s.s was a revolving door of students, none of whom wanted to be there. (Gerald, incidentally, had long since disappeared. I don't know what happened to him.) I forgot all about the potluck until an hour before. Thankfully, I had time to stop at the grocery on the way.

I saw Alan in the lobby waiting to pay. He'd been in our cla.s.s until a week ago. He was 40 with a wife and two kids. He never drank (at least that's what he claimed) but went to a party with his wife several months ago and made the mistake of having two c.o.c.ktails and driving home. Last week, he had been involved in a fender bender, having briefly looked down to change music. When he went before the judge, the judge extended his 541 sentence to the 18-month cla.s.s.

"How's your wife holding up?" I asked.

"She's a superstar. I wouldn't have gotten through this without her. She's a lot stronger than me, that's for sure."

I paid the fee, the woman behind the Plexiglas buzzed me through the door, and I rounded the corner into the cla.s.sroom. I couldn't have been more wrong with my a.s.sumption. Walter's desk was covered with food and drinks. Angelica had brought a huge tray of turkey, mashed potatoes and stuffing. One of the men, Hector, brought two sacks of homemade tamales. Others brought macaroni and cheese, rolls, more potatoes, and desserts.

Two new students were starting that night. Charles, a nice-looking man from Kenya, well-dressed and well-spoken (Walter quizzed him about his home. Walter and his wife had visited Kenya in the early 90s and enjoyed it immensely. He'd made a doc.u.mentary about it-Walter's main hobbies were photography and video editing.), and Benton, a commercial realtor who had the look of a used car salesman. The faux-silk s.h.i.+rt, unb.u.t.toned one b.u.t.ton too many, the polished shoes a shade too s.h.i.+ny, the overly gelled hair. It was his second DUI. His lawyer was still trying to get him off, which is why he wasn't enrolled in the 18-month cla.s.s yet.

"Fingers crossed," he showed us.

There's always that one type of person we initially don't like. Benton's was mine. The smarmy, forced smile. Collar a bit too wide. I was upset at the thought of him being cleared of a second DUI charge and having no worse record than mine. Getting a first DUI was terrible...my regretful mistake. But a second? What kind of person did you have to be to screw up that badly?

He'd been driving with a suspended license for three years, having never completed his first 541 cla.s.s, which further bothered me. Plus the fact I didn't like him, at least his appearance and mannerisms. Salesmen and disc jockeys-the two people I mistrusted the most. Both were pretentious, I thought, making a living off being fake. No one talks like a disc jockey in real life. I secretly hoped Benton's lawyer wouldn't be able to get him off and he'd pay the full penalty for his arrest.

Walter poured himself a cup of Diet c.o.ke. "Charles and Benton, you picked a good week to start cla.s.s. Though I hope this doesn't cause an unrealistic expectation. We don't do this every week."

Three of us served food to the others. It was easier that way, rather than having a cl.u.s.ter of bodies surrounding Walter's desk. I served Walter last. He requested an extra helping of yams.

"Angelica, these potatoes are delicious. How long did this take you?"

"I started early this morning."

"I've been doing this a long time," Walter said, waving his finger flamboyantly in the air. "And this is the first time we've ever had a Thanksgiving potluck. I've said it before, this is the closest-knit group I've ever had, and I've been doing this for fifteen years. See, it's about what you put in, and also what you decide to get out of something. I have some people in cla.s.s, they sit and watch the second hand the whole time. It must be miserable. Look what they're missing out on."

Angelica was leaving at seven-it was her third-to-last cla.s.s. Before she left, she said, "Does anyone want to take some leftovers?"

"Hold on," said Charles. He reached into his backpack and pulled out an empty Tupperware container. Everyone laughed; it was almost too perfectly timed. The new guy who happened to bring an empty food container with him. The topping on a delicious moment.

We went around the room saying what we were thankful for. Friends, family and loved ones. Being employed during an economic recession.

"Look at this cla.s.sroom," said Walter. "Look at Angelica. A month ago, she couldn't get out of bed she was so depressed. Tonight, she cooked dinner for the cla.s.s. I never stop marveling at the human spirit. Our ability to endure. Not only that, but to be able to count our blessings in the midst of our suffering. I'm sixty-three. I've had my share of joys and accomplishments and I've had my share of heartaches. I'm very content with my life right now."

I haven't been home for Thanksgiving since college. I live too far away. I've been blessed, however, with generous friends and have never been without a dinner invitation. Often, it's been more than one. For the past few years, Nash and I overextended ourselves for Thanksgiving, accepting invites to several places. Two years ago, we visited three different meals, spread over the city, from Hollywood to the Valley to Culver City. Last year, we stayed on the Westside but still managed to fit three parties into the day.

This year, George and Summer had gone to Colorado to visit George's parents. Jason and the family went to Oregon to see Sherrill's family. I stuck to one invitation-TJ's. I hadn't seen him in a while and was eager to reconnect. He was hosting a huge mid-afternoon lunch for fifteen to twenty people.

My prayer for the weekend was the same as it had been since July. The small things, those moments of grace-that's what I wanted to see and what I prayed for. There were no big happenings at TJ's, simply catching up with friends, many of whom I'd lost contact with. Life happens. People come and go. It's a truth of living. We stayed there until late-some watching football, some sitting by the fire on the outside patio, talking music, life...some congregating around the kitchen counter, filling up on snacks and drink. We should take these moments; we never know how many we'll get. My life was changing. I didn't know where I'd be this time next year. So much was unwritten and uncertain. It was possible this could be my last Thanksgiving in L.A.

It was late when I returned home. I changed and got ready for bed. At eleven, my phone buzzed. An instant message.

"h.e.l.lo, my favorite Michael Green."

"h.e.l.lo, Jessie."

"Tell me about your night. Or rather, write me."

"Let's see. Went over early to help TJ set up. Was a big group, 18 or so. Huge lunch, lots of football, hanging outside by the fire, reheating turkey for dinner."

"Sounds wonderful. Especially with the football."

"I knew that was the main selling point. That's why I tucked it in there. Now, tell me about your day."

"Let's see...my sister and her family came over early to help cook. My tasks were spinach dip, a green bean and roasted tomato salad, other veggies, gravy, and whatever else needed my special touch."

"Who came over?"

"Bunch of people from my parents' church and Evelyn. After dinner, Alice led everyone in champions.h.i.+p matches of Wii."

"What sports did you play?"

"Bowling, swordfights, canoeing."

"They have canoeing and swordfights now? I would love to swordfight."

"Alice kicked my b.u.t.t in all of the above. I got seriously worried when she played the sword fighting one. She puts 110% into that game."

"She must have logged some serious Wii hours."

"She was working up a sweat. I thought she was going to dislocate her arm. She moves her legs really fast, too."

"Are they asleep yet?"

"Yeah, Alice is asleep in my bed. Steph is downstairs with my mom. I can't sleep with Alice because I'll be black and blue tomorrow morning. She kicks big-time."

"That's the way I am, too."

"Uh-oh."

"It's like I'm playing Wii kickboxing."

"Have fun playing by yourself."

"Nice comeback. I set you up for that one. How did your spinach dip turn out?"

"Same as always, excellent. Did you eat a lot tonight? How is Feed L.A. doing?"

"I ran this morning because I knew what was coming. Feed L.A. hit the big-time today."

"I'm glad to hear it's going well. Makes me happy. Are you on your computer or phone?"

"In bed on the phone. Just turned over on my stomach."

"Thanks for the play by play."

"Where are you?"

"On the couch upstairs. Are you going to sleep soon?"

"No."

"I was going to ask you something."

"Ask me."

"Tell me five things you're most thankful for this year. I don't have to be in there."

"If I do, will you do the same?"

"Of course. Must get my power cord, though. Computer is going dead."

"Alright, I'll be thinking."

"Okay."

"I may not do it in a list, but as I think of them."

"That's fine."

"I'm grateful for friends.h.i.+ps that have longevity. Today was the anniversary of me moving to L.A. and I realize I've had amazing friends for the duration of that time. It's a nice reflection, especially when so many relations.h.i.+ps are quick to disappear."

"That's a great one. Why did you move to L.A. on Thanksgiving? I recall you telling me that."