Arresting Grace Part 3

When Nick was going through his ordeal, the one thing he said that struck me was, "It's the limbo that's hardest to deal with." I was finding out what he meant. My lawyer was trying to get my July court date postponed, meanwhile pet.i.tioning the DMV to transfer my hearing to Irvine, where his office was located. Supposedly the Orange County DMV was more forgiving than the Los Angeles DMV. The only thing for me to do was wait. And keep my pa.s.sport ready.

The waiting was tougher than imagined, not knowing what was going to happen, trying to figure out who to tell and how much to tell. I still couldn't bring myself to tell anyone what my blood alcohol content was. It was too shameful. People looked at Nick with scorn and he'd only blown .08%, the legal limit. No way was I getting off with a reckless driving charge. Every day, I'd see the "Pugliese" heading in my group of email folders and get a sick feeling. My instinct was to ignore it. Out of sight, out of mind? Perhaps. But I couldn't afford to ignore it. The trouble wasn't going away anytime soon.

In the meantime, Jessie and I talked on the phone every night, growing more comfortable with each other. I'd pepper her with questions, some silly, others serious, trying to learn all about her. She'd answer the question and turn it back on me.

"The person who asks the question doesn't have to answer," I joked. "That's the rule."

But I answered. Every time. I wanted her to know all about me, too.

Life was slowing down and it was a welcome change. I couldn't wait to get home at night and call her. Her oldest friend, Darlene, was getting married in late August and the reception would take place on a boat, cruising the San Francis...o...b..y. Darlene (Dar, for short) and her fiance, Elliot, had hired a karaoke DJ and asked each wedding guest to prepare a song to sing. Jessie and I spent hours, over several nights, discussing potential songs for her. She has a lower singing voice and gravitated toward folk-rock songs with male vocals. "Lodi" and "Desperado" were her favorites.

As for seeing each other, she'd agreed to come down at the end of the month for Serve the City. The thought of us doing a service project together gladdened my heart. However, a few days later, she called and said she wouldn't be able to come after all. "This month is too busy with work and church commitments." I told her I understood, but sensed she was pulling back.

I knew we were at a crucial point in the relations.h.i.+p. There was the spark of a flame and I needed to fan it, lest it extinguish. I called her from work the next day and asked if I could fly up after the Serve the City project. It would be a shorter trip this time, but I wanted (and needed) to see her.

She was surprised, and somewhat impressed. "I want to see you, too."

I hung up and went online to buy a ticket. I'd registered for Southwest's Rewards program and was excited to start working toward my free flight. I booked the flight and hotel, again the Best Western Alameda. She called immediately afterward.

"Do you a have minute?"

I walked into the hallway for privacy.

"I don't know if it's a good idea for you to come up. I'm not sure it's practical and think maybe it's best if we stopped now. I'm afraid if we keep going, we're going to end up hurting each other. If it's not going to work out, why continue?"

I considered her proposal but countered it. "I've already booked the flight. Let me come up. We'll talk about it and see what happens. I really want to see you, Jessie. Besides, we might find we can't stand each other after this weekend. Then the decision will be made for us."

That made her laugh and she agreed to the plan. She would pick me up at the airport Sat.u.r.day afternoon and we'd have the rest of the weekend together.

That week, my friend Elizabeth called and told me Neil Bradford was playing a show Thursday night.

Neil is a singer/songwriter from Alabama. When I was living in Seattle, I listened to his music a great deal. He wrote great lyrics, mostly faith-based stuff, but was always real and honest and forthright in his writing. He said in an interview once that he wrote from a "theology of the fall." I related to that idea. I've been writing songs for fifteen years and have tried to incorporate those ideas into my songwriting-honesty, brokenness, but all the while redemption. Unfortunately, Neil's voice was a touch annoying and every song started to sound the same after a few alb.u.ms. I stopped listening to him over the years.

Neil was married with two sons. He even sang of his wife and boys in the lyrics to my favorite song of his. He'd never made any money from his music. It wasn't commercially marketable. He was in his 50s. I a.s.sumed he had quit by now, which is why I was surprised to hear he was still touring. Not only that, he was playing at The Tattered Leaf coffee shop. I played there regularly when I was performing. The owner, Rick, was a pastor in Venice-probably early-to-mid-thirties, very friendly, very mission-oriented. The coffee shop never made a profit but Rick saw it as his ministry. I told Elizabeth I'd go.

When I walked in, Rick recognized me immediately. It had been almost five years. I asked how the church was going, how his wife and kids were. He asked if I was still playing music. Said to let him know if I ever wanted to play a show there. I briefly entertained the idea but quickly dismissed it. Different season of life. I saw Elizabeth and her brother sitting at a table near the stage and joined them.

My first impression: The place was nearly empty. Neil had driven cross country for this tour, playing mostly coffee shops and local churches. I counted eight people (excluding us) in the audience, and two of those were working on their laptops, seemingly unaware a music show was about to take place.

I learned he'd divorced his wife a few years ago, the circ.u.mstances unknown. Shortly after, he married his backup singer, Carly. Now it was the two of them on the road, Neil playing harmonica and guitar, Carly playing keyboards. When he stepped out of the makes.h.i.+ft dressing room, I was shocked how haggard Neil looked. I'd met him several times and he was always upbeat, spry, and for lack of a better word...hopeful. He looked around the room, visibly upset by the spa.r.s.e attendance. He shook his head disgustedly and disappeared backstage.

By the time he reappeared, a few latecomers had trickled in, but not many. He played a nice mix of old and new material, but his voice was tired and more grating than I remembered. A heckler, who appeared drunk and homeless, made several rude comments until Neil finally stopped singing and addressed the man. "We're trying to play for you. You can quit talking and enjoy the show or you can leave. Those are your two choices."

The man mumbled under his breath and left. Neil resumed playing.

Neil was a history teacher before quitting to pursue music. He's a natural storyteller and, that night, took several minutes in between songs to tell the motivating stories behind them. Many were based on historical events or figures- Harry Truman, Pica.s.so and Sylvia Plath. Listening to his stories kept me in rapt attention and I thought several times if he'd quit spending all year on the road and write a book about his experiences, the potential would be limitless. Unfortunately, the addiction to performing dies a slow death, and often leaves one broken.

He told the audience he and his wife were homeless at the moment and living out of their van. The tour was scheduled for three months but he didn't know where they would live after that. He was always confessional in his music and I didn't know if he'd told us that because it was his nature or if he was making an appeal for gas money. When he played the opening to the song that mentioned his ex-wife, Elizabeth and I exchanged glances. How was he going to handle this? Would he still sing her name? He didn't. When it came time to sing the verse, he subst.i.tuted it with the line, "This one goes out to all the pilgrims."

Watching Neil that night, I found it hard to concentrate. I knew exactly what was going through my mind. I didn't want to end up like him, fifty and burned-out, a string of busted relations.h.i.+ps. He'd been singing about brokenness for so long he'd allowed himself to end up like those he was singing about. My life has never followed a linear path, from Seattle to Los Angeles, from music to acting to becoming a writer. It's tension-that's the best way I can describe it. I don't want to end up like that, but I'm compelled to pursue these things. Is it stubbornness? Pride? Many years ago, I heard a quote by St. Augustine. "Love G.o.d and do what you want to do." It lit a fire inside me and I've spent years championing the idea. G.o.d is good and sovereign and will take care of us, no matter what. But is it really that simple?

Maybe I was reading a lot into a music show, but I don't think I'm far from the truth. The worn look on Neil's face told me what I needed to know. Pa.s.sion, divided, gets the best of nothing. Here was a man who had never reconciled the conflict, who couldn't give up his musical dream and sacrificed the most important parts of his life because of it. I didn't stick around after the show. I drove home as fast as I could, without speeding, and called Jessie as soon as I walked through the door.

We talked longer than usual that night. We were excited to see each other in two days. I told her of the show, the lack of people, the frustration Neil showed by it. She said she'd always wanted to play the harmonica, a piece of information that would soon prove useful. We talked of pa.s.sion, values and perspective. I asked what qualities in a man she found most attractive. She'd written a list in her journal once and went to look for it while we talked. The three she listed were: "humility," "stands up for me," and "keeps his promises." She turned the question around on me.

My answer was quick. "A woman who respects me and believes in me."

The next morning, I mentioned the concert to Jon. He'd quit his band a year ago, after his second child was born. He was tired of spending so much time on the road. I shared my thoughts on seeing Neil worn-down and estranged from his first wife and kids.

"We're of the same mind," he replied. "Neil has the music in his very being. I have it but not like that. Not even close. This morning, I'm wearing a cloverleaf tie covered with cheesy smiley faces that my daughter bought with her own money and gave to me for my birthday. She wanted to pick out my clothes for work today and told me, 'Daddy, do you know why I like to pick out your clothes for work? Because I wuv you, and when you go to work and miss me, you can look at my tie and know that your sweet, little girl is wif you.' I would never give that up for all the music in the world. Don't know how Neil could."

That night, Allison hosted a party at her house in Hollywood. A friend of ours, Graham, was turning 30. When asked if he had any special requests for the party, he said he wanted to put a band together with some of his musician friends and play for everyone. He'd been practicing the blues harmonica and finally felt competent enough to perform in front of friends. He asked me to play guitar, but I knew I had a long day ahead of me and didn't want to stay out late.

I arrived early to help him set up. Several years ago, I played a show in Hollywood and asked Graham, who'd just started playing the harmonica, to come onstage for a couple of songs. He was raw, without question, but his energy and enthusiasm made up for the inexperience. Listening to him warm up, I could hardly believe he was the same harmonica player. I asked how he had improved so much. He practiced while he was driving, wearing a harmonica brace around his neck. He showed me his collection of harmonicas. One of them was called the "Red Howler" and came in a wooden box with a pair of devil horns on the logo. I took a picture on my phone and sent it to Jessie, along with the message: "Your new instrument."

"Really?" she answered. "I love it."

"I'll have to steal it from Graham first."

"I want a Howler of my own. Don't want no other's spit on mine."

"That's a good idea. I know Graham. You don't want anything to do with his spit."

"How lovely," she replied.

I was kidding, of course. Graham's harmonica is perfectly sanitary, but it put the idea into my head of buying one for her. The other guests soon arrived-by the time the band started, there were probably forty people, maybe a few less. It was the first time I'd seen many of them since the incident. I wondered how many knew of the DUI. Had the rumor spread? Who should I tell? I didn't want to hide it from my friends. I'd decided it was going to be my testimony. The worst mistake of my life, but I was letting G.o.d change me...heal me.

Graham made a short speech, thanking everyone for coming out, and the band started playing. Most everyone gathered around the makes.h.i.+ft stage. I saw a friend of mine, George, standing alone near the garage and went to join him.

I've known George since first attending Pacific Crossroads. He and I served on the sound team together. He's a guitarist and played in bands when he was living in Denver. He and his wife Summer invited me to Thanksgiving dinner that first year and I've spent every Thanksgiving but one at their home since.

George and I don't see each other much anymore. His family attends the 11:00 service. I attend the 9 a.m. They moved into a beautiful house in Sherman Oaks and he and Summer are busy raising their boys. Different seasons of life. It happens. I know there's no bitterness or resentment that we don't see each other.

"What's been going on?" he asked.

I wasn't sure where to start so I started at the beginning. I told him everything that happened, from the DUI to meeting Jessie, speaking openly about the spiritual place to which it had brought me. I realized, though painful, it had been one of the most beneficial times of my life. Who knows what eventually would have happened if I continued behaving recklessly?

Since I've known him, George has been very open about his struggles with p.o.r.nography. Specifically, internet p.o.r.n. It's haunted him for years. He shared with me that he'd recently gone through a difficult season in regards to that struggle. "But G.o.d is gracious," he said. "The verse I keep in mind is, 'My grace is sufficient for you, my power is perfected in weakness.'"

I told George about the book I was writing and mentioned what an encouragement Robert had been. Robert is George's best friend and G.o.dparent 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 demolis.h.i.+ng 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 c.o.c.kroaches. Annie arrived with the sacks of food and supplies and I helped her carry them in.

I didn't antic.i.p.ate the number of volunteers that showed up. I had picked up fifty t-s.h.i.+rts 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 pa.s.sion. 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 G.o.d, 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 t.i.tle. 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 out-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 t.i.tles 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 cas.h.i.+er 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 pa.s.sport 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 friends.h.i.+p, or friends.h.i.+p 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 G.o.d. It was G.o.d who revealed the meaning of the king's dream, G.o.d who had given him wisdom. Daniel always exalted G.o.d over himself. Any lasting relations.h.i.+p, at least one I desired, was one that pointed to G.o.d, the author of our faith. Here was a woman who loved G.o.d 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?"