Arresting Grace Part 19

The mechanic was a European guy (Bulgarian, I think) named Victor. I filled out a stack of paperwork. He told me to come back in a few hours, as my car would be ready by then. Brian picked us up and drove us to my place. I let Doug sit in the front seat, which was a mistake. Brian and he have vastly different personalities.

"What do you do?" Doug asked.

"I'm a trust fund kid," Brian answered.

I smiled. It was a joke between us. Brian has a go-to list of humorous answers for the "What do you do?" question: trust fund kid, aspiring male model, etc...

Doug didn't get the joke. Didn't smile, either. When we arrived at my place, he stepped out of the car and huffed. "Alright, the last leg."

Traffic was horrible on the way to the DMV and Doug grew more irritated. We discussed which bus I should take from the DMV to the interlock shop. "I guess you'd take the #733 back," he suggested. "You'd better put a paper bag on the seat." We listened to NPR on the way. The host said one out of six adults has genital herpes.

Laughing, Doug said, "I've never had an STD in my life. Thank G.o.d."

I was at the DMV for two hours. My paperwork was held up. It cost $145 for a license reinstatement fee and $45 for a random fee the clerk wouldn't explain. Fine. I paid it. When I'd scheduled my appointment with Victor, he told me it would cost $180 for the installation-cash only. The night before, I walked to the bank and withdrew the money. The DMV, however, wouldn't take credit cards. I paid the fees with the cash I'd put away for Victor. After leaving the DMV, I walked a mile to the bank's branch on Venice to take out more money. I stopped for coffee and scone and caught the #733 just as it was arriving. I asked the driver if she stopped at La Brea. She didn't understand me (A man was talking loudly near her ear) and I repeated myself, louder this time. She said she stopped at La Brea and I boarded.

Victor took my money (In addition to the installation fee, it costs $75 a month to maintain the interlock device-cash only, of course) and showed me how the IID works. I have to blow into a tube before starting my car and at random times while driving. Non-alcoholic substances can cause it to fail (some mouthwashes, any fish or food cooked in white wine, and several kinds of fruit juice) which results in a lockdown of my car and penalty fine with the DMV, as well as having the five-month sentence extended. As I was driving to work, the alarm went off in the middle of an intersection and I had to blow into the tube while making a left-hand turn onto Ocean Park Avenue.

The following Sunday, I served communion. There are times when serving that I tell someone, "The body and blood of Christ," and my heart breaks. I struggle to form the words because of the tears welling in my eyes. This Sunday was different. I was distracted and unfocused, perhaps numb. What had happened? It happened so suddenly. I resolved not to be angry-how could I be?-but was distracted, nonetheless. The experience of communion wasn't filled with reverence as it usually was.

I served the bread and wine (juice) and returned to my seat. The congregation sang a final song, one of celebration. Rankin gave the benediction and the congregants slowly filed out of the auditorium. In the courtyard, I picked up Bella and held her. I took Abby's hand and led her to the doughnut table. After she filled up on doughnut holes and a bagel, we walked across the courtyard to where Jason and Sherrill were standing. Sherrill, I think, must have noticed my struggle during communion, or perhaps in the courtyard, where smiles and cheerful banter lift above the clouds. She gave me a hug with both arms.

"We love you so, so, so much."

One of those moments, unplanned, but delivered at the perfect time.

Lord, where we are weak, give us courage. Where we are tired, give us endurance. Where there is anxiety, give us hope.

When Jessie and I spoke on the phone, I noticed two distinct voices she used. (There were dozens of Jessie smiles and laughs, but only two voices.) One was the "on the road" voice. It was her professional voice. Strong, a.s.sertive. Louder, having to compete with road noise. But there was also her intimate voice, the voice she used having washed up for the night and slipped into bed. A soft, tender voice. Playful. Scared. Fragile and transparent. Never have I seen more clearly this simple truth: Women have so much to prove to others, that they can be strong and independent, forging a career and ident.i.ty for themselves. But equally true, when all defenses are stripped bare and a woman is able to show her heart to someone she trusts, she is scared. We are all scared. She's the same girl who desires protection. She's both, the strong and independent soul, but also the fragile and longing woman who wants more than anything for a man to put his arms around her and make her feel warm and safe. These were the moments I cherished, the bedtime Jessie voice, when we spoke to each other with intimacy and fragility, with tenderness, always soft spoken. Her birthday card said, "his soft spokenness." I wouldn't have been able to speak that way had she not allowed me. My favorite part was after we would hang up. I'd get ready for bed and text her goodnight. It's the thing I miss the most, hands-down, besides being with her face to face. The goodnight text: It can never be replaced.

The experience has been difficult in every way, but it's slowed me down and made me wiser with my time. I've read more and spent more nights at home. I don't think, had I not landed in such trouble, I would have noticed the hundreds of acts of kindness given to me. I wouldn't have been able to talk to Travis at the bus stop or hear the story of the hydrogenated water endeavor. I can give thanks for everything that's happened.

One of the most amazing testimonies-I was never without a ride during that time. Not only that, I never asked for one. Friends volunteered to pick me up. Jeff picked me up each week for community group, took me to dinner, back to his place for study, then I'd get a ride home from someone else. Humbling to witness such generosity. People have spoiled me with their kindness. Always a meal to share. I'd ride to Andrew's and he'd beamingly ask, "Do you want to stay for dinner?"

"If you twist my arm."

My mother, unknowingly, began leading a study on the book of Daniel at the same time I did. We talked weekly about it. She and my father did a ten-day "Daniel fast" together, eating only fruits and vegetables, as he'd done in the king's palace. "Daniel is something else," my mother said. "His prayers are so beautiful. It makes me realize what a lousy prayer life I have. I want to become a prayer warrior like him. We are studying grace in our small group.

"Being a Christian is so difficult and G.o.d must struggle with changing us. He says He will create in us a new heart, and I know I'm a work in progress, but it is so slow! As I enter the next phase of my life, I want to understand you. No more lectures, but understanding. It boggles my mind to think all this time has gone by and I never really knew your life.

"I am asking your forgiveness for my past as a mother. I was a Christian, but G.o.d was not Number One. With you, I was vain, prideful, and yes, a hypocrite. I know that now, and G.o.d has shown me that my problem with raising the three children He gave me was that I didn't care enough about your heart. I guess I wanted Young Life to take care of that and then I would do the rest. My own heart was not Christ-centered, so how did I think yours would be? Forgive me. I have grown in my faith a great deal, and now He is truly Number One."

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe parents can change.

Grace upon grace, in our friends.h.i.+ps, with our love, to be found everywhere, in a birthday party thrown by one's closest friends, in a greeting at a bus stop from a ten-year-old who gets up way too early in the morning, in the greeting of a co-worker, able to somehow give comfort after a misfortune...grace upon grace upon grace.

My G.o.d, what a life. Foolish dreamers, what becomes of them?

Acknowledgments.

I often wonder how the years could have pa.s.sed so quickly-six and a half years in Seattle and ten in Los Angeles, gone in a flash. Then I realize: The years pa.s.s quickly when one is surrounded by good friends and family.

To my parents: Somehow we are closer now than ever before. I have to believe it's because G.o.d does change people. He doesn't want us to end where we begin. Thank you for a lifetime of love and support. Thanks to Cathy, Stephen, Jeff, Asher, Micah and Anna. Though separated by distance, I can always count on you all.

To Jason, Sherrill, Jon, Chris, Rebekah, Chris M, Robert, Tom and Lisa: You've been there from the start. Thanks for giving me a front row ticket into your lives. To Allison, Nick, Jeff Wong, Chris Wilson, Brian, Vicki, Young, Christine, Erin, the Magsigs and McGregors (Aaron, Andrew, Diana and Baby Daniel): Thanks for bringing me through a tough time, showing true friends.h.i.+p along the way.

So many helped in the creation and completion of this book, whether reading the ma.n.u.script (even in its sloppy, first-draft form), copyediting or providing artwork and design. Special thanks to Brian G.o.dawa, Jeff Still, Deb Schleusener, Robbye Schroeder, Deborah Chi, Seh Kim, the two Lauras (W & L), Angie, Patti and Mich.e.l.le.

Thanks to the Hornaks, Barrs, G.o.dawas and Schroeders. Thanks to Damon, Mike Song, Tyree, Nate, Raj and B.P. I lean on you guys, and you support the weight. Thanks to Vickie, for starting me on this journey.

Thanks to Marshall, Rankin and the staff at Pacific Crossroads. Jesus said, "When I am lifted up, I will draw all men to myself." May the church never lose sight. To those in my community group: You guys are superstars. Thanks for letting me lead you.

A special thanks to Cindy P, for a well-timed introduction.

And, most importantly, to HK (the Jessie of this story)...you brightened my days.

About the author.

Michael Green spent the last half of the 90s playing in rock bands in post-grunge Seattle, the better part of the next decade singing/songwriting and doing local theatre in Los Angeles, and the past three years becoming an author. Arresting Grace is his third book. He is currently working on a follow-up, as well as a fiction novel ent.i.tled "A Man Looks at 40." He can be found at www.amanlooksat40.wordpress.com.

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