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 b.u.mps 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 pa.s.sion 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 G.o.d.

One day, a paralegal from the law firm came in for coffee. I made her latte and, as it was slow at the time, we spoke at the register for several minutes. I don't remember how the conversation turned in such direction but we began talking about G.o.d.

"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 pa.s.s. 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 a.s.sistant pastor, was preaching. "Our circ.u.mstances," he said, "can weigh us down so heavily that all we see are those circ.u.mstances. But if we focus on the character of G.o.d, the circ.u.mstances will take a healthier, smaller perspective, in light of G.o.d'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 h.e.l.lo 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.

She was behind on doing it and they were returning the next day. She showed me how to water the plants in the front and disappeared to the backyard (though I did spray her a quick time before she left-not enough to get her noticeably wet, just enough to flirt). She finished before me and came to the front, holding a white rose picked from one of the backyard bushes. She held it for me to smell. I quickly finished the row of fence line plants I was watering, we got some snacks for the road and left for the station.

I expected a bustle of activity. However, the station, not far from my hotel, was empty. No attendants. No one, in fact. We didn't know what the weather would be like and brought jackets and sweaters to be safe. I bought our tickets and we settled in; we still had a while before the train arrived. She said she'd forgotten something in the car and would be right back. I walked onto the tracks and tried balancing on them.

When she returned, I motioned for her to join me and we held a contest to see who could tight rope the track the longest. I think I stayed on a few seconds longer, then we went to wait on the bench.

"That was my friend Gene on the phone. He can't go to Dar's wedding with me."

What I hadn't told her was I really wanted to go with her to the wedding. I'd made suggestive comments...no one could care about karaoke as much as I pretended. We were at the tricky spot in a new relationship. Did we go to a wedding together or not? I'm sure one could make an argument for either case.

She paused briefly. "What are you doing on the 22nd?"

"I think I'm going to a wedding."

"Are you sure? I know it's a lot for you to come up here."

"I'm sure."

We sat calmly, waiting for the train. Two other pa.s.sengers arrived, both wearing Giants t-shirts and hats, one carrying a cooler.

"I really wanted to go to the wedding," I confessed.

"I know you did."

The Caltrain runs from San Jose to AT&T Park. It's cheaper than driving to the city and paying for parking, not to mention dealing with the ha.s.sle of San Francisco traffic on a game day. For us, it was wonderful but not for those reasons. This was us being able to sit closely together, holding each other and watching the pa.s.sengers on the train. A group of drunk college guys from South Carolina sat behind us, drinking Budweiser and belching loudly, making tasteless jokes about women, recounting the drunken escapades of their California vacation. We talked to them briefly, then she reached into her purse for her iPod. She offered me one of the ear buds and played me some of her favorite music: a French song (the name of which I can't remember), one of my favorite Ryan Adams songs, "La Cienega Just Smiled," and a version of "Abide With Me."

Who can say the power of memory and experience? Some moments in life stick with us forever. No reason why they should stand above the rest, but they do and are never forgotten. As it was happening, I knew this was one of those moments. Sitting with our cheeks touching, listening to her favorite worship song. I rubbed her arm gently and noticed two small sunspots below her elbow. A memory never forgotten.

Thou has not left me Though I've oft left thee Until the close, Lord Abide with me With watering the plants and rushing to the station, we hadn't eaten lunch and were both hungry. The game was still an hour from starting. I also wanted to get coffee. During my first trip to San Francisco, I had visited the Ferry Building and found the Blue Bottle Coffee stand. To that day, it remained my favorite coffee, and I'm sure she was tired of hearing of me talk about it as much as I had. We saw the Ferry Building in the distance-it looked a long way.

"How far do you think it is?"

"At least a mile and a half. Think we can we make it?"

"Let's go."

We started walking-each carrying a bundle of sweaters in one arm, holding hands with the other-but quickly realized our aim had exceeded our reach. We were exhausted by the time we arrived. The only vendor still open was a salted-pig and prosciutto stand. "World Famous," the sign said. However, they'd stopped making sandwiches for the day. The only thing left on the menu was a paper snow cone filled with prosciutto and other cured meats. It looked disgusting; and sadly, it tasted worse than it looked. We threw them away and walked back to the stadium, a little quicker this time, wishing for a taxi ride, still laughing at the fatty snow cones. And why did we bring so many clothes? It was 90 degrees outside.

I live in L.A. but am not a Dodgers fan. I grew up three hours from St. Louis, a small town north of Memphis, ten miles from the Missouri border. The only team around was the Cardinals. All the games were on radio or TV and we drove to Busch Stadium occasionally on the weekends. It's very rare that I abandon a sports team, regardless if I've moved to another team's town. I stayed a Cardinals fan when I lived in Seattle, including the year the Mariners won 115 games, and I've stayed one through nine years in Los Angeles. As for the Giants, I didn't know many players on the team, but there was an ex-Cardinal on the roster, Edgar Renteria. I was sorry when the Cardinals let him go; he was always one of my favorites.

Entering the stadium, we heard raucous chants of "Beat L.A." We found a food stand serving garlic fries, bought an order, as well as two drinks, and returned to our seats. At the Ferry Building, she'd bought a box of fruit pte that she swore by. I looked at the price tag. It was $22 a box.

"$22," I said. "For candy?"

"It's so good, Michael. Just wait. You'll agree."

"It better be for that much."

She opened the box and gave me the first piece. I didn't think any candy was worth $22, but I had to admit: If any was, it was this candy.

"Here, try another flavor."

Even better than the first. How could I have doubted?

Some men wearing Dodgers hats and shirts sat behind us. The Giants' fans heckled them mercilessly and I joined in. Hey, when in San Francisco... Before I knew it, I was joining in with the chants of "Beat L.A!" The man sitting next to me looked to be part Native American, wearing a Mohawk wig, and we made occasional small talk throughout the game. In the 8th inning, the score was still 0-0. I'd told Jessie about Renteria and that he was the reason I was rooting for the Giants (aside from the fact I was crazy about this woman from the Bay Area). The first two batters reached base for the Giants. The crowd went crazy, each person on his feet. Renteria came to the plate. I told her, "Wouldn't it be amazing if the Giants win and Edgar ends up being the hero? In fact, I'm predicting it now. He's going to get a hit and the Giants are going to score."

He did better than that. He knocked a triple, plating both runners. The Giants took the lead 2-0 and won by the same score. Without thinking, I gave high fives to everyone around me, including a bro-hug to the Mohawk guy. Chants filled the stairway as we exited the stadium. Laughter and joy streamed its corridors. We left the park and walked the few blocks to the train station.

Whereas before, the train ride had been raucous and celebratory, it was now late and the fans' celebration was replaced by a calming lull, the rhythm of wheels on the track. Occasionally, she'd look up and give me a soft kiss, but otherwise we sat quietly, taking in the silence, the peacefulness of night and of being in no hurry, enjoying the moment and letting it breathe without cluttering it with silly words or distractions. Out of the corner of my eye, I looked over and saw her smiling contentedly. I noticed goose b.u.mps on her arm as she dozed off with her head on my shoulder.

We disembarked at our stop and she took me to the hotel. I held her tightly. It was the end of a perfect day but also our weekend together, save for a brief ride to the airport in the morning. I said goodnight, kissed her gently and went to my room, where I spent some time praying before getting into bed. It was about one in the morning at the time. My phone rang.

She'd returned home to several messages from her parents and reality had crashed upon her. The fear, the doubts-everything. I told her I wanted to date her, to know her deeply and intimately. She didn't know if she should tell them about us or keep it secret. I said if I was going to win them over, it was going to be on my character and we couldn't start off by being deceptive. She knew it; she was just scared. I told her how much it meant to me when she said I respected people. Granted, it had only been five weeks, but long distance intensifies things. You make every moment count, and we'd gotten to know each other very well, very quickly.

The next morning, I asked, "What was your favorite part of the weekend?"

"Everything. What was yours?"

I mentioned the worship song. The sunspots.

"Do you think the airport guards will be mean enough to separate us?"

I answered no. They weren't, and we said a long goodbye. The next time I saw her would be the wedding, August 22nd. In the meantime, the reality of my life in L.A.

Chapter Six.

My friend Erin came from a broken home. His dad was in and out of jail, an alcoholic. Erin started drinking as a teenager. He ran away, joined the military, got kicked out and ended up in jail for a short stint. He got sober, 12-stepping it, and has been that way for twenty-five years. Erin is very driven, very determined to be successful...and very talented. An advertising executive. He bought a high-rise condo in the Marina, overlooking the water, and a $70,000 Audi.

He'd arrived.

Erin bought the condo from a need to feel validated. He wanted to show people he was good enough. Smart enough. I know these things about Erin because he told me. He's one of the visible faces of Celebrate Recovery. He founded it and has shepherded it during its conception and infancy. He speaks openly and publicly about his past, so I know I'm not betraying a confidence.

Erin came to faith a few years ago. Sometime later, he met a woman from church, Kirsten. She's from a family of all believers-overachieving, highly successful. Her father is an elder at his church, and her brother and his wife have attended PCC for several years. Whenever we met for coffee, Erin would say, astonished, "What is this woman doing with me? Here I am, a complete screw-up."

Erin and Kirsten married. He sold his condo. He'd fallen into ma.s.sive debt and Kirsten patiently worked with him to whittle it down. He was granted full custody of his two children from a previous marriage, Natalie and Alex, who are delightful and wear the biggest smiles. Alex always forgets my name and yells, "Who are you, again? I can't remember!"

We met at the coffee shop recently. Erin said, "Five years later, I'm nowhere near where I was professionally, but I'm happy. My ident.i.ty was wrapped up in my stuff. Why did I need a V8? Now, I put my kids to bed and think, 'I get to be a dad.'"

Erin's father came to know the Lord later in life. He visited our Celebrate Recovery group one night and shared his testimony, one that included everything from spiritual attacks to heavy drug use and multiple prison sentences. He leads the Celebrate Recovery ministry at his church in Ventura. It's comprised mostly of young people, but they respect him. Makes me think there is no age or generation gap when people speak honestly about brokenness. He finished his testimony and sat next to Erin, with Kirsten sitting on the other side. She'd been able to attend that night, as a friend from church volunteered to babysit the kids. I looked at them and thought, "It's almost scandalous how much grace is being showered upon this table at the moment."

Erin speaks of his life and its heartbreak with eagerness, though not without effort. He suffers from anxiety, the main reason he started drinking, and becomes extremely nervous speaking in front of people, no matter how large the group. He agreed to give his testimony in front of the congregation at both worship services. I talked to him before the first. He was jittery and sweating. It made me nervous just looking at him. But he did it, no less. He stepped onstage in front of a combined 1200 people and shared his story...a little rushed, but he often speaks hurriedly when nervous. He told the truth and that's all any of us can do.

Why did Erin do it? Why would he reveal embarra.s.sing details of his life in front of hundreds of strangers, when it filled him with anxiety and caused him to lose sleep for fear? There are many things we'll do for a cause. Erin wanted his life to be a witness and if it meant personal embarra.s.sment, so be it. There have been worse scars to heal.

King David, a man after G.o.d's own heart, committed heinous sin after walking with G.o.d for years, having written hundreds of Psalms. I think we, as Christians, would like to believe David ordered Uriah killed and slept with Bathsheba during his "new Christian" days. The explanation aligns itself more closely with our view of the Christian walk: We start down the road, get better; years pa.s.s, we struggle with sin less; before we know it, we can hardly remember the old way of life.

No, David fell into murder and adultery after following G.o.d for years. That's the point. We stop seeing ourselves as needing mercy, as having to fall to our knees daily in prayer and lament, begging G.o.d for forgiveness. It's a powerful witness to see men whom you've known within church walls speak in anonymity, with no judgment, about their struggles. Strip clubs. Men who can't stop looking at internet p.o.r.n, drowning themselves in alcohol and dealing with the shame of it. Those who know at any moment they could slip back to an old way of life...that one is never too far along in his faith to be immune from backsliding.

My friend Owen, a teacher, struggles with p.o.r.nography to the point of beating himself up for days on end when he relapses. One night, he missed Celebrate Recovery because of a parent-teacher conference. Per his request, when we broke into prayer groups, we called and put him on speakerphone. He said he desperately needed to talk to us that night, that it had been a grinding week for him.

"Right now, I want to beat something up," he said. "I feel like the worst teacher in history, like I don't have any idea what I'm doing anymore. This week, I couldn't remember my students' names. I always have every student's name memorized after the first week. I'm three weeks into the semester and can't remember them. I know it's carrying over into my thought life and spiritual life. I've been looking at p.o.r.n and fighting the desire to go to a strip club or get a ma.s.sage."

We prayed for him and told him we loved him. Strength is admitting we are weak. It's a paradox, surely, but so is the Christian life, marred with paradoxes. When we think others are doing as well as they say they are and we're dying on the inside, it cripples us. We think we're the only ones hurting or fighting temptation, so we put on a manufactured smile, a bit too wide to be natural, and keep up the charade.

Recently, Marshall, our a.s.sistant pastor, preached a sermon on the divinity of Christ. For me, it seemed an introductory sermon to Christianity-the Gospel 101. I wasn't able to focus or pay attention. Part of me thought, "I've heard this a thousand times. I've got it already. Let's move on to something more challenging, some theme I haven't explored yet. Perhaps how to incorporate the beat.i.tudes into the workplace or create a healthy dating environment at PCC."

That afternoon, I wondered why I couldn't concentrate on the sermon. Was it because the Gospel wasn't fresh? I likened it to a band that wrote a hit song years ago and still plays it in concert. How do the band members keep it fresh after so many years, performing it night after night, show after show? The only way is if the singer believes in the words and the song still moves him. Otherwise, he'll simply go through the motions, and it will be obvious to the fans in attendance.

Why does the Gospel grow stale over time? Or at least, stripped to its bare fundamentals, less interesting unless it's coupled with applications on how to live a dynamic and vibrant life, or foster spirit-filled conversations in the workplace?

I grew up in a town where most everyone considered himself a Christian, though the churches were often spiritually vacant and crowded only once a year-Easter Sunday. I can't remember hearing true confession or seeing anyone admit to struggling spiritually. Christianity, for the most part, was married to morality and politics. A set of rules makes the Christian life go down easier. With morality, there's less grey area.

What's not addressed, however, is the reason behind the actions, the impetus for the behavior. I could get away with anything growing up. I was an angry child with a horrible temper and lashing-out tongue, but I got away with back-talking my mother because I didn't drink, smoke or have s.e.x. All I had to say was, "At least I'm not like (insert cla.s.smate's name here). He smokes and drinks."

That always silenced her. She realized I was right. Town opinion was swayed by public image. Drinking brought gossip. My image in town was better than (cla.s.smate's name), our family name more respected than his. Never mind that my soul was aching, that I was longing for something and lashing out in desperate attempts to fill what was missing. It was a matter of the heart, but one's image was based on behavior and keeping a good reputation. The trouble with living by grace is that it's hard. It's staggeringly hard. It would be much easier to live by morality, a strict code of behavior. It's how I lived the first eighteen years of my life, avoiding the visible and looked-down-upon sins. Never mind I was a smug, self-righteous jerk.

When I moved to the West Coast, I thought I had finally found my niche. Not only was Christianity not the norm, it hardly registered on the religious radar. In the Pacific Northwest, the dominant religion is no religion. I found it invigorating, though. I saw myself as Joseph or Daniel, living in Egypt or Babylon, a city filled with people who needed to know the love of G.o.d and be shown what the Gospel stood for, not a flavorless morality. When I was growing up, the common teaching was, "Turn your life to Jesus and your struggles will go away." I saw this wasn't true. One will still struggle. But in an environment where it's not discussed, those suffering often drown in secrecy.

We connect with others through brokenness and pain. That's the heart of Christianity. It's in our pain we are able to reach them-not through triumphant and victorious living. I've often wondered what Paul was referring to when he spoke of the "thorn" in his flesh. We'll never know, this side of heaven, but I choose to think it was a sin he couldn't fully escape. I think that's why G.o.d says, "My grace is sufficient for you."

Over time, I realized it wasn't simply a West Coast vs. Deep South distinction. The lack of vulnerability was everywhere. We don't like to talk about our problems. We enjoy hearing testimonies from those who were broken and troubled earlier in life, but don't want to hear about the woman in the praise band who's currently struggling with anger and bitterness, or the deacon with wife and kids who l.u.s.ts after the women he sees on highway billboards. As a result, our small groups and Bible studies are often safe and (perhaps somewhat) sterile. The most severe prayer request one hears is for the man who can't seem to carve out enough s.p.a.ce in the day for his quiet time, or the woman who feels guilty because she tried to read the Bible in a year but couldn't make it through the book of Leviticus.

I remembered Bill's words. "I think every Christian should be involved in Celebrate Recovery." It was starting to make sense. Why was Marshall's sermon stale? Because I'd stopped seeing myself as a new believer and started thinking of myself as the Christian of fifteen-plus years who had graduated to heavier topics and theological musings. No, I was the same guy I was fifteen years ago. The same reckless, punk kid who swallowed too much alcohol and got behind the wheel of a car with no regard for the safety of others on the road or the words of Scripture saying, "Do not be drunk with wine." That was me, the same person, fifteen years ago or fifteen minutes. It didn't matter. I think that's how David must have felt, rebuked by the prophet Nathan after being shown his blind spot, the area in his life of which he'd not repented.

I had failed in my duties as a leader and was willing to step down if Marshall wanted me to. I called him and asked if we could meet for breakfast. We met at a cafe near my work. I came right out with it; I told him everything that happened and asked if he wanted me to step down.

Without missing a beat, he said no. "If it became a pattern you didn't correct, I'd ask you to step down. But I know you, and I know you'll address it and let the experience teach you. I want you to keep leading. From what I've heard, you've got a great group. The only thing I'll add, and this is up to you, is you might consider telling them about it. It would be a good witness, I think."

"I've already decided to do that. I'll tell them the first night we start back."

"That's all we need to say about it then. How are things with Jessie?"

That night, she asked how the meeting went. "I was praying for you," she said. It took me a second or two to respond. As hard as it is to be a man in this day and age, when a woman says she's praying for him, curse or no curse, a man can lift mountains when he hears that. What had it been, two months and a handful of days? Two months and my life had been turned upside down. She'd lit a spark within me. She was a joy to know, a jewel in a murky sea.

She had a trial on Friday, a case that had dogged her for a year, and was working every night that week until one or two in the morning. I worried about her walking to the car at those hours. She'd told me the lot was dark and mentioned her office was located near a park where drug dealers hung out. That week, we instant messaged each night until she went home. It helped her stay awake while preparing witness questions.

Wednesday night, I fell asleep before she left the office. I texted Thursday to make sure she was okay, but didn't hear from her all morning. She replied that afternoon, saying it had been a bad day. Her tone was different than it had been all week. I sensed she was pulling back. Perhaps it was my imagination. My cynicism. That night, she called and said she didn't want to talk about it, that she was trying to put it out of her mind. Her trial was the next day. My hunch said she had had a fight with her parents. She'd recently told them about us. I told myself to give her s.p.a.ce and pray for her court case. I'd see her Sat.u.r.day for the wedding.

Chapter Seven.

At the airport that morning: a quick jog through security and a short flight into San Jose. She picked me up curbside, having just left the hair salon. The stylist had set her hair in an up-do. I didn't know what an up-do was. It seemed painful-forty pins stuck to her head-or at best, uncomfortable. However, the result was worth it. I leaned over to kiss her.