Part 2 (1/2)

I hugged them goodbye, gave Luke a high five and left the house, thinking, ”That's a man who gets it, whose life I want to emulate. That's a man whose wife will be laughing thirty years from now, whose children will be grown and happy, and whose mouth will still be in an upturned smile.”

Twenty minutes later, coffee in hand, I hit the freeway for San Jose, praying and listening to my sermons on Genesis, of crooked and messed-up men and women, but men and women transformed by a living G.o.d.

Before my trip, I called some friends and asked their advice. Should I tell Jessie what happened? And if so, when? The answers they gave were across the board. Some said to wait until Sunday night if I did tell her. That way, I'd have the weekend to get her to like me, and if she liked me enough maybe she'd be okay with it. I thanked them for their opinions and for being amazing friends, but I knew myself too well. It would be impossible for me to go the weekend without telling her. I often get a heavy spirit, almost like a prodding, when I need to do something I don't look forward to. I can't ignore it and almost always obey it, doing whatever it is I need to do. I knew it would happen when I was with Jessie...and would probably happen soon.

I got to the hotel early and called to tell her I had arrived. ”I'll be there in thirty minutes,” she said. I unpacked my suitcase, brushed my teeth and went outside to wait, the thoughts of Wednesday night trying to force their way into my mind as I struggled to shove them out. I sat on the bench...stood and walked around. I sat down again, checked the internet on my phone (distraction), prayed...stood and walked. The musings of a nervous man. I saw her car turn into the parking lot.

She was wearing white jeans and platform sandals. A light-blue blouse. I was certain we were both nervous and gave her a hug right away to ease the tension. I told her I'd already checked in, so we could get on the road.

It was an hour's drive into the city. She still made the trip often, but missed living there. When she was working at the corporate firm, she lived in a downtown apartment overlooking the water and Bay Bridge. It was a haven for her. At the time, she was painting regularly and had put two of her paintings on display in the apartment. When she moved in with her parents, she sold most of her furniture, including her bed and favorite down comforter, which she regretted the most.

The conversation was natural and comfortable, as it had been in L.A., but I was one day removed from being arrested and spending the night in jail as a criminal. It would have been impossible for me to overlook that. It was always in the back of my mind, preventing me from speaking freely and completely at ease. I knew there was a slight heaviness to the conversation. Then she asked the age question.

I didn't know how old she was. I had a general idea. Sonia was 31 and they'd gone to school together. I took a slow breath.

”I'm 38,” I told her.

”Really?” She paused. ”Sonia must have lied to me. I thought you were 35, maybe 36.”

I wanted to sink into my seat. One strike so far. In an hour or so, I'd be giving myself another one. At this rate, I'd be headed home before sundown.

We decided to go to the Mission District. She attended church there when she lived in the city and wanted to take me to a French bakery, Tartine, where she often ate after service. Now, depending on how one chooses to look at it, driving in San Francisco is either an exercise in patience or a lesson in futility. Whatever the case, we couldn't find parking and circled the neighborhood several times before finding a s.p.a.ce. On our walk to the bakery, we pa.s.sed a tattoo shop. I asked if she had any.

”No. Do you?”

”I never found one I liked enough. I've been as far as sitting in the chair, having already paid, but backed out because I didn't like the design well enough.”

”What was it?”

”A Celtic cross.”

”Oh, that's so boring. Everyone has that.”

I felt the need to defend myself-or the cross, that is. I agree, they are cliche, but there's a tattoo shop on Venice Beach my brother-in-law and I found several years ago with a Celtic cross unlike any I'd seen. A simpler design, not as many floral knots. My brother-in-law got it. I backed out. I didn't like it as much as he did.

”If you were going to get a tattoo, what would it be?”

She laughed slightly. ”You'll think it's stupid.”

”No, I won't. What is it?”

”You'll laugh.”

”No, I won't. Besides, you've got to tell me now. You've built up the excitement.”

”When I was in college, I wanted to get a tattoo of a pair of jeans.”

”Jeans?”

”Don't laugh.”

”Blue jeans? Why not a pair of khakis, maybe Dockers?”

”That's why I didn't want to tell you.”

”Just the pair of jeans? No legs inside, no feet dangling from the bottom?”

”Nope. Just jeans.”

”What about a pair of sneakers at the feet?”

”Just jeans.”

”Where would it be?”

”On my ankle, of course.”

”You'll be the only one with a pair of Levi's on your ankle, that's for sure.”

My heart grew heavy at that point. I knew I needed to tell her. Also, the memory of the arrest and being in jail kept flas.h.i.+ng to mind. It took my focus away from her and I didn't want that to happen. At Tartine, the wait for an outdoor table was an hour long. Inside was communal seating-we could sit right away if we shared a table. ”That's fine, I said.” The talk would have to wait. We ordered and sat across from an older woman, holding two large orders of bread pudding in front of her. I excused myself to the restroom.

When I returned, Jessie and the woman were speaking as if they'd been friends for years. The woman, Carol, had been a schoolteacher for thirty years and recently retired to Marin County. She offered Jessie a bite of her pudding (”You have to try these blackberries!”) and plopped a huge spoonful on her plate. Jessie took a bite, then offered me one. Carol was waiting for a friend, who was late, and they were going to go see a foreign movie, ”I Am Love.”

”Maybe we should see a movie,” Jessie suggested.

”Are there any horror movies out right now? I'll check on my phone.”

Carol's friend Ron arrived and we introduced ourselves. I couldn't tell from the way they interacted if he was a boyfriend or not. Jessie and I joked that Carol was making him see a romantic, foreign film as punishment for being forty-five minutes late. We finished our lunch and said goodbye to them. Carol gave Jessie a hug as we left. I knew it was time to tell her. It was burning inside me and that's usually how I know these things.

With her job, she sees brokenness on a heightened level every day-children with broken bones, drug-addicted parents. Anything imaginable, she has probably seen. But I didn't know: How would she react to this? It's one thing to have empathy for clients, a fragment of society far removed from the church and those within it. I knew she had a big heart and her spiritual gifts were compa.s.sion and understanding, but those were for the kids she represents, not the man hoping to date her. I had no right to presume that level of empathy. Common sense would say to keep people who've been arrested at arm's length. Serve them, pray for them, but don't let them inside one's home. Regardless, it was burning inside me and I had to tell her. We left the restaurant and turned up the sidewalk.

I had listened to a sermon the night before on the life of David, focusing on Psalm 51. The pastor told a story of Charles Simeon, an 18th century preacher, who reputedly prayed and studied the Bible every morning from 4 to 8 a.m. On his deathbed, he wanted only one verse read, over and over-Psalm 51:17. I had written, for no reason other than to remind me, ”51:17,” on my hand, next to a scar I've had since childhood, and forgotten to wash it off. The sacrifices of G.o.d are a broken spirit. A broken and contrite heart, O G.o.d, you will not despise. Jessie saw it and asked what it meant. I told her, then followed it by telling her of my drunk driving arrest.

If I was sold on this woman before, I was all in now. The woman was so gracious, so understanding. Not that she didn't ask about it-she did, and we discussed it at length-but there wasn't the judgment I expected, the turn-off I knew would be coming. We sat at the park among hundreds of others, different enclaves of different cliques of society, some playing sports, some tanning and some drinking. I spoke honestly of the mistake I'd made, how I'd not been letting G.o.d into that area of my life. Going out too much. Maybe not getting drunk but drinking too many nights of the week. She said she noticed I was more subdued this time than in Los Angeles, that my words seemed more weighted. Now it made sense.

As we talked that afternoon, getting to know each other, a thought struck me. All my life, whenever I've messed up (and there have been too many times to count), my repentance has been to beat myself up for it until enough days have pa.s.sed that I feel it's accounted for. I've known the Gospel all my life. I've followed Jesus for fifteen years, but I still lose sight of grace. If I can criticize myself and tell myself what a horrible person I am, it's my way of atoning. In that moment, sitting in the park with hundreds of other people on a hot summer day in July, I realized, ”G.o.d wants to love me right now.”

Despite what I'd done, He wanted to love me. Not only that, He wanted to bless me that weekend. Unlike the thousand times before, when I proclaimed to believe in grace but put myself through the gauntlet of self-inflicted punishment, as I sat with this kind, compa.s.sionate, gorgeous and delightful woman, I told myself, ”And I'm going to let him.” It freed me. The memory was still there, haunting me on occasion, but the weight was lifted, and we were able to speak openly and honestly and enjoy each other's company that afternoon and the rest of the evening. We left the park and went to Twin Peaks, a forty-minute drive. It turned out to be too windy to stay, but while we were there, I told her what a huge baseball fan I was and she suggested driving to the ballpark to find tickets to that night's game. I couldn't believe the grace I was receiving, her driving all that way for me because I said I liked baseball. On the way to the stadium, we talked about G.o.d, faith, the difficulties of the Christian life, ghosts (She saw one when she was thirteen, that of her grandfather), h.o.m.os.e.xuality and whether we thought it was innate or chosen. The afternoon flew by. We couldn't find parking anywhere near the stadium (The best offer we received was from a homeless man who tried to sell us a wadded-up parking ticket for $25, undoubtedly from the previous night's game) and decided instead to visit her favorite j.a.panese restaurant in the city. She'd not eaten there in over a year, but the waitress still remembered her and gave her a hug. How could she have forgotten?

That night, it was cold and lightly raining. We decided to see a movie. We couldn't find a horror film showing in the theatres, at least one we'd heard of or that sounded decent. On a lark, we decided to see ”Twilight.” We'd been making fun of it the past couple of weeks. Neither of us could understand the fascination, but we admitted it looked deliciously cheesy. Walking down the steps of the sidewalk, she put her arm through mine and we laughed at what we were about to do. We drove to a theatre in j.a.pantown and bought tickets. She went to the restroom, while I bought sodas and a large box of SweetTarts. We stepped into the theatre before the trailers started.

I was at that point when a man decides whether it's time to hold hands for the first time or not. She'd put her arm through mine earlier. We seemed to enjoy the other's company. Was it too soon? Right away, I saw the problem. The theatre's seats were arranged with large wooden platforms in between the armrests, ten to twelve inches apart. There were a few seats without the annoying platform, but the tickets were a.s.signed seating so we couldn't switch. We sat down and immediately I knew it wasn't going to work. I felt I had to shout to speak to her she seemed so far away. No way would I be able to hold her hand with this barricade in the way. I saw two seats without the platform, still empty. I took her arm and we shuffled over to fill them.

Blast it. A cl.u.s.ter of teenage girls walked in seconds after we sat. Please don't have our seats. I peeked over and saw one of the girls, wearing an Edward Cullen t-s.h.i.+rt, looking down at her ticket, then at us, with a confused expression. Again, she looked at us, then to her ticket, too nervous to say anything. Good, be nervous. Now go find somewhere else to sit.

”Excuse me...”