Part 12 (1/2)

Her co-worker Dave was having a birthday party late that afternoon and several in the office were meeting for happy hour at a bar in downtown San Jose. We decided to drop in and say h.e.l.lo, but stay no more than an hour. She'd finally taken the plunge and bought a Smartphone, as well as one for her father, and plugged the address of the bar into the phone's GPS.

The bar was one more likely to be seen in San Francisco than San Jose. A nondescript sign. We walked down a narrow flight of stairs. Darkly lit. Wouldn't allow for more than four at a table-to keep a relaxed vibe, I suppose. The bartenders all wore newsboy hats and took an average of fifteen minutes to make a drink. When ordering, the bartender gave the customer a personality test to determine the drink he'd most enjoy. ”What's your favorite fruit?” ”Do you prefer dark or milk chocolate?” Ours suggested (for me) an Irish gimlet and (for her) and English cosmopolitan. He spent several minutes shaking the tumblers.

True to our word, we stayed an hour. Though I enjoyed meeting her co-workers and hearing stories of Jessie in the workplace (Co-workers always provide a different perspective than friends), I hadn't driven all that way in the rain to wish Dave a happy birthday.

Downtown San Jose was decorated for Christmas, including a two-block area filled with holiday displays, sponsored by different organizations throughout the city. Both of us have a thing about dolls that are too life-like; they creep us out-and some of these displays were flat-out creepy. Much too smiley and animated. We decided to see a movie and on the way to the theatre pa.s.sed a homeless man. She stopped.

”My friend Lauren does this,” she said, bringing out a hand warmer from her purse. ”She gives these to homeless people and says they like them.” She went back to speak with the man.

”Would you like this?”

The man looked puzzled. ”What is that?”

”A hand warmer. In case your hands get cold.”

”Why are you giving me that? What I need is money. Do you have two dollars?”

”I thought you might need it.”

”Do you have two dollars?”

”No, I'm sorry. Have a good night.”

I waited until we were out of earshot before laughing. ”I'm not sure I buy your friend Lauren's story. The only way that man would enjoy a hand warmer was if he could trade it in for a shot of tequila.”

After the movie, we drove to a restaurant that served chicken wings, placed an order to go and brought it to the hotel. After we had eaten, I played ”In Dreams” for her. I was nervous and couldn't remember the melody line. I'm quite sure I botched the song, but she didn't seem to mind. She left at midnight.

Sat.u.r.day morning, we drove into Willow Glen for breakfast-a cafe where we shared brioche and pie, coffee and tea, while sitting at a bar by the window. A Bernese mountain dog, my favorite breed, was sitting outside with its owners, an older man and his wife. A woman stepped out of a nearby shop and the dog grew excited to see her. We watched the interaction closely, wondering if the dog was naturally that friendly or knew the woman. We realized she was a friend of the couple. Jessie received an email from her friend Sandi, asking for help moving furniture.

We planned on going ice skating before meeting with Pastor Ken, but helping Sandi and her husband Dwight seemed the best thing to do. ”Tell her we'll come,” I said.

”Are you sure?

”Positive.”

Jessie called and told her we'd be there shortly, and we left the cafe.

Dwight and Sandi were having the carpets cleaned in their house. All the furniture needed to be taken to the garage; they'd decided to give the kitchen a thorough cleaning, as well. When we arrived, Jessie's friend Trisha was sitting on the countertop, scrubbing the cabinets. Jessie stood on a chair and joined her. Dwight and I moved couches and chairs into the garage. It was raining and we had to take our shoes off each time we stepped outside-tricky, given we were carrying two large couches. Each time I pa.s.sed through the kitchen, Jessie and I made eye contact and smiled at each other.

Dwight and Sandi thanked us for our help and asked if we wanted to stay for a meal. It was tempting but we were meeting Pastor Ken. We said goodbye, told them we'd see them tomorrow and drove into Sunnyvale.

”Should we stop and get something for Pastor Ken?”

It was a good idea. We went to the coffee shop and bought him a latte and pumpkin scone.

I'd not met him before. I had been to the church several times but never had the opportunity. I briefly told him about myself, then gave him a background of our relations.h.i.+p, touching upon the issues we were there to discuss. Jessie was completely honest, expressing her concerns, none of which was a surprise to me. We talked; Pastor Ken listened, after which he spoke awhile, explaining to me what he could about Korean culture. His brother had married a white woman and his parents still, years later, made bristling comments and spoke unfair words to her. He had only seen three occasions in which a Korean woman dating a non-Korean man succeeded. With all three, it was because the man was persevering, unwavering in his commitment. ”That's the only way it can work,” he said.

”The hard truth is it takes money to live in this world. It's always going to be an issue. You're in for a long, hard road-probably several years. It's going to be an uphill battle. But it's up to you. You have two choices: You can stay in or you can get out now. It's up to you. If you stay in, you need to know what you're in for.”

”How does that make you feel?” he asked.

This was my life. I couldn't snap my fingers and switch to someone else's. Part of me wanted to disappear, to be anywhere but there. But it was a small part. When I believe in something, I'll fight for it. When I think something is virtuous and wonderful and see the potential of what it could be, I don't give up. Perhaps it's stubbornness and G.o.d knows it's bitten me in the past, but I don't give up. I wasn't always like that. I quit several things in junior high and high school. I went out for football in eighth grade. I lasted one week, after getting my b.u.t.t kicked by Reggie Lyons, who chased me after the whistle had blown just to knock me down. The coaches encouraged him. I guess they saw me as a short, over-privileged white kid. I also quit freshman basketball. All I wanted back then was to play basketball-again, the short, skinny guy. I became the team manager instead, to my embarra.s.sment, having to wipe the floors during halftime while my friends looked on from the stands. That was many years ago. With those as the exceptions, I couldn't remember the last time I quit something. Somewhere down the line, my skin thickened. My resolve strengthened. The one blessing of pursuing endeavors based on subjective tastes-one must become tough because he's going to get knocked down over and over again. My att.i.tude was, ”I may get knocked down, but I'll get up that final time and be the last one standing.” That is, for something I believed was worth it.

I have a strange part of my personality. When circ.u.mstances get hard, I daydream of running away. ”Through the nearest exit,” I call it. I picture myself disappearing, slipping away to some small coastal town, working in a bait shop or fishery and living out the rest of my days in simplicity, with resignation and no expectations.

Was it a possibility? Would I really do this? Not a chance. It would be quitting. When I left Seattle, I knew it was the right thing to do because I was running to something, not away from something. There's a sea of difference. Running from something is quitting, giving up. Running to something is living by faith, trusting in the Lord that He is bigger than one's circ.u.mstances or problems. I enjoyed every day I lived in Seattle. Yes, there were difficult times. I was a new Christian, struggling to figure things out. I went through spiritual attacks and oppression, suffered scars that took months, if not years, to heal. But the suffering never diminished my endearment for the city and my church and friends. I wasn't running away from problems, disappearing because I couldn't endure them anymore.

Sitting in Pastor Ken's office, I allowed myself a moment to imagine. Quitting before the going got tough-really tough-which, according to him, was how it would play out. Did I really want to endure that? To suffer such slings and arrows? I imagined saying goodbye to her...a final kiss and I'd be gone.

The thought didn't last long. In fact, the imagining is what made my spirit downcast. I had come to know her in my life. Trying to imagine her not being there was agonizing. There was never a chance I would take that road. Never a pa.s.sing doubt, an ounce of hesitation. This woman was worth every insult I could bear, every fight I'd have to engage. Up until then, I a.s.sumed we'd be together. We were too good not to be. But meeting with Pastor Ken made me realize: Nothing is a given. Our obstacles were deeper than I knew, and the financial hurdle was the biggest to overcome and the one I hadn't dealt with over the years. Now, I realized the failure on my end to create a career for myself could very well cost me the healthiest, most dynamic relations.h.i.+p I ever thought possible, one that pointed to G.o.d at every step and sought integrity and holiness. It hurt. It hurt like h.e.l.l, actually. Had I been that much of a fool? And was I going to pay the steepest price for my foolishness?

We wrapped up the meeting. Jessie and I were joining Young in San Mateo for dinner. Pastor Ken prayed for us and walked us out. I thanked him again and told him we'd see him at church the next day. It was a quiet drive. Listening to the thrum of the tires on the road, the rain spitting on the window. She asked what I was thinking.

I spent a moment collecting my thoughts. I wanted to speak wisely. I told her about the ”through the nearest exit thing,” but a.s.sured her there was never a chance I'd take that road. It was a fleeting, escapist thought, but nothing more than that, a pa.s.sing moment and one I'd dismissed as quickly as it came. I told her she was worth it and that wasn't going to change.

I expected the meeting with Pastor Ken to be difficult. But I also believe hard words make for soft hearts, and soft words produce hard hearts. Though the words sting, they heal. It was the sting I felt during that ride to San Mateo. It left me with fewer words than normal. The good thing was Young knew (at least partly) of the situation. I had told him we were meeting her pastor to discuss these issues, so if I seemed somber or subdued he'd understand why.

To recap, let me count the ways in which I'd screwed up: DUI.

Sacrificing career Wasting talents No, take that one back. Anyone who knows me understands how hard I've worked trying NOT to waste my talents. Dan recently told me I was one of the hardest working guys he knew.

”You bust your b.u.t.t,” he said. ”I respect you for it more than you know.”

He had no idea how much I needed to hear that. I've given everything I have trying to bring out my talent, to let it flourish, and in the meantime, always making time for friends and church relations.h.i.+ps. I've spent myself and given everything for them. I can honestly say that. If I have a legacy on this earth, it's my friends.h.i.+ps and relations.h.i.+ps. I can't barter with financial success or business ac.u.men, but I can make my case based on those I've known and loved and given myself for-and the blessings they've given me in return.

Sometimes I wish I'd never heard the quote by Augustine. If I hadn't, maybe my living conditions would be improved and my retirement plan better diversified. But I heard it and it exploded inside me. ”Trust G.o.d and do what you want to do.”

I've spent a lifetime running somewhat carelessly, free-spirited, whatever one wants to call it, always with a vision in my head and sprinting to make it happen, pus.h.i.+ng myself. But I was starting to realize these were bigger issues than I imagined. PCC is an almost even split between Caucasian and Asian-American. Although many of my friends are Korean, I didn't realize the cultural impact. For so long, I'd seen myself as the artist type-the creative, soulful bad boy. But if it was a selling point when I was 30...31, 32, maybe, it was an obstacle now, something I hadn't dealt with and had to deal with. Soon.

It was raining the next day. Heavy rain and a heavy heart. For me, that was, still shaken by the thought that my actions over the last fifteen years could cost me the heart of such an amazing woman, with whom I enjoyed a close-knit bond, able to speak freely the thoughts in my head, the words I wanted to say, and who enjoyed hearing them and put me at ease. I started crying. I tried to stifle it but it didn't help. I never knew I was soft until I met this woman.

”What's wrong? Why are you crying?” She looked devastated.

”I can't imagine not being with you. It hurts.”

We held each other in the parking lot. Not much said. More silence than speaking. Perhaps it was better. Sometimes words only get in the way. One of the qualities of our relations.h.i.+p I appreciated most was that neither of us was afraid of silence. We could look into each other's eyes without saying a word, without being embarra.s.sed and having to laugh or look away. I often said if I could find a woman who wasn't afraid of silence, I was going to make her mine.

Driving home, the wind over the pa.s.s was so bad it blew my car from side to side and I had to white knuckle the steering wheel with both hands. Took seven hours to get home. Snowing on the Grapevine...semis filling the highway. Rain coming up from the ground and sideways from the sky. I listened to the double-CD Christmas mix she'd made for me. Maybe there's grace to driving in the elements: All of one's focus is spent on staying on the road and in one piece. There's no room for thinking of other matters.

Chapter Eighteen.

The week of Christmas began my Hard 30. Several in the 541 cla.s.s were driving on suspended licenses. Louisa had been doing it for a year and I was fairly certain Courtney would take the same approach. I've read that thieves, after robbing a place, will set the cruise control to 2 mph over the speed limit because they know their adrenaline will cause them to accelerate. The opposite is true for those driving on suspended licenses. An overly attentive sense of caution causes them to decelerate. In my case, it didn't matter. I wasn't going to do it, anyway. Sherrill offered me her bike and drove it over to my place to deliver it, along with Jason's gift to me, a box of See's chocolates and Tim's Cascade jalapeno potato chips. He knew me too well. I memorized the bus schedule to work. Biking and bussing...my life for the next month.

That night was the last of my three-hour cla.s.ses. One hour for the next three weeks and I'd be done. Benton brought potato chips for the cla.s.s. He put the bag in the center of the floor where everyone could reach it.

”For the first hour,” Walter announced, ”I want to go around the room. Tell me your favorite Christmas, the best gift you've ever received and the food you enjoy most during the holiday.”