The family of four in the booth next to us was clearly celebrating. Two parents and their kids, a couple of brothers who were probably nine and thirteen, were laughing and making toasts.
“To the Cubs!” said the younger boy in his Little League uniform. The older kid put his arm around his brother and said, “Great job today, Stevie. That was a bomb!”
His dad was athletic-looking and beamed with pride. I assumed he had played his share of baseball in his day, and seeing his kid hit a home run must have made him feel pretty good.
There was a time when I wondered if I had missed out by not having any kids. Would I be celebrating my kids’ athletic achievements? Would I have been able to teach them about perspective, compassion, and belonging? I liked to think that I would have been a good dad, but . . . I stopped myself. I learned to understand that it just wasn’t meant to be. I had other responsibilities that precluded such opportunities, and I had dedicated myself to them. Plus, after some time, I had discovered how fun it was to spoil the shit out of my nephews and nieces. Jess knew what I was thinking. Jess always knew what I was thinking. She just took my hand and smiled at me.
I couldn’t help but chime in. “Hey, man, go yard today?”
Stevie replied, “Yeah! First one! I crushed it!”
Stevie’s mom gently reminded him of the importance of staying humble and not to brag.
“I get it, man! That’s a huge accomplishment!” I reassured them both that I took no offense. “I never hit one. I played for ten years when I was a kid and never hit one. I don’t think I ever came close! When you’re in the Major Leagues, I can tell all my friends that I saw you the day you hit your first home run!” I asked Stevie for his autograph.
Jess and I got up and walked to the register. I handed the server $200 cash for our meal and told her that we’d also like to pay for Stevie’s family. I quickly wrote a note on the receipt, “Good job, Stevie! Keep that ball forever!”
“But combined, the two tables are only $83.27,” the server told me.
“I know.”
We walked out before she could object or even say thank you. We smiled and waved as we walked by the window and saw the server bringing Stevie an ice cream sundae. She was talking to the parents, who looked perplexed and then, with wide eyes, waved back. I gave them a thumbs-up and then mimed swinging a bat. I don’t think too many people from out of town ever came to this place. Most visitors were probably family or had a personal connection to this place. So, a couple of random strangers handing out money must have seemed totally foreign.
The next day, I was speaking at a university fifty-something miles away. Reading from my novel about fortune cookies. It was the first book I wrote after my experience because I wasn’t ready to write this one. Whenever I did these events, we always randomly found small towns to check out. This wasn’t the first time. It certainly wouldn’t be the last. This town, though, was a little further away than the ones we typically picked. This town was special.
We continued strolling down the small street and came to an intersection. Four-way stop sign. I waited. I watched as car after car waved on the pedestrians. Not once did a car try to cut in front of anyone. They all stopped. They all waved. It was beautiful. This dance was a waltz. Not a mosh-pit.
I asked a little boy in a Cardinals uniform if he could tell us where the field was.
“Just go straight down this street for two more blocks. It’s on your right. Can’t miss it, sir.”
Sir. Small towns. I chuckled.
We walked our two blocks, and the field appeared exactly where the young Cardinal said it would. Norman Rockwell couldn’t have painted this more perfectly. We had apparently walked into the 1950s. There was a single field. A small fence lined with banners honoring the sponsors arched around the outfield. The local plumber, insurance agent, barber, and café all supported their local Little League. A small 200-foot sign was dead center, and similar 180-foot signs were in left and right field. Not surprisingly, it was impeccably manicured. The American flag danced in the wind above center field. We got there just as the game was about to start.
I smiled at Jess as we settled into the bleachers behind home plate. I took her hand in mine.
The umpire, a teenager, maybe fifteen years old, wearing jeans, a white T-shirt, and a backward red hat, walked toward the plate. The logo on the faded hat was from a Minor League team. Probably not far from here. I watched him closely as he greeted the coaches in the home team dugout. Small town, they knew each other. He scanned the crowd stands as though he were searching for someone. He waved at a woman I assumed was his mom, who sat beside a man in a paramedic uniform. Then he got to me. We locked eyes. And he stopped dead in his tracks.
I smiled and gave a gentle wave.
He smiled cautiously and waved back. Maybe he knew.
Maybe he just had a feeling.
THE END
EPILOGUE
After reading this manuscript, Jess told me she liked it and then added, “Kind of a Disney ending, isn’t it?” I knew what she meant.
I’d love to tell you that I’m healed. How everything is perfect. I’d love to tell you that I have it all figured out now. That everything is great with Jess all the time. That my relationship with my mom is smooth and easy. That my sister and I talk every day.
Those would be lies.
My work continues. My work will always continue.
I have learned to trust myself. To forgive myself. And to love myself. Mostly. Mostly is far better than rarely. And infinitely better than never. I’ll take mostly.
The truth is, I had decided to quit writing this book. It was too hard. I finally gave up and made peace with the fact that it would remain unfinished forever. I tried. But even though I had written my fortune cookie book, which had some moderate success, I couldn’t find a publisher interested in this one.
On the same day I locked Dinner at God’s House in a drawer for what I thought would be forever, I received a note from a publisher accepting the manuscript.
I’m still nervous about it. I still struggle with imposter syndrome—like all artists do, I suspect—but I am a writer. The only way I know how to be a writer is by sending this book out into the wild. After that? Dunno. That’s not my responsibility. I did my part. I trusted myself to say what I needed to say.
Maybe the rest is up to Fate.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My friend, Jacob Nordby, famously wrote, “Blessed are the weird people: poets, misfits, writers, mystics, painters, troubadours, for they teach us to see the world through different eyes.” These are exactly the characters I need to thank. After twenty-five years of writing this book and more than fifty in total, I’ve collected quite a few of them.
First, I thank my family. Because, as you might imagine, being part of this creative journey required a certain amount of patience. Being part of the entire journey, though? Let’s just say it can be a lot.
To Lisa and Kolby, the true artists in the house, I’m grateful for your support, understanding, forgiveness, and forgiveness. For a very long time, I didn’t have a temper so much as a specific tone that was devastating. I didn’t use it a lot, but when I did—it was mostly at home. I hope it’s gone forever. You never quit on me. I’m lucky to keep learning from you and look forward to seeing what you create. Also of note—many thanks to Haley. The amount of healing that comes from unconditional love, hours of walks, and playing fetch can never be understated. (With love and belly scratches to Harley, Guinness, Mutsy, and Roi. I hope you’ve all found each other.)
To my mom, dad, and brother: sharing this manuscript with you has been one of the most important and difficult acts of my life. My story is not your story, and while this book looks through a fictional lens, it’s also not-so-fictional. I know it was hard to read. But you did. I’m proud of the relationships we have been courageous enough to explore and reimagine. It might have been easier not to have the hard conversations, but we did and do, and we’re all better for it, I think. I know I am. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
Now to all of you misfits, heretics, artists, and mystics: You are represented in my life by names like Tim, Susie, Mandi, Dick, Krista, Rachel, Marvin, Elizabeth, and Adam. I cannot name all of you, and I hope you’ll forgive such trespass. I hope I have told you enough privately how deeply grateful I am for your presence in my life. Without you, I’m not here. You are friends, family, teachers, and loves. Therapists. So many therapists. Some have been around for decades, and others for a blink. Some remain and some, as they do, have slipped through the fingers of time. In this book, I define God as the sum of the experiences of my life. I believe that. As a result, it means each and every one of you, no matter the experience, is God. You’re part of me. That’s no small thing. Moreover, it means that every new experience we share makes God grow. I’m grateful for that.
