The Haiku

The men’s group I wrote about in my last post continued to meet until seminary graduation sent us off in multiple directions. When the end was near, we decided to mark the occasion by surprising our wives with a group date. Matt suggested that we pack a picnic dinner and attend an outdoor Shakespeare production he had heard about. This sounded bad enough, but Matt upped the ante by insisting that we all write a poem to our wives and read them aloud during the meal. This idea met with immediate and protracted resistance, but Matt was not the kind of guy to take no for an answer.

Shortly thereafter, we found ourselves eating on blankets with our wives in front of an old amphitheater. After dinner, we husbands presented our wives with flowers, and Matt announced that an even more special gift was forthcoming. Hoping to get things over with quickly, I had volunteered to read my poem first, and Matt cued me to begin. When I finished the dozen or so lines I had painstakingly cobbled together, I was relieved to see the other 3 wives give Mimi closed-lipped smiles and little pats that plainly said, “You have such a nice husband.”

The other men, however, were staring daggers at me, which I was at a loss to understand. Didn’t they like it? Had I gone off track somehow? But the reason for their animosity became plain as soon as the remaining poems were read.

Matt went second and announced that he had decided to write his poem in the form of a “haiku.” This brought more smiles from the ladies, who were growing more impressed with their choices of mates by the moment. But by the time Matt finished, the smiles had turned to expressions of bewilderment, and an awkward silence descended over the group. Ethan finally spoke for all of us, asking, “Dude, do you even know what a haiku is?” Matt then expressed an eagerness to see what Ethan “had come up with,” so he read next.

Ethan’s “poetry” turned out to be a stream-of-consciousness manifesto that made little sense to anyone—his wife Carlie least of all. Jeff and I tried in vain to suppress our laughter as a vindicated Matt cried, “What on earth was that?! At least I wrote a poem!”

“Ever heard of free verse?” Ethan countered, but the damage was done. Jeff brought the proceedings to a reasonably dignified conclusion with his effort, but all in all, it was clear that some of our wives would have been far happier with the evening if we had dropped the poetry idea altogether. Mimi was an exception, I am happy to report, and at least for one night, my stock rose considerably on the home front.

Growing Your Hedges

My next brilliant idea was to gather a few friends who had recently gotten married and start a little men’s group. Initially, this group consisted of Jeff, a pal from church, and two fellow seminarians named Matt and Ethan.

The 4 of us began meeting weekly for breakfast, and we soon fell into a comfortable routine. Generally, one of us would begin by describing some incident during the previous week that had upset his wife, such as saying, “Could we talk about this tomorrow?” when the wife was trying to share some heartfelt concern right at bedtime. The other 3 would then remark, “Your wife doesn’t like that either, huh?” And we would all go away with a deepened understanding of our spouses’ mysterious needs.

While helpful, this strategy only took us so far, as the stories quickly began repeating themselves. To shake things up a bit, we decided to read and discuss a Christian book on marriage. The book we ultimately settled on bore the strange title of Hedges, and it promised to help husbands “affair-proof” their marriages. I now wonder why this theme struck us as a necessary or appealing one, but we eagerly began reading tips on building a union strong enough to withstand any outside temptations.

The book began with several detailed anecdotes about men who had been unfaithful despite having a strong personal faith. As I recall, all these stories followed a similar pattern, with friendly conversations and flirtations turning into emotional attachment and then, despite all efforts to resist, full-blown infidelity. I had a hard time envisioning this sequence of events playing out in my own life, as I had a tough time with just the friendly conversations part and had only dated about three women in my whole life.

Still, I tried to keep an open mind—until the book suddenly got a little weird. The author began laying out some ground-rules he had developed for himself to short-circuit the progression of infidelity, which included his commitment to never—under any circumstances—ride alone in a car with a woman who was not his wife. Upon reading this, I wished the author had included a picture of himself on the back cover. Was he some Adonis who women couldn’t keep their hands off of during a routine drive to the airport? If not, his rule seemed like overkill, and I said as much during our next breakfast gathering.

The opinions of the group on the subject were somewhat divided. Jeff and Matt agreed with the author that it was better to be safe than sorry, but Ethan showed some sympathy with my reaction. “What if it’s some 70 year-old crone?” he wondered aloud. “Don’t you have to take this on a case-by-case basis?”

This remark stirred disquieting memories of my experience at the nursing home, but I was grateful that some common sense had begun to enter the picture. And before long, we all agreed that our marriages were “hedged” enough to allow us to move on to a new book.

The Miracle at South Bend - Part 2

Having decided to give up sports for the betterment of my marriage, I vowed to dispense with half measures and go cold turkey. No more games on TV, sports pages, or radio call-in shows. Why make an emotional investment in something I had no control over anyway?

Just forming this resolution in my mind had a salutary effect. Though I had yet to forego a single Monday Night Football telecast, I already felt more deeply connected to both God and my wife. The benefits of my decision were so tangible that I quickly began feeling selfish for keeping them to myself. Surely other Christian men shared my sports addiction, so perhaps I could start a program called “Sports Anonymous” that would minister to these miserable souls. Soon, broken men would gather all across the nation in dingy church basements, where they would share searing tales of shattered lives and new beginnings.

“Hi, I’m Joe, and I’m a Bills fan,” some disheveled slob would confess. “It all came unraveled for me when friggin’ Norwood shanked that kick in Super Bowl XXV. I lost my job, my wife—everything. But then a buddy told me about Sports Anonymous, and it saved my life.” Such stories would be met with knowing nods and warm hugs from men who had frittered their lives away on the Chicago Cubs or Cleveland Browns, and stadium crowds would begin to dwindle noticeably as the new movement took hold.

Filled with such lofty aspirations, I managed to make it for two weeks before cracking. Everything fell apart one Saturday afternoon when my alma mater, the University of Tennessee, was slated to play at mighty Notre Dame. Mimi had gone grocery shopping while I stayed behind to catch up on some school work (mistake #1). And as the minutes ticked by, I became increasingly consumed with finding out how the Vols were faring against the Fighting Irish. After waging an intense inner battle for an hour and a half, I finally couldn’t resist the temptation to turn the game on—just for a minute—to check the score. What was the harm in a quick peek?

Well, a peek revealed that, as the game neared halftime, Notre Dame was mauling UT by a score of 31-7. I wondered if this was God’s way of telling me I had made the right decision in forgoing this idiocy. But I decided it would be harmless to continue watching for a while, seeing as the game was already decided and wouldn’t be able to draw me in emotionally.

Around Knoxville, this game is now known as “The Miracle at South Bend.” Somehow, the beleaguered Vols staged a furious comeback, culminating in a thrilling 35-34 victory. And, in a remarkable piece of timing, Mimi walked in the door just as Tennessee deflected a last-second Notre Dame field goal attempt to preserve the win. Only dimly aware of her arrival, I began racing about the limited confines of our apartment making strange, guttural noises to express my great joy. Somehow, a stunned Mimi was able to refrain from calling the psychiatric unit to seek a forced admittance.

Shaken by the fact that I had almost missed the greatest comeback in school history, I felt it would be wise to reconsider my earlier resolution and began seeking more realistic ways to work on my relationship skills. But these would not work much better.

The Miracle at South Bend - Part 1

As my last semester at Golden Gate was about to get underway, Pastor John offered to set up an internship for me at the seminary that would provide 6 hours of credit and reduce my course commitments to nearly nothing. This attractive arrangement would, in turn, allow me to help John with his latest brainchild: The Weekday Church.

Yes, John had decided to start a church in San Francisco’s financial district that would meet during lunch time and target business professionals on their own turf. Attracted by brief, nontraditional presentations tailored to their needs and interests, these urban workers would be won to Christianity, then encouraged to settle into more conventional Sunday-morning congregations in the suburban neighborhoods they lived in. Like Mt. Tam and BayMarin.

It was an innovative idea, but I immediately wondered how this new role would impact life at home. Mimi and I were still adjusting to married life, especially since we were both incredibly busy and exhausted. And, too, Mimi been proven strangely unwilling to live in the kind of dorm room squalor that my roommate Mike and I once enjoyed.

Of course, a bit of teamwork around the house was not an unreasonable expectation, so before tackling the Weekday Church, I resolved to make some changes on the home-front. It was time to start carrying my domestic weight and investing more time and energy in my relationship with Mimi. But that would mean simplifying my life somehow, and between work, school and ministry, I didn’t see a lot of room for trimming fat. And it wasn’t like I had a lot of time-consuming hobbies.

Except one. In the interest of full disclosure, it must be admitted I had (and have) a mild obsession with sports. Many an afternoon was spent watching a ballgame on TV, and poring over sports page each morning was an absolute necessity. Yes, I did often multitask while watching sports by reading a book or folding a load of laundry. But I also tended to get a bit too emotionally involved in the proceedings—particularly if my alma mater was playing—and displayed a tendency to carry on heated (and sometimes profane) conversations with the TV. Mimi found this behavior to be a little on the psychotic side, and I sometimes imagined her describing one of my more colorful monologues to a marriage counselor, who would then quietly refer her to a divorce lawyer.

Sobered by such visions, I decided to swear off sports completely, take on a fairer share of the domestic chores, and spend more quality time with Mimi.

What could be so hard about that?

The Wedding

You would think that getting married in California on December 22 would not be a problem. But as luck would have it, Mimi and I were wed on the coldest day Marin County had seen in 25 years. Though the skies were clear, the temperature hovered well below freezing, leaving patches of ice in the parking lot of Tiburon Baptist Church. Inside, the sanctuary was decorated for Christmas—awash in holly wreaths and brilliant red poinsettias.

And that’s about all I can remember of our wedding day. I know that at some point, Mimi and I exchanged solemn vows at the front of the church, flanked by my brother, Mimi’s sister, and an assortment of seminary friends. But the specifics are pretty hazy. That’s normal for weddings, where nerves and stress combine to render the mind incapable of accurately processing the surreal events that are unfolding. Which is why video cameras were invented, right?

Well, here are a couple of tips for you. Tip #1: When your father offers to record your wedding for posterity, don’t suggest that he just enjoy the wedding and give his camera to your mentally imbalanced friend Bill. Because Bill will use up 90% of the camera’s battery power shooting inane footage in the frozen parking lot.

Tip #2: When your father offers to mail you your wedding tape so you won’t have to deal with it on “your big day,” take it from him immediately. Otherwise, six months later, you will receive a tape labeled “Wedding,” only to find that the 10 minutes the ceremony that got recorded before the batteries failed have been taped over with a college bowl game.

I could add a third tip on things to say to your wife upon realizing that your wedding has been taped over, but you’ve probably already figured out that “Well, that was a good game” is not the smart choice.

The reception is clearer in my mind, mostly because Mimi coaxed three of her bridesmaids into singing Tennessee Christmas after dinner was served. My mother, who had been holding it together admirably to that point, was reduced to a whimpering bucket of tears by the poignant strains of the Amy Grant classic. Her breakdown was so complete that it seems to be the most memorable part of the day for anyone who was involved, to the point that I can never hear Tennessee Christmas without expecting to be asked “Hey, isn’t this the song your mom went ape over?”

“Yes,” I always say. “That’s the one.” And I wonder if getting married during the holidays was such a smart thing.

Marriage, Sexuality & Family

As part of our continuing preparation for marriage, Mimi and I decided to take a seminary class together on Marriage, Sexuality, and Family, thinking it would help solidify our relationship. However, the professor immediately announced that the course would be taught entirely by the students, with each of us selecting a topic of interest, researching it, and presenting our findings to the group.

On the one hand, this meant a class with minimal work. On the other hand, it meant that Mimi and I would be receiving the wisdom of our fellow students on marital issues rather than that of a professor with credentials in theology and psychology. That worried me a bit.

Once things got underway, the first presentation was on “The Six Stages of Childrearing,” with the student in charge presenting several case studies designed to foster group discussion. The first one described a scenario in which a pregnant couple comes to you, their minister, with questions about how love-making will affect the development of their baby. My first panicked thought was, “Do people really go to their pastors with this kind of stuff? It’s not like we’re pediatricians!”

Keeping such thoughts to myself, I tried to keep an open mind during the next presentation on “Choosing the Right Mate,” though I myself had already cleared that hurdle. But the student leading this session appeared to see himself as a friend to the lovelorn, offering advice to singles that included such helpful nuggets as “cultivate a relaxed attitude about dating” and “make yourself attractive to the opposite sex.”

And just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, the class took a decidedly bizarre turn. One week, a male student named Marvin launched into an in-depth analysis of the pros and cons of circumcision, during which he made a statement which is seared forever into my memory. With the most earnest of expressions, he said, “Another advantage of circumcision is that it prevents the accumulation of smegma—or, as I like to call it, ‘head cheese.’”

As I like to call it? Was this a topic that came up regularly in Marvin’s life? Maybe parishioners did come to pastors with anatomically explicit questions after all. I pictured Marvin in a well-appointed church office seated across from a matronly woman. “I glad you’ve come to me with this question, Mrs. Jones,” he was saying. “Your son’s problem is nothing more than a little old-fashioned smegma. Or, as I like to call it, ‘head cheese.’”

Strange as Myron’s presentation was, we hadn’t reached the bottom of the barrel just yet. Midway through the semester, the class was treated to a graphic discussion of pornography, which came complete with handouts. These free samples prompted questions about the student’s research methods, and I could see that our professor had begun spending class periods adding up the days to his retirement.

Of course, these efforts were all well-intentioned. But I couldn’t help thinking that somewhere in Alabama, a kindly Baptist grandmother in a floral print dress was dropping 50 cents in a worn offering plate—never imagining that her contribution was, in part, subsidizing my growing knowledge of head cheese and adult cartoons.

Volunteer Nation

By the time BayMarin got off the ground (as described in my last post), Mimi and I were officially engaged and actively planning for a December wedding. I tried to prepare her for what lay ahead by taking her to see my beloved alma mater, the University of Tennessee, play a football game in Southern California. UT was slated to face Colorado in the “Kickoff Classic” game that would launch the season, and I saw this is a unique opportunity to indoctrinate Mimi in the ways of the Volunteer faithful.

Thus far, she had proven doggedly resistant to my efforts to interest her in sports, having alternated between knitting and reading a book during an Oakland A's/Baltimore Orioles game I had taken her to a few weeks earlier. Thinking she might have a soft spot for the Orioles after growing up in Maryland, Mimi burst my bubble by stating flatly, “Their games always screwed up parking in my neighborhood.” I found it disturbing that Mimi valued convenient parking above the fortunes of her hometown team, but hoped for better results with football.

Once at the stadium in Anaheim, Mimi marveled at the throng of Tennessee fans who surrounded us, while I spent the first half grousing that “We've only got 10 or 15 thousand people here—you’ll never be able to get the full effect!” Certainly, the crowd was more subdued than the 100,000 die-hards who crowded into home games in Knoxville, but Mimi was still put off by their zeal. When the Vols quickly fell behind by two touchdowns, one man behind us repeatedly instructed Tennessee's coach to “Get your head out of your ass!” before going on to provide such helpful tips as “We're down by 14—ever hear of throwing the damn ball?!”

While impressing me as a voice of reason, this fan’s behavior seemed to diminish Mimi's enjoyment of the game, so I thought it best to keep my own coaching tips to myself. In the end, Tennessee was able to rally and salvage a 31-31 tie, but I could see that my dreams of converting Mimi into a Vol fanatic were hanging by a thread.

Shortly after returning home, we began premarital counseling with a favorite Golden Gate professor who had agreed to perform our wedding ceremony. The first thing he asked us to do was write an essay describing our expectations for marriage. I can no longer recall the content of my essay, but after our experience in Anaheim, I'm sure there were no visions of Saturday afternoons spent together watching UT football and yelling at the TV.

Meeting the Folks - Part 2

When summer arrived after my second year at seminary, Mimi and I decided to head South so she could meet my family. I knew they would accept Mimi instantly, partly because she was intelligent, creative, and beautiful, but mostly because they were always thrilled whenever I could even manage to get a date. I also felt confident that Mimi would find the South charming and delightful, perhaps even insisting that we move to Tennessee after seminary and raise our children in “God’s Country.”

Careful readers of this blog will note that we still reside in California, which subsequent events on this trip may or may not explain. Our plan was to drive from the Memphis airport to my hometown, spend a few days with my mother, then drive down to Alabama to visit my father. Mom had moved into town from my rural childhood home a few years earlier, so the first order of business was to show Mimi the house I grew up in. Driving along the familiar country road, I delighted in pointing out places of special interest—like Mutt Williams’ garage, or the oak tree where I used to chew tobacco with my friend Ricky. Lost in this pleasant reverie, I didn’t notice the quizzical expression creeping across Mimi’s face.

“What’s the deal with the appliances?” she finally said, nipping my nostalgia in the bud.

“What appliances?”

“Well, rusted-out cars are bad enough, but why do people have old refrigerators and dishwashers in their yards?”

Though dumbfounded by this question, I tried to keep from adopting a condescending tone. “Well, they don’t work any more,” I pointed out gently.

“I gathered as much from the missing doors,” Mimi returned. “So why not haul them away?”

“Because there’s no sense going to all that trouble when there’s plenty of room in the yard. Besides, you never know when you might need to scavenge a part or two.”

“But what about property values? Don’t the neighbors complain?”

Clearly, Mimi had a lot to learn. Which neighbor was going to raise a fuss—the one with the two Kenmore freezers out front, or the owner of the 1964 Impala with grass growing out of the hood?

Things didn’t improve much during the rest of our tour, as it became apparent that an insurmountable communication barrier existed between Mimi and the citizens of my fair town. After two days of awkward attempts at conversation, Mimi’s frustration boiled over.

“I can only understand 80% of what these people are saying!” she fumed.

I wasn’t sure how she had arrived at that exact figure, but it struck me as a bit on the high side. So I took the opportunity to point out that my own accent—often the object of Mimi’s jests—was really rather mild, comparatively speaking.

“Maybe so,” she said, “but the longer we stay here, the worse your accent is getting.”

And we hadn’t even hit Alabama yet.

Meeting the Folks - Part 1

Against all odds, as my second year at Golden Gate Seminary was winding down, my love life was in full bloom. Mimi and I had begun dating in December, and by late spring we were serious enough to consider meeting each other’s parents. I nervously went first, as Mimi, who is Korean, had warned me that her parents might not be too happy to see her with “a whitey.”

During a visit to the Bay Area, Mr. and Mrs. Kim met us at a Chinese restaurant in downtown Mill Valley, and upon greeting them in the parking lot, I could see that they were disturbed not so much by my race as by my height. At 6’5”, I towered awkwardly above them during the perfunctory handshakes and was forced to duck a bit at the doorway of the restaurant. Several people were gathered in the foyer waiting to be seated, one of whom was a preschool-aged boy whose eyes grew wide at my entrance. Tugging on his mother’s sleeve, he cried, “Mommy, look at that big man!”

“It’s not polite to stare,” she scolded, implying that, as a freak of nature, I was to be regarded as an object of pity. Suddenly, on one of the most important nights of my life, my height—which I had never considered to be more than slightly above normal—had begun frightening small children. Standing next to the rather diminutive Kims, my frame had assumed gigantic proportions, and matters didn’t improve any when a waitress came over to seat us who was barely pushing 5 feet. I began to wonder if we should have met at an NBA basketball game, where I would have stood a chance of blending in.

Still, the dinner was far from a total disaster. Mimi’s father was a Southern Baptist minister, having started a church in Maryland that eventually grew to over 2,000 members before accepting a denominational position in California. This gave us some common ground and ready topics of conversation, enabling me to steer the discussion away from the elephant in the room—my suitability as a prospective son-in-law. Better to survive this first meal before stepping out onto the thin ice, I thought.

But Rev. Kim decided to broach the topic himself just before the check came. Apropos of nothing, he shook his head ruefully and said, “We brought Mimi to America when she was two, and this country is all she has ever known. So why should we be surprised if she ends up with an American?”

Rev. Kim said this with a resigned, noble air, as if he were assuming all the responsibility for his daughter’s impending misfortune. It was far from a ringing endorsement of our relationship, I knew, but it felt like a place to start. Maybe if it came to that, the Kims would manage to accept me into the family—freakish height and all.

Picking Up a Vibe - Part 2

Two weeks after rebuffing my romantic overtures during a trip to Costco, Mimi unexpectedly invited me to lunch. But I found this surprising turn of events only mildly exciting, since Mimi made it clear that we were just two friends getting a bite to eat. Mike, on the other hand, was elated—interpreting the lunch as proof that his vibe detections were to be gloriously vindicated after all.

But, having been burned once, I refused to get my hopes up. And the lunch itself did little to change my mind. At several points during our meal at a Chinese buffet, Mimi reminded me that this wasn’t a “real date” and strenuously insisted that we split the tab 50-50.

I offered no resistance to this plan, and when the bill came, I began mentally calculating my contribution while Mimi dug through her purse. But after a moment, she set the purse aside and burst into spasms of laughter. It was some time before she was composed enough to tell me what was so funny.

“I don’t even have my wallet,” she finally said, before dissolving into further mirth.

I think that was the moment when I knew that we would be together in the end. Part of me must have sensed that my only hope for romantic success was to find someone who could laugh off embarrassing situations, as life with me was sure to produce a wealth of them. So I decided to press my luck and invite Mimi to my office Christmas party—carefully emphasizing that it wouldn’t be a “real date” or anything.

Under those conditions, Mimi agreed to go. And though I feared that she would be bored among the scientists and engineers I worked with, or turned off by my poor singing during a “Twelve Days of Christmas” spoof I was forced to participate in, Mimi seemed to have a good time. And as we left the party, she casually slipped her hand into mine.

Mike, I knew, would be pleased to hear this.

Picking Up a Vibe - Part 1

As the midpoint of my seminary career neared, my roommate Mike decided to take an active interest in my love life—in part, to preserve his own sanity. Mike had begun seeing a young lady from church who drove a red muscle car, and she often dropped him off at the dorm after yet another of their dates. As the throaty rumble of her dual exhausts died away, Mike would bounce into the room to find me clipping my toenails and sighing loudly.

“Have a nice time?” I would ask, managing a weak smile in spite of my apparent loneliness.

After a few months of this sad spectacle, Mike took matters into his own hands. We sometimes hung out at the apartment his girlfriend shared with two seminary students, and I had become friendly with one of the roommates named Mimi. She had grown up in Maryland and once impressed me by singing a few bars of “Hail to the Redskins” as we all watched an NFC playoff game. Sensing an opening, Mike began encouraging me to ask Mimi out, thereby relieving himself of the necessity of living with a depressed and embittered soul. But I was having none of it.

“Mimi would never go out with me,” I insisted. “She went to Johns Hopkins and makes fun of me for graduating from a ‘football factory.’”

“That’s what women do when they like a guy,” Mike responded with an air of confidence. “Listen, I’m picking up a vibe when she’s around you, so this is in the bag.”

To that point, I had not been aware that “vibes” played a significant role in male-female relationships, or that Mike possessed any special ability to detect them. But he seemed to know what he was talking about—and he was dating a girl with a red muscle car. So I decided to follow his advice.

Shortly thereafter, I maneuvered myself into an opportunity to accompany Mimi on a Costco run. And though she didn’t seem particularly friendly as we shopped, I chalked this up to my previously established ignorance of vibes. And on the way home, I asked her out.

Twenty minutes later, I slumped into the dorm room that Mike and I shared, carrying more peanut butter than we could consume in 6 years. Seeing the look of dejection on my face, Mike’s eyes grew wide with disbelief.

“She said no?!” he cried, before peppering me with questions about the trip, all of which were designed to infer that I must have taken some wildly wrong-headed approach and ruined a sure thing. But I had an alternative explanation.

“So much for your vibes,” I spat. “And I hope you like peanut butter.”