As July came around, I began to feel the urge to “fit in” in Santa Clara. When we had been there, I’d noticed that everyone drove huge SUVs. So, I began to tell Jeff that I thought, perhaps, we should use our savings to buy a Jeep Grand Cherokee. Jeff argued that this was a little absurd, especially since we were moving away from snow country, and our chances of needing four-wheel-drive while living among palm trees were nil. However, I argued that I just wouldn’t feel safe speeding along at 90mph down the dozens of freeway s in our little tin can of a Honda Civic while Hummers zoomed past us. I wanted to be in something safer, and, I didn’t say out loud, snazzier. I really wanted something snazzier. I already felt like we were moving to some beautiful glitzy part of California and I envisioned dozens of 19-year-old blonds in bikinis lurking on every corner. I felt frumpy and insecure, and thought that if we had to live in a windowless cave, at least I deserved to have a nice car to drive around.
So, Jeff, ever-devoted husband, ready to please, began to research Jeep Cherokees. Most all of them were ridiculously out of our price-range, but eventually he found one, listed by a private owner in Salem which was only 40 minutes away. He called the woman up, and was greeted by a deep voice like sandpaper. “Has the car been smoked in?” He inquired. Yes, it had. Jeff felt that this disqualified the car, but I was in love. “I’m sure you can’t even smell it,” I insisted. So, he made an appointment and we agreed to go take a look.
The day we went to look at the car, we locked ourselves out of the house, and got in a fight as we tried to get on our way. Miscommunication, on top of clashing emotions and flaring tempers made for a rough start to our journey to Salem. Then, apparently mapquest was not to be trusted, because we were led on a wild goose chase down 14 miles of dirt road, before we emerged onto a major highway in Salem. Upon emerging and glancing at road sign, Jeff and I looked at each other and realized we knew exactly where we were and could have gotten here using I-5 in about half the time it took us. Frustrated and tired, we quickly made up, kissed, and pulled into the driveway – the Jeep was sitting out front looking beautiful. It was Platinum, a deep silver gray like pewter, with leather interior. As we inspected the outside, a small skinny woman came out to greet us. She had tan, leathery skin, with hair that looked slept on, and a bare face that somehow betrayed the fact that it was usually covered in makeup – it didn’t look natural. She wore a tight ribbed tank top and tight, super short cut-offs. She was very fit, although the loose skin that covered her muscles betrayed her age – she must have been close to fifty. She made a fist and coughed several times before introducing herself, Karen Johnson. We introduced ourselves, starry eyed and obviously excited at the sight of this beautiful car. It looked even that much more impressive next to my aged, small, scratched black Civic. She gave us the keys and we hopped in. The engine roared and off we went, sitting high in luxury, wiggling around in the soft, supple leather seats, adjusting the air and stereo, inflating and deflating our seats to find the maximum comfort. The car was completely empty and cleaned out, nothing in the glove box. It smelled like smoke still, but it was clear that it’d been cleaned thoroughly. As we drove along I opened the center console – it was empty save a picture. I picked it up. It was a snapshot of Karen, with some motley looking man, dressed up in black leather. She wore a black leather halter bikini top with skin-tight black underwear and garters with fish-net tights and thigh-high black leather platform boots. She had her arms around this man, puckering her lips up at him while he smiled toward the camera.
I showed Jeff briefly. “Sick,” was his response. A little embarrassed that I’d seen it, I tucked it back away in the center console and enjoyed the rest of the ride. When we returned, I thought she smirked a little at me and asked how the ride went. Jeff thought it rode fine, so we agreed to take it. We wrote her a check, and Jeff insisted that since it was my car, I’d get to drive it home. On the drive home I blared the radio, singing along with my favorite songs, feeling on top of the world. At stop lights I was sure the cars next to me were admiring my fancy ride, and somehow I thought I looked prettier behind the wheel of a platinum SUV. I waved behind me at Jeff as he trailed in the Civic, grinning as he could tell I was having a ball.
As we neared our home, however, I stopped at a stop light, and as I waited for the light to turn green, the car began to shake. Not just vibrate – shake. Alarmed, I pulled over to the side and Jeff followed. He got in and discovered the same thing—the car shook so bad it was barely drivable. The day ended just as it had began – with us tired and frustrated.
We immediately cancelled our check, and when Jeff contacted Karen, she showed her true colors. Cursing Jeff up and down, she insisted that we bought the car “as is” and that she’d sue our pants off if we tried to do anything. I was baring my fangs and ready to fight back, but Jeff, as always, was Mr. Peacemaker. He managed to talk her out of absolute rage, and although I didn’t want to give her one cent, Jeff and Karen negotiated that if we paid her $400, she would take the car back and the deal was off. I was furious. Four hundred dollars was a lot of money, and it was so frustrating me to me that we’d come out of the entire ordeal $400 poorer and still without a new car. Jeff insisted—it was God’s grace that had shown us our error sooner rather than later and we’d escaped with hardly a scratch. In the grand scheme of things, $400 was a lot better than thousands of dollars of car repair fixing a lemon. He saw it as God’s hand teaching us a lesson—all that glitters is not gold and our trusty little Honda, though not flashy, was reliable and faithful. We didn’t need a new car.
When the car drama was a thing of the past, Aaron and Candi returned from their honeymoon and two days later moved down to Santa Clara. Aaron drove the U-haul and Candi drove her little Honda Accord, their only car. They had sold Aaron’s car in order to pay for the U-haul. They didn’t have much stuff, so it fit rather easily into the truck, and they had it rented for 5 days, so that was their time frame for finding a home. After staying with a friend Saturday night, they made their way into Santa Clara, and arrived on a Sunday morning, figuring a good first stop was church. They parked the U-Haul at the far corner of the parking lots, and in their wrinkled jeans and t-shirts, they entered church with smiles, ready to meet new friends. We’d described Kathy to them, so that they could find her and get some help getting situated. So after they tracked her down, she offered them the unused dorms. Tana had moved out by that time, so Kathy offered to let Aaron and Candi stay in Tana’s old dorm. Aaron and Candi were thrilled, since a free place to stay was exactly what they’d been praying for. So, Kathy pointed them in the right direction, and wished them luck. After lunch, they spent the day driving around Santa Clara, getting a feel for the city, then came home late and exhausted, pulled the U-Haul around next to the dorm and lugged their duffle bags up the stairs to their temporary home.
Apparently when Aaron and Candi arrived, the dorms were in even worse shape than they’d been in when we arrived. Apparently Tana had moved out without a glance behind her, leaving the room littered with trash, dirty dishes in the sink, old sheets piled in the corner, and an overflowing garbage can in the kitchen. I’ve since tried to picture neat, beautiful, all-put-together Candi stepping into the littered, damp, smelly little cubicle and managing to keep her smile while she politely sniffed and picked up Cheetos bags from off the bunk mattresses. The bathroom was worse, and though Candi had never met Tana, she knew right off that she had long brown hair. By the time they got to the beds, the newlyweds were exhausted and ready to sleep. Heading toward the bunks, they realized there was no bedding, and their own bedding was packed away deep in the U-haul.
Determined to stay strong for her new husband, Candi, simply shrugged her shoulders and declared, “Well, we have our bath towels that the Jansons got us for our wedding!” So, the lovebirds took their respective bunks and lay down on the plastic mattresses, squeaking as they settled themselves down, curled up under their new black bath towels. They lay in silence for a few minutes, but eventually, Aaron heard the unmistakable sniffing from the bottom bunk.
“Babe?” No answer. “Babe are you alright?” No answer. He pushed off his towel and swung his legs over the bunk, jumping down. Candi pulled her towel over her face and turned to the wall. Aaron gently lay down next to her, curling up next to her from behind and pulling her close to him. Eventually she turned to face him, her face red and streaked with tears, her blond curly hair stuck to her cheeks. She didn’t need to say anything. Aaron pulled her close and she buried her face in his chest. “It’s gonna be ok, Babe. It’s gonna be ok.”
The next morning they were up by 6am as Aaron had a job interview scheduled at 9am with UC Berkeley, more than an hour’s drive away. He’d packed his suit and dress shirt, and managed to unearth their iron from a box. At 6:30am that morning, Aaron could be found on the floor, on his hands ironing his dress shirt on top of a towel on the floor. Candi had put herself to work trying to clean up the dorm, stuffing wrappers into the already overflowing garbage, and washing the dishes that were now sour and crusted over. She decided that spending the morning alone in the dorm was more than she could bear, so she volunteered to go with Aaron to his interview, where she sat in the car the entire time, but was happy to be near him and not in the dreaded make-shift dorm.
When they arrived back in Santa Clara it was noon, and they decided that the previous night’s experience in the dorm was a good motivation to find an apartment that day. Since they only had one car, they decided that their housing must be within walking distance of Candi’s work, the Nordstrom Rack at Westgate Mall off Saratoga Ave. Their three choices were two extremely sketchy complexes and a third that was only slightly less scary, but it was the winner. Atherton Terrace, apartment number ten became their new home, a stone’s throw from Nordstrom Rack. By ten o’clock that night they had signed the papers, commented to each other about the manager who smelled like marijuana, and pulled up the U-Haul in the middle of the dark street, flashing the hazards to avoid a collision. Since they knew no one, the two of them, by themselves, unloaded all their belongings off the truck and into their new home. Candi, a whole five-foot-two and a hundred and ten pounds soaking wet, managed to smile as they lugged in every last box, lamp, and chair. Once again, they collapsed at midnight, exhausted, under the warmth of their bath towels, but at least this night they were in each other’s arms.
The next morning, Candi announced that she’d run to the store to get a few things for breakfast. As she approached the car, she gasped – the driver’s side window had been completed smashed. Glass was everywhere, the glove box was open and papers strewn everywhere, seats were torn, and the brand new stereo that Aaron had bought her for their wedding gift, was gone.
More than anything, they just felt violated. Here they had just signed a year lease, and this place, their new home, their new place of refuge, proved to be a place they immediately felt vulnerable and unsafe. Aaron called the insurance and took over, finding a place to repair the car. He even went and bought them a new stereo, but discovered that the vandal had also stolen Candi’s CD case, with her CD collection of well over 100 of her favorite albums. This was the last straw, once again, for Candi. All her enthusiasm and effort to be excited about this new adventure, and this felt like the final deflation of all her joy. But, once again, she found perspective and some key-chain mace, and was determined not to be overcome by the challenge of this new place.
The next week, Candi went to work and Aaron diligently sought out positions, eventually taking the job with UC Berkeley, and though it was an hour commute each way, they were thrilled. We talked on the phone frequently, and prayed for each other, and two weeks later, Friday, July 31st, it was our turn to take the road to Santa Clara.
—
My parents are saints. Their response to our decision to move to Santa Clara was, in a word, supportive. They didn’t hide the fact that they were grieving. My mom had recently been diagnosed with Parkinson’s, and I had always been extremely close to both of my parents. My mom was, and is, my best friend. Leaving them was by far the hardest part of this decision, but I knew from Scripture that not wanting to leave one’s parents was no reason refuse God’s calling. They took comfort in the fact that at least we didn’t really want to leave. We sensed that this was a move God wanted us to make, but it wasn’t as if we desired to be farther away from them.
So, my dad volunteered to drive down our U-Haul for us, so that Jeff and I could go together in our little two-door Honda Civic, then they would stay and help us settle in for a few days and fly back at the end of the weekend. (When calculating the cost of gas for the trip, I found myself thanking God we had the Civic and not the Grand Cherokee!) We drove to their house and picked them up, bringing them back to ours the night before the big move. That morning, Saturday, we awoke early. We had found a renter for our house, and she was moving in at noon, so we only had a few hours to get packed and moved. Jeff woke at 6 and began piling boxes by the door. I got up at 7 and went to the grocery store to buy a dozen donuts in hopes of blessing any able-bodied young men who showed up to help, and at eight Jeff went to the U-haul yard to pick up our truck. They had no record of our reservation. Of course they didn’t. Once again, I panicked and Jeff remained calm, and after two hours of negotiating and calls and checks and rechecks, they were able to get us a one-way truck to Santa Clara. By this time our helpers had been waiting for an hour, enjoying coffee and donuts, but anxious to get the boxes loaded and get on with their days. The load went in without a hitch, and dozens of friends stopped in to say goodbye. Kristen Wilson, my co-director in the drama, brought me a white mocha from my favorite coffee shop, prepared just as I liked it. When Caila, my little disciple and friend who had been in my small groups for five years, showed up, I couldn’t even look her in the eye. As we stood and hugged, crying on each other’s shoulders, flashes of her life passed through my mind. I saw her as a little freshman, shy and quiet, sitting on the outskirts of the circle at Bible study, nervously volunteering answers when called on. I saw her in her in-between days of struggling with sin, her sheepish looks when we’d meet. I saw her as she blossomed into a woman of God, acting in the dramas, dancing in the dances, leading groups of her own, sharing the gospel, traveling on foreign missions trips. As she drove away I turned to the truck. It was packed, and Jeff was pulling the door down the back. It was time.
Slowly, I walked back into our little home. The carpet looked beautiful with fresh vacuum lines. I smiled at the fireplace where we’d spent so many nights cuddling. I looked into the backyard where we’d had summer picnics and lay on our backs in the grass, watching the clouds. I inhaled the familiar smell of home, mixed with the scent of pine cleaners. I touched the wall and closed my eyes for a moment. Then I walked to the door and pulled it closed, pulling it tight and locking it behind me. My parents had already pulled out in the U-haul, figuring we could easily catch up during the 600-mile drive. Jeff came to the door where I stood staring blankly out at the lawn.
“You ready, Sauce?” He tenderly put an arm around me and drew me toward the car.
“Yeah,” I said quietly. We drove through Corvallis, every turn and street and restaurant washing over me with familiarity and memories. We had to stop at the church office to pick up the last of our mail. We walked in the office and I inhaled the familiar smell of copy paper, coffee, and the subtle fragrance of Cindy, our secretary. After we got our mail, we said goodbye to the few pastors who were there, and once again, I had to just stare straight ahead, forcing my mind to stay blank, so I couldn’t break down again. But once we were in the car, the slam of my car door felt like a sudden breaking of a great dam of emotion, and I bent forward in my seat, holding my stomach and weeping like a child.
“I know, honey. I know. It’s going to be ok.” Jeff pulled out and the next time I looked over at him I realized he was crying as well. How could I leave this place? Everything that I love is here. As we passed through the rest of the town, I saw the signposts through a watery blur. After filling up with gas, we pulled onto the on-ramp and onto I-5. We both cried all the way past Eugene. Finally, an hour later, when we were emptied of tears, we sat in understood silence, holding hands, in the silent recognition that we had left, that that chapter was done, that we had grieved and left and now had no choice but to move on, to embrace, to welcome this new chapter of life in Santa Clara.
That night we stopped in Sacramento to stay with Jeff’s dad and step-mom. We’d arrive late, exhausted, and slept soundly, awaking early and polishing off a solid breakfast of Eggs Benedict before once again setting off for the short, two-hour drive to Santa Clara, to our new home.
…
Read The Road to Santa Clara (Ch. 4): The Apartment »
Wednesday morning we packed up once again and headed back up I-5 to Lake Shasta. As soon as we got out of Santa Clara city limits, my head and sinuses cleared and almost within minutes I began to feel better.
“Wow—that’s crazy. I feel totally better,” I marveled, breathing deeply in and out of my nose to demonstrate. Jeff turned to me and smiled, but I could tell he was lost in thought about our weekend there. A moment later, we saw the flashing lights behind us, and that panicked sinking feeling took over us both as we looked down and saw Jeff’s speed, ten miles per hour over the limit. We slowed and stopped along the side of the freeway, cars zooming past us.
Two-hundred and forty-five dollars poorer, we cautiously pulled back onto the freeway, crawling along at the speed limit while Hummers and Escalades veered and sped around us like we were standing still.
“Great end to the trip, huh?” Jeff looked ahead, visibly deflated. I patted his thigh and gazed out the window at the enormous white windmills sprinkled across the rolling hills, wondering what direction the wind was blowing.
Mark met us at the dock at Lake Shasta, his eyes dancing with enthusiasm as they always did when he spotted something new on the horizon of life.
“How was it?!” He hugged us both. “You totally connected with them, didn’t you?” We looked at each other and shrugged our shoulders.
“I don’t really know. I mean, I can’t say we could really tell one way or another.” Jeff admitted, as if we’d led Mark down. We walked down the dock together and hopped on a house boat and snuck into one of the rooms so we could have a chance to talk before the two-hundred some-odd students showed up teeming with needs and energy. Jeff shared with him about Chase and Kelly.
“I knew it! I mean, those’re the kind of people you want to be ministering with. It sounds like you guys just clicked right off.” Again Jeff and I just kind of looked at each other, wanting to join in in Mark’s contagious enthusiasm, but unsure whether it would be authentic for us to do so. After we’d talked a bit more, someone was calling for Mark so he excused himself and left Jeff and me alone.
“Maybe I just need a different perspective,” I said. “I mean there were some really good things about the trip, and I really did enjoy Chase and Kelly. Maybe we just need to focus on the good things.”
Jeff pulled me into his arms and kissed the top of my head. “I love you, Sauce.”
A week later, I had the joy of playing the lead role in a large-scale theatrical performance put on by our church. We had adapted the script of Tilly, a story about a woman dealing with the issue of abortion. The emotionally packed play had every audience member in tears, and for all of us who spent the months of dedicated weekends, evenings, and countless hours of work, the play was like our own child. Sarah, the girl who played my daughter in the play, became like a daughter to me. We’d performed plays every year for three years thus far, and the entire drama ministry had been my baby, been born out of my tears and suffering and had flourished. Watching this ministry blossom was like watching a child grow up and succeed.
The last night of the play, as I packed up my bags and hugged the last of the cast members, I couldn’t help but think, this might be my last drama. The reality of that was too much for me to even deal with at the time – to leave Corvallis was like leaving a baby behind. The drama ministry had become so precious and dear to me. As I got into my car that night, I once again wept, leaning forward on the steering wheel and weeping like a child, in loud sobs, crying out to God. I wanted to obey Him and wanted to go forward and pursue what He wanted for us, but leaving meant uprooting bonds and ties and investments that seemed too deep to sever. I was torn.
A few weeks later, our senior Pastor, Rob, invited me to join him on a TV interview promoting our church’s city-wide purity event, Pure Choice. We were interviewed during the Water Cooler segment, and afterward Pastor Rob took us to the Olive Garden for dinner so we could talk. We shared with him about our Santa Clara prospect while he dove into his Chicken Parmigiana and admitted our uncertainties while he ordered us a Tiramisu to share. Through dinner he’d remained quiet, probably due in part to the fact that Olive Garden fare was his favorite, but after two or three mouthfuls of Tiramisu, he pushed the plate toward us and wiped his mouth with his napkin, leaning back in his chair. We waited.
“Honestly?” He asked. We looked at each other and nodded. We respected him and trusted his wisdom. “I wouldn’t do it if I were you.” We looked at each other, surprised. He continued, “In order to serve under someone you have to know that you’re like-minded. Not identical, but of one heart and direction. I know some things about this church and they’ve had some difficult situations down there. I’m not saying it’s going to be a failure, but I’m just saying I’d be careful. You can go if you feel like that’s what you have to do, but just be prepared that it may be a crushing time, a difficult time, a wilderness experience.” He’d said it. We sat in silence, unsure of how to respond. Finally, Jeff did.
“Mark really thinks we should go.”
“Mark is great – he really and honestly wants to see you two succeed and go far and wants to push you to take risks and attempt great things for God, and so do I, but Mark hasn’t been around to see the things that I’ve seen.” He left it at that. Again there was nothing for us to say. A third of the Tiramisu was still on the table so we all stared at it and Rob waved for the check. After he’d paid, we headed toward the door. As we drove back to the church, we talked about Pure Choice and what we hoped God would do. As he dropped us off at our car, we got out and Jeff went around to let me in the passenger side. Rob rolled down the window. “I love you guys.” He meant it.
That night was one of the lowest. We’d begun to feel certain that we were going, but now this totally threw us and we felt like we’d been hit with a left hook out of nowhere. On top of that, Jeff’s seafood alfredo apparently didn’t agree with him, and he was on the couch with diarrhea and vomiting the entire night. After a trip to the store for 7-up and saltines, I sat on the floor by the couch and rested my head against Jeff’s stomach and cried.
—–
“Rob just doesn’t want to let you two go.” Mark said so matter-of-factly the next day as we recounted our conversation from the previous night. “Of course he doesn’t want you to go! I don’t either, but I’m thinking of you. This is an amazing opportunity. You’re stifled here and you could be doing so much more.” His argument seemed logical and by mid-June we had made our decision—we were on the road to Santa Clara.
The night of the last Real Life, we announced our decision to the college students. We said goodbyes and cried. Many stood and shared about how God had used us to change their lives. I wept and wept—feeling like my insides were being wretched, like a precious child was being yanked from my arms. After the regular Bible study, a group of student leaders stayed to pray for us. One by one, students began to pray and share what they sensed God putting on their hearts.
“God is going to bring hundreds of students . . .”
“God will defeat the enemies in the area one by one, little by little . . .”
“I see you digging through soil, uprooting and planting . . .”
“In a year there will be a hundred students . . .”
When they had finished, Jeff and I opened our eyes and looked at each other in awe—there was our confirmation. It seemed that every student had shared something about God doing great things in the college ministry down there. All we had to do, was obey.
But something was still nagging and I needed God Himself to right it. One afternoon in late June, I was waiting at a friend’s house while Jeff was finishing up a meeting on campus. I was done visiting with my friend, and was trying to decide whether to go directly to campus and assume Jeff would be done soon, or whether I should go across town and get my grocery shopping done before I went. I didn’t know when he’d be done, and while this may seem like the most inconsequential of decisions, I didn’t want to go all the way across town, get in the middle of a long grocery line, only to have Jeff call and say he was ready to have me pick him up. On the other hand, I really needed to get groceries and didn’t have much time, so if he was going to be awhile yet (which he often was) then it would be great to get the shopping done. Indecision. Such is the plague of a perfectionist. As silly as it sounds, I prayed about it. Hey, why not? And in an instant, I decided to go for it and go across town to get groceries. I hopped in the car and wheeled out on 9th street, and wasn’t four blocks down the road when my cell phone rang. It was Jeff. He was ready for me to pick him up.
Although they’re not legal in Oregon, I did a quick look around to check for cops, made sure the coast was clear of oncoming cars, and pulled a quick U-turn. As I headed back the other direction I was struck with a thought that was so clear it could have been audible. It’s ok to make U-turns. I almost stopped the car I was so taken aback. My agonizing over making the right decision was unnecessary. Yes, of course we should be purposeful and careful about making wise choices, but my agonizing over it, afraid of making the wrong choice, was not needed. God was faithful to guide me, even when I headed off the other direction, and it wasn’t a waste. The four blocks I drove in the opposite direction were not a waste, they were part of a lesson that God was teaching me. Sure, they were extra minutes traveled, but they were necessary for God to show me that He was in control and that at any moment He could turn me around, and that that was ok. God can to U-turns. He never changes, but He can lead and direct us in whatever direction He wants, even in U-turns.
During our years on staff with Real Life, Jeff was teaching at the School of Ministry, a one-year Bible school that we’d both attended. One of his students, Aaron Seifer, also happened to be a frat guy who’d come to know Christ just a few years earlier. He’d been discipled by Jeff and had decided to go through the school before launching into his desired career path of sports marketing. This decision was a significant one, and as a student at the school, Aaron had excelled, rising to the top of the class. He always had the best grade, was the most diligent, disciplined, and mature student. Not only was he Jeff’s disciple and student, he grown to be Jeff’s peer and friend. Aaron and his fiancé Candi were to be married that June, right after school got out. I didn’t know Candi, but we’d hung out a couple of times as couples, and I respected Aaron so much that I figured Candi must be something special as well. Jeff had always told Aaron, “If I ever get to be a pastor somewhere, I’d want you at my side.” So, when we were tossing around the idea of moving to Santa Clara, we’d tease Aaron by saying we were hoping he and Candi would pack up and move to Santa Clara with us. He’d laugh it off, but finally said, “No really . . . I’ll pray about it.” We agreed to do the same.
After the decision was finalized – we were going to Santa Clara – we notified Pastor Steve and asked for a recommendation on whether we should find an apartment before now or scope things out once we were there.
“Oh, didn’t I mention? You’ll live here at the church. All of our pastors live here at the church for the first year or two. It’s a good way for you to really be in the thick of things and for us to get to know you and it saves us money so we don’t have to pay you for housing.” Jeff thought that sounded great. I did not.
“What?! We have to live at the church?” I began to feel panic setting in – I’d finally gotten myself to a point where the idea of leaving everything, our home, our family, our friends, our ministries and church body, would be ok, but this seemed to be above what I could handle and I could hear my voice quivering.
“I’m sure they’re nice; I mean the sanctuary and the rest of the church is beautiful,” Jeff reasoned. “How about this, I’ll call down and talk to Chase and get a feel for what they’re like and I can get all the dimensions and everything so that you can be prepared and we know what all we can take down with us. How’s that sound?” Jeff came over to me and once again, as he’d done so many times in the previous months, pulled me close to him and enveloped me in his arms. “It’ll be ok,” he assured me. I closed my eyes to hold back tears; I didn’t have the energy to cry.
But cry I did. As I inevitably came down from the high of anticipating a new adventure, the reality of this decision felt like an enormous wave, growing and gathering strength, ready to swallow me whole. If I let myself think about all the implications, I literally felt like I would go crazy. In mid-June, in the middle of one sleepless night, I got up and went into the study to sit and pray and try to sort through my thoughts.
As I sat down on the carpet and leaned against the wall, I pulled my knees up and hugged them to my chest, burying my face into my arms. All the waves of fear and sorrow welled up and I found myself weeping like I’d never wept before. I thought of how we’d met – the innumerable memories that haunted the streets of Corvallis, the places we’d walked, the restaurants where we’d dined, the friends’ houses where we’d enjoyed dinners and game nights and worship and prayer meetings. Every walk and drive through town brought a rush of memories like a sweater that smells of a familiar friend. I thought of our home, of the miracle that it was that we even were able to buy it, of the amazing circumstances surrounding the accepted offer, of that night we’d first gotten the key and we drove out and painted the walls until midnight, snuggling on the carpet and toasting sparkling cider in paper cups. I thought of the countless friends who’d come to be like family. The girls I’d discipled who now had small groups and Bible studies and young disciples of their own. The other drama participants who’d spend months of labor together with me to perform the plays. I thought of the Real Life staff, whom we’d cried with, laughed with, served with. I’d never experienced friendship like I had in Corvallis. I thought of our pastor, who’d loved us and pushed us and fed us as a loving shepherd, who’d pointed us to Christ. And like a strong current that swept me along and refused to let me go, my thoughts went to my family. My mom, just recently diagnosed with Parkinson’s. My mom who was my best friend, who would listen to me for hours, who would rejoice at my every success, who would cry with me and cheer for me, give me advice and sit in silence when needed. Who’d taught me everything I knew about being a godly woman and wife. I thought of my dad who was the most amazing father I could ever imagine. I thought of how he’d drop everything to run down to Corvallis to visit us; of camping trips and boating excursions, of barbeques on hot days and splashing in the pool at their house. I thought of my brother, my amazing brother who I looked up to, who I idolized. My brother who used to take me out to Chinese food on Valentine’s day when I didn’t have a date. My brother who always had a new wound from some new mountain climbing excursion. I thought of the holidays, my entire family bustling around my parents’ house, the smell of mom’s fresh crescent rolls filling the air, the sound of my dad and uncle Tom telling jokes and comparing stories, the laughter of my aunt and cousins around the table playing pictionary.
By now I was crying so hard I felt like I couldn’t breeze. My chest felt like a thousand pound weight was smashing, squeezing, suffocating me. It hurt so bad I curled up in a ball on the floor, the scratch of the carpet on my cheek. I’m dying, I thought. Everything inside me, everything that I love is dying. I pulled myself up to a sitting position and reached up on the desk where Jeff’s Bible sat, tattered and worn with frequent use. I opened to a familiar passage, Mark chapter 10, verses 29 and 30. Tears fell as I read: So Jesus answered and said, “Assuredly, I say to you, there is no one who has left house or brothers or sisters or father or mother or wife[e] or children or lands, for My sake and the gospel’s, who shall not receive a hundredfold now in this time—houses and brothers and sisters and mothers and children and lands, with persecutions—and in the age to come, eternal life. I didn’t even have the strength to underline it – I just sat there and read it, over and over, crying with sobs that reached down into my stomach. My hair stuck to my tear-stained cheeks and I pushed it clumsily away from my eyes and took a deep breath, closing my eyes and tilting back my head against the wall behind me.
Slowly, I began to pray, “God, I am counting on this. I feel like I’m dying, but I am willing to let go of everything that I love, in order to follow You. I don’t know how to do it, but I’m trusting you.” My body began to relax and I sat there for a long time, feeling like a heap, a heap of brokenness, without the strength to even get up. Eventually, because there was nothing left to do, I got up and crawled back into bed, snuggling next to Jeff as he peacefully slept.
“Can you please talk to them about this apartment and find out more details?” I asked Jeff, grasping for something, anything that I could hold onto. I knew nothing of what to expect down there, and without any understanding, not to mention control, of the circumstances I felt like I was just floating out in blackness, unable to even discern up from down. For me, the planner, the one who always had things mapped out and organized, this was torture. I had no idea what to pack, what we’d need, I didn’t even know how many bedrooms we’d have or if we needed a microwave. Some friends who were moving back East invited us to join them in their multi-family garage sale, and I needed to figure out what we needed to sell and what we could keep.
“Sure, hon,” Jeff assured me, “I’ll talk to Steve today.” Later than day I heard them on the phone. It was torture for me to sit there and listen, giving up control, letting Jeff handle the situation. The woman, the homemaker in me wanted to get on the phone and demand to know dimensions and details, but instead I sat resignedly in Jeff’s lazyboy chair, my head tilted back against the head rest, my eyes closed, listening to Jeff’s end of the conversation.
“Yeah, so what can you tell me about the apartment where we’ll be living?” Silence as he listened. “Ok, well that sounds great, three bedrooms is really spacious.” Silence. “Oh. . . converted from offices? . . . Ok, well that should be interesting. I mean, there’s a kitchen, right? . . . Ok, and a bathroom? . . . Ok, can you have someone email us the dimensions, just so we can figure out if we can bring our couch and so forth? . . . Oh, ok. Well, that’s fine. We can just guess. . . .yeah . . . what’s that? What? Really? Is that safe? I didn’t even know you could do that. Yeah, I mean I’m sure it’s fine. No, that’s no problem.” By now I was no longer sitting resignedly, I had opened my eyes and was trying to catch Jeff’s. He wasn’t sure if what was safe? Their conversation had drifted to other things, and I went and leaned on the counter next to Jeff, willing him to end the call. Finally he did. He put the phone back on the receiver, his eyes down. I knew he didn’t want to discuss the apartment.
“Is what safe?” I demanded. He looked up at me with that look I hate that says he has to tell me something that I won’t like. I raised my eyebrows and crossed my arms, waiting.
“Well, I guess the apartments are actually just converted offices, and there aren’t any windows.” I pulled my head back and furrowed my brow.
“No windows? What do you mean no windows?”
“Well, I guess the entire apartment is in the interior of a larger building, so there are no windows in it. But he says it’s safe.” Safe? Safe? Once again I could feel myself beginning to panic. Now I had a clear picture of myself, sitting alone and in the dark, in a heap of tears in a windowless apartment. There was no use in arguing or insisting that I didn’t want to live in a windowless apartment. I’d told God that I would go, so go I would.
I suppose you could characterize my state-of-mind at this point as just resigned. I’m not sure if surrendered is the word because that seems to imply a dramatic giving over, and in my Christian circles at least, seems something admirable. I don’t know that I was there yet, in the admirable column yet, I was just resigned, accepting the fact that this was happening. Surrendered would come later.
And, of course, it did. There did come a point where I realized that God was doing something through this—much more than just moving us out of Oregon. He was breaking me. More than once I thought of the verse, “Most assuredly, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the ground and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it produces much grain.” I knew that I was dying, and I hadn’t realized how much there was of me that was capable of dying! I felt like everything I cherished was being stripped away, one by one. But, I would remind myself, I had my husband and I had my God – could I be content with these? I had a choice. Yes, I would.
And so, as I always did, I began to take this experience and put it into teachable form. I was honored with an amazing treat, just a few weeks before we left. On the night of my last women’s Bible study that I would teach, all the girls who I had discipled came. Some 20-30 girls piled into the Red Door House living room, eyes bright, pen and paper and Bible in hand. I was overcome with emotion as I looked around at the faces that represented lives. The lives that I had cried for, prayed for, loved. I had failed many of them, I had been an imperfect example at best, but I did love them, and their presence in the room that night was the best gift anyone could give given me. I shared for them one last Bible study, entitled “Lie Still,” which captured what God was doing in my heart at that time, urging me to lie still on the operating table while He was given free reign to do surgery on my heart, removing things, applying balm, healing me and making me more whole than before, preparing me for the uphill road ahead. I shared about the windowless apartment, and was vulnerable about my struggles and how God was meeting me as I felt like all I loved was being stripped away. To close I shared the top ten things that I wanted them to know, parting words that I prayed they would hold close to their hearts. As we ended, they all joined round and laid hands on me and prayed. Beautiful, heart-felt prayers poured from their hearts. I felt God’s love and favor wash over me and knew that it was in His kindness, His goodness, His favor, that He was choosing to put this road ahead of us. I just didn’t know, at that point, what that road would include.
At the end of the June, just two days before our friends, Aaron and Candi, were to be married, Jeff’s cell rang showing Aaron’s number. I listened in as he greeted Aaron and asked about his step into married life in just two days. Then I heard the conversation change direction.
“What?!” Jeff was shocked but obviously in a good way. Whew! At least one surprise that would hopefully be positive. “Are you sure? I mean, are you serious?” Jeff listened, he glanced over at me but gave nothing away. “Well, of course we want you to! I mean, that would be amazing – is Candi ok with it?” Long silence. “Wow. You’re kidding! That is absolutely amazing. Bro, you are the best. I’ll talk to you soon; you just focus on your new wife, man. I love you. Yup. Late.” Jeff, once again, hung up the phone and looked over at me in absolute delight.
“What?!”
“Aaron and Candi are moving to Santa Clara with us!” I too was amazed. I mean, we had mentioned it to them, but it seemed like an absolutely ludicrous thing to ask anyone, let alone a newly married couple. “He said that they’ve been praying about it, and they both thought, why not?! They actually going to move down before us, just two days after they get back from their honeymoon. Candi is going to transfer to the Nordstrom store down there and Aaron is going to just wait until they get down there and start applying to Sports Marketing positions in the bay area. They said they’ll just pack up all their stuff and wedding gifts into a U-Haul and find a place to live when they get there.” I was speechless. I just sat there, staring at him, unable to even comprehend being that flexible and willing to bless us. I shook my head. “I know, Sauce,” Jeff came over and hugged me close. “I know, it’s amazing. They said they want to just be our friends. They want to support us in this adventure, whatever it is.” I still couldn’t speak. I’d only met Candi a few times, I barely even knew her. And yet, this young bride, with the whole world in front of her, was willing to leave her family and go to another state to support her husband’s friend and his wife?! All of a sudden I realized I knew her – though not in person, this decision she’d agreed to spoke volumes about what she must be like. I knew I’d have a friend.
…
Read The Road to Santa Clara (Ch. 3): The Jeep »
A Hike to Hardy Creek
This morning Jeff and I took a hike to Hardy Creek, up the Molalla River corridor. Little did we know what wilderness beauty awaited us when we decided to move out here. During Dutch’s morning nap, after a sweaty Tae Bo session with Billy Blanks, we took our water bottles and drove the short, several mile drive up the river, just up from my parents’ house in Molalla. We parked at the Hardy Creek trailhead and did our short hike up to Hardy Creek. It was so beautiful, the mid-morning sun bursting through the tree leaves, the air crisp and cool still, the only sounds that of our feet crunching on the path and the slight rustling of the breeze in the leaves. When we reached the creek, we stood on the footbridge, in silence, just savoring the sound of the water, sounding so crisp – and somehow sounding icy cold, as if coldness could have a sound.
I don’t know why it is that two people can sit down to talk and find nothing particularly pressing to discuss, and yet put those same two people on a hike, and they have no trouble finding fascinating topics to discuss. Perhaps it’s because on a hike you can enjoy those familiar and comfortable silences, and your senses are awakened because of the fresh air, beauty, and distance from all that distracts and demands our attention. Here, relishing the intoxicating stillness of nature, we’re reminded that we have souls and thoughts and senses. We don’t just move about numbly in busy circles of tedious tasks, we engage with our thoughts and can take the time to glimpse into our souls. Times like these are catalysts for spiritual renewal. Stillness. He leads me beside still waters and restores my soul. Today He led me besides Hardy Creek and restored my soul.
NOTE: Names and some Locations have been changed for privacy.
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“Sorry about that, Pastor Mark was on the phone,” Jeff came back to the coffee table where Nate and Selena and I were seated Indian style, holding our cards to our chests while we waited for Jeff to return.
“No worries – it’s your turn, babe.” I looked up at him and he held my gaze, looking me in the eye with an expression that told me that something interesting had made Pastor Mark call us on a Friday night at 9:30 at night. I raised my eyebrows slightly to show him I understood, then smiled at Nate and Selena and asked if they wanted any more coffee, musing to myself what fun it was to be married and able to communicate without talking.
Later that night, after we’d said our goodbyes, we walked back inside our new little town-home we’d just bought a month earlier. As donation-supported college campus missionaries at the local University, it was a miracle we’d been able to become homeowners, but a generous early inheritance from my grandma had served as our down-payment, and we managed to scrape enough together each month for our mortgage. Jeff leaned back against the door and closed it with his back, looking at me with sparkling eyes and an obvious I’m-trying-not-to-seem-excited look.
“What did he say?” I leaned into Jeff and kissed his chin, wrapping my arms around him and scratching his back.
“Calvary Chapel in Santa Clara is looking for a college pastor and Ryan and Mark recommended me,” he said with wide eyes that reflected both his amazement and flattery.
“Are you serious?” I pulled away and looked him in the eye. He raised his eyebrows and nodded. “Hmm,” I turned away and walked into the kitchen to start on the dishes. We’d been talking for the past few months about possibly doing something different the following school year. We’d been working at Real Life, the college ministry of Calvary Chapel Corvallis, for almost three years, and we’d both begun to wonder if something new wasn’t around the corner. It was really just a feeling, but we’d both felt it so strongly, that this new news seemed more than a mere coincidence. Not that we didn’t like it in Corvallis – to the contrary. Corvallis was where we’d both attended and graduated from college, where we’d met, dated, married. Where Jeff came to know Christ and where I’d really grown in my relationship with Him. I’d lived there six years and Jeff eight – it was home. “What does Mark say?” I asked Jeff, who had followed me in and was gathering up glasses from the table.
“He says we should go for it – I mean, after we talk to the pastor and everything. It’s a huge church and he thinks we’re ready for it.”
“Hm.” I rinsed more thoroughly than needed, lost in my thoughts. California?
We decide that we’d at least pray about it for a few months. If it was meant to be, we figured it’d keep surfacing and sure enough, it did. One night in mid-February, as we headed out the door to the Real Life Bible study, the phone rang: It was Steve, the Senior Pastor as Calvary Chapel Santa Clara.
“Hi there, Pastor Steve,” Jeff looked at me with wide eyes as he said his greeting for my benefit. I put my purse down and pulled a stool up to the counter to listen. I heard Jeff share what he felt was our vision for ministering, where we sensed God leading us, and the experience that we’d had in our three years in college ministry here in Oregon. Then, I sat in excruciating silence while Jeff listened at length to Pastor Steve. At the end Jeff concluded, “Ok, well, let’s continue to pray about it, but it definitely sounds like something we’d be interested in. . . . yes . . . I agree . . . thank you so much for calling, Steve . . . I’ll be in touch . . . thanks. . . bye.” He hung up and raised his eyebrows again with a smile escaping through his face despite his efforts.
“Well?”
“They’d like a full-time college pastor and overseer of a new School of Ministry type thing that they’re starting up and I’d get to do both. As of right now there’s no real college ministry so we’d get to start from the ground up. We’d be on salary with full benefits and everything.” He shook his head in awe. I nodded slowly, letting the reality of this sink in. Leaving everything? My home, my family . . . I shook my head because it was time to leave and I didn’t have time to think about it.
“Let’s pray about it,” I grabbed my purse and Jeff followed me out the front door.
By late April we’d decided that it would be a good idea to drive down to Santa Clara, meet the pastor and the staff, and get a feel for whether it was a good fit. We felt God was giving us a green light, but wanted to be sure. A cross-state move meant leaving our new home that we’d just bought, our families, our friends, and all that was comfortable and familiar. We didn’t take this lightly.
Our college group took an annual retreat to sunny Lake Shasta, so we timed the trip to Santa Clara so that we could just join up with the rest of the staff and students on our way back up toward Oregon. We left four days ahead of the others and drove the 600 miles down I-5 to Santa Clara. I didn’t really know what to expect. I’d been to Santa Clara in High School, and just remembered blue sunny skies, palm trees, and very nice homes. From my memory it seemed like a beautiful place. Since I knew we couldn’t afford to buy a home, I’d researched numerous apartments, and while they were insanely expensive, some $1500 for a 2-bedroom, I figured that our salary would supposedly reflect the high cost of living there. I wasn’t thrilled about moving into an apartment, but they looked very nice and I figured that was certainly no hardship considering that most of them had swimming pools.
Jeff had been in constant communication with Pastor Steve, as that is Jeff’s style, and we were told that we could stay during our visit in some unused dorms that were on the church campus. There was also the Northern California Men’s Conference taking place that weekend, so Jeff would have the opportunity to meet many of the men and get a feel for things there.
The day before we left, I came down with a horrible cold. My head ached and my eyes were red and itchy, my nose raw from sneezing and blowing, my throat was swollen and hurt every time I swallowed. I was miserable. We debated whether we should go. I knew I’d feel horrible, but I also knew this was an amazing opportunity for Jeff and I couldn’t let something trivial like a head cold get in the way. I was adamant—we should go.
On the drive down I stayed cheerful and positive, despite the emotions that raged in my heart and the consumption of an entire box of Kleenex. Dayquil was no help. A part of me was excited for a new adventure, but a most of me was dying, screaming, crying, uncertain and scared. A part of me was already missing home, but it was hard to discern whether it was just because I felt so miserable physically. After staying the night at Jeff’s dad’s house in Sacramento, we arrived in Santa Clara around 9am and could see the men streaming into the church of for the conference. It was the biggest church campus I’d ever seen. A huge cross stood above the facility and could be seen for miles. Parking lots and driveways and little streets weaved in and out of various buildings. An enclosed walking bridge stretched across the street that ran down the center of the campus, the street was called Calvary Chapel Way. I shook my head in awe as we found a parking spot and Jeff killed the engine.
“Well, this is it.” Jeff was obviously as amazed as I was. “Let’s pray.” We sat and prayed together, then decided to head inside to find Pastor Steve.
Lost in the swarm of men, I felt a little out of place, but clung to Jeff’s arm and we made our way through the crowd. We found the church office and reached to open the door just as a young man in his early 30s swung open the door and came walking out, calling back to the receptionist that he had to go. He began to go past us but Jeff recognized his voice.
“Pastor Steve! It’s Jeff and Kari Patterson.” Jeff held out his hand and Steve looked a little surprised. “From Oregon,” Jeff continued, “We’re here about the college pastor position.” Then it clicked.
“Oh yes! Good to meet you,” Steve held out his hand and shook ours. “You know, I’ve gotta run and get this conference going. Why don’t you go in the office and see what you can do to help – Eddie might need you to sell t-shirts.” Steve pointed back inside the office and headed toward the sanctuary. Jeff and I looked at each other, unsure of what to do.
“Alright, let’s find Eddie!” Jeff smiled and led me into the office. We never found Eddie but we met Jim, a large man with a belly that came out and hung down over his pants, and a long face with dark hair and eyes. He held his face with his mouth open that made it always look like he was about to say something. He announced that he would take Jeff around with him for the day and show him the ropes, but they had to hurry and get to the t-shirt booth. Jeff turned to follow him and I was left standing, for a split second, all alone in the middle of the office. A quick flash of panic shivered over me, then Jeff turned back suddenly, remembering. He came back and gave me a hug.
“Well, hon, will you be ok hanging out for the day? You could walk around and see things or take a nap or read. . . ?” He looked down into my face. I looked down because I realized all of a sudden that I was about to cry and I felt ridiculous for being so weak. Just then Pastor Steve burst back in through the door.
“Here! I totally forgot – this is my wife’s cell phone number. You can call her and hang out with her for the day. The secretary can give you directions to our house; it’s only about 25 minutes away.” He handed me a scrap of paper and signaled to Jeff, “Follow me.” I smiled up at Jeff and nodded, reassuring him I’d be fine. He turned and followed Steve, an eager young man ready to serve.
I found Kathy, the secretary, who explained where the dorms were located and let me know there was actually another girl living in them at the time so not to be alarmed if we saw her. Then she printed me directions off Mapquest . I glanced at them — I had to go on five freeways to get to their house. I took a deep breath and thanked her and walked back out to our car. By that time the parking lot was quiet and then sun was hot making the inside of the car suffocating. I sat in the driver’s seat and as soon as I slammed the door, the tears came. I didn’t even know exactly why I was crying, but I knew I’d been holding it in for longer than I’d realized. Now I was alone, and felt alone. I felt like a little girl who suddenly looks up at the grocery store and realizes she’s not with her mom and everyone around is a stranger and she doesn’t know what to do. I was not good with meeting new people, and the idea of calling up this pastor’s wife and inviting myself over for the entire day was the last thing on earth I wanted to do. So I did the only thing I knew to do—I prayed.
God, help me. I’m so lonely and scared and I know it’s silly but that’s how I feel. I want to just run away from this place. I don’t want to call her; I want to just hide. I feel horrible and weak and I just want to be home. Please give me strength. I want to be supportive of Jeff. Please help me. I finally dried my tears and blew my already stuffed nose and began carrying our bags into the building that the secretary had told me was the dorm. It felt good to have a task, even though I felt so weak from being sick, so the trips up and down the two flights of stairs in the heat didn’t bother me. After I’d gotten everything to the small outdoor landing at the top of the steps, I opened the door and headed inside.
Apparently there was a reason the dorms were unused. There was certainly no sign of a girl’s presence. Old torn up couches filled the hall as well as crunchy towels and old gym clothes. Food wrappers and popcorn littered the carpet, and I distinctly smelled the odor of bachelors. I found the room number the secretary had given me and stepped inside. Apparently these “dorms” had been offices converted, because there was a huge room with a low ceiling, partitioned into “dorms” with cubicle dividers. I found the cubicle that was our room, and the dear secretary had put sheets on one set of bunk beds. I sat down on the bottom one and began, again, to cry.
Finally I mustered up the courage to call Steve’s wife, Lacey. She answered in a high-pitched, squeaky voice and I immediately envisioned her. We decided I’d meet her at noon at her house, and I hung up the phone, relieved to have it over. Since I had two hours to myself, I lay back on the bed and closed my eyes that burned from crying. I buried my face in my pillow and cried myself to sleep.
Upon awakening I had a worse headache and felt as sick as ever, but got out the door and to the car. Miraculously, I maneuvered the five freeways and found myself at a little duplex with a small palm tree in the front that’d seen better days. No one was home. As I got back in my car, a Jeep Grand Cherokee pulled up and a little blond head peeked out the tinted window. Lacey got out of the car and waved over at my car. I got out and walked across the street and could see her eyeing me, perhaps a little suspiciously.
“Well, hello!” She said as if I’d surprised her somehow. I told her my name as I could see that she didn’t remember it and she suggested I hop in her car and we’d go get lunch. Two little boys sat in the back seat and she glanced me over again as she turned back on the ignition.
“You know I am pregnant.” She told me. I couldn’t tell but she rubbed her belly and turned to face her little boys, “Look at the pretty lady, boys. Can you say hi?” I smiled and said hello and we went to lunch.
The afternoon was relatively pain-free and before I knew it, she was ready for a nap and I was ready to escape, so I read my directions in reverse and found my way back to the church. At four Jeff called me on my cell and told me he’d be done at 5 and we had the evening free because Pastor Steve and his wife were busy. At 6pm he came to the car and met me, apologizing because he’d had to man the t-shirt booth until everyone was gone.
We decided to head to Santa Cruz to see the beach. We found a parking spot on a sketchy side street, locked our car and prayed it’d be safe, and enjoyed the evening sitting on the sand, nestled close together, calm and serene in the midst of the throngs of people talking, waving, running, laughing, flirting, shouting. We watched the surfers, bronzed from the sun, the middle schoolers running around with cell phones, whispering to each other and giggling as people passed, the lovers walking hand in hand down the beach, the twenty-somethings playing sand-volleyball, the parents, tired from a long day, brushing the sand off their youngster’s legs and urging them to the car. We watched the sunset, slowly dipping into the ocean until there was nothing but a tiny spot of orange and then nothing but brilliant pinks and oranges streaking across the sky, making sparkles all over the ocean’s surface. We zipped up our sweatshirts and I snuggled under Jeff’s arm, laying my head on his chest. It was delicious to sit in silence in the midst of the beach din, as if we were secluded in a bubble of tranquility, protected from the chaos of the busy beach. As I sat there I knew that it would be ok. I didn’t know what was ahead, but I knew it’d be ok. I snuggled closer in to Jeff and kissed him on his rough cheek.
“I love you,” I said.
“I love you too, Sauce,” he responded and kissed the top of my head. On the way home we stopped by a drug store I’d never heard of and bought some Nyquil—I was ready for a good night sleep.
When we returned to our room, we could see that the girl lived in the dorm right next to us. A door joined the two rooms, and we could see her light through the crack at the bottom and could hear dishes clanking and her opening and closing the refrigerator, popping popcorn, watching a movie. We thought about knocking on her door to introduce ourselves, but we were too exhausted to socialize and I was ready for bed. After evaluating the bed arrangement, we tried to squeeze into the bottom bunk together, and managed to balance, snuggled close together in each other’s arms, for almost an hour, but eventually I was tired of being smashed against the wall and Jeff was tired of almost falling off the edge, so he got up to use the restroom and said he’d take the top bunk when he returned. I pulled the pillow over my face and listened as Jeff stumbled in the pitch dark of the room, feeling for cubicle walls and trying not to trip over random pieces of furniture. When he got to the door, I heard him try the knob. Click. Click, click, click. Kick. Kick. Kick, kick, kick.
“What’s wrong?” I shouted a whisper, not wanting to wake the girl next door as it’d been silent for some time.
“The door won’t open!” He hissed back and turned on the light. I threw off my blanket, as if I could help, and stumbled across the room. Click. Click, click, click. It wouldn’t open. The lock was broken and some fifteen minutes later, when our ideas were exhausted, we looked at each other and looked toward the other door.
“Can you sneak through her room?” I suggested. Jeff looked hesitant. We’d never even met her, and he obviously wasn’t wild about trying to grope around in the darkness, unfamiliar even with the layout of her room. I reached for her door and tried, just to see. Click. It was locked too. “Are you sure you have to go?”
“I drank that whole bottle of water. Yes, I have to go!” I shrugged my shoulders and looked down at the floor. We both saw an old plastic cup next to a potato chip bag and a dirty sock. I looked at Jeff, shook my head, and went back to bed. The next morning the cup was sitting on the counter, full. Jeff took a picture, “to remember the night we were trapped in the ghetto dorms.”
Still locked in our rooms, we knocked on the door until Tana, the girl next door, came and let us go through her room. She was very large with long brown hair and a plain face. She seemed friendly enough, and as we traipsed through her room, we stepped over the piles of clothes and I tried not to eye the stacks of dishes and spilled popcorn on the carpet. It was a little awkward sharing a bathroom. There was that uncertain feeling, when I would walk in and know that she was in the stall. Do I say hello or just pretend that she’s not there? Do I leave and let her be alone or just go about my business and brush my teeth and wash my face at my leisure? I never quite figured out communal restroom etiquette when it’s just two perfect strangers sharing the space.
Later that morning, we attended church and found Kathy, thanking her for putting sheets on the beds and letting her know of our dilemma with the door.
“Yeah, it does that.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Just go through Tana’s room.” Afterwards we went to lunch with Pastor Steve and his family. Lunch was basically comprised of preventing their two young boys from spitting food or licking the salt shakers, so we didn’t talk much. Monday was Steve’s day off so we decided we’d just explore Santa Clara and Jeff would meet with the staff and pastor Steve on Tuesday before we had to leave on Wednesday morning for Shasta.
Sunday night we walked around the campus and met Chase Riggs, the youth pastor, and Kelly, his wife. They had seven children, six boys and one girl aptly named Patience, all of whom could have been on the cover of a magazine they were so beautiful. But not beautiful in a manicured, well-put-together way. Beautiful in a wild, wind-blown, bare legged sort of way. They all had wavy, longer hair and brown skin, undoubtedly from hours at the beach and playing in the sun. Their clothes were comfortable, board shorts and t-shirts and virtually always bare-footed. I occasionally heard Kelly telling them to put shoes on but I don’t think she actually cared because they never did. Chase and Kelly looked young enough to be siblings of the oldest three children, and the kids behaved in that fresh, youthful, energetic way that kids do who have parents who aren’t overbearing or controlling. Though energetic and mischievous, their energy was contagious and attractive, their mischief wholesome and delightful. Jeff and Chase immediately clicked, and though Kelly eyed me with the same suspicion that Lacey had, she made a visible effort to be friendly and I was thankful for that. They announced that they were headed to the beach for the day on Monday and they’d love to have us join them. We were thrilled. Though I felt so sick I could hardly function, I wanted to get the most out of this trip, and knew that perhaps Chase and Kelly would end up being close friends if we did indeed move there.
The next morning I felt sicker than ever, but we pulled on our bathing suits and grabbed our towels and sunscreen and headed across the parking lot. Chase and Kelly had told us that they lived there, at the church, in one of the apartments. There were three apartments there available for the pastors and their families to live in. Hmm. That sounded interesting. I wasn’t sure whether that sounded good or not. On the one hand, you would have no commute; on the other hand, it’d be like being at work all the time. But, I figured, they must be pretty spacious and nice if they could live in one with seven kids, right?
The day was nice – the kids were obviously used to being beach bums and they played happily for hours. Kelly understood that I didn’t feel well and was content to let me bask in the sun in silence, which demonstrated understanding and was the greatest gift she could have given. Jeff and Chase got to know each other and talked about ministry ideas. We fell asleep that night with a sense that it would not be the last time we spent an afternoon with the Riggs nine.
Tuesday was filled with meetings for Jeff, so I took advantage of the time and spent the day resting in the dorm. I still felt uneasy – I didn’t want to move but I also didn’t want to miss what God had for us. I knew this was an amazing opportunity for Jeff, and while I didn’t instantly connect with Steve and Lacey, I did certainly enjoy Chase and Kelly and could see us spending time with them. But I felt confused. I just wanted to know. Everyone had said that once we were actually down there visiting, that we’d just know. Everyone said it’d be crystal clear. But it wasn’t. I was confused and didn’t know exactly how to hear God’s voice.
Figuring that God’s Word was the best place to turn, I opened my Bible, pulling the gold tassel up to find my spot. As I read through the Bible each year, it made it easy to pick where to read. I wished that somehow God would show us, through His word, if we were to come here or not. Like a crystal ball, perhaps there’d be something that would clearly indicate “Yes” of “No.” At least, that’s what I hoped. My tassel brought me to 2 Chronicles 25. Hmm. This would be interesting. My chapter title read “Amaziah reigns in Judah.” Hmm. I’d kind of hoped for Genesis 12 and a booming voice saying “Get out of your country. . . and you shall be a blessing,” or alternately perhaps 1 Timothy 1, “Remain in Ephesus!” That would be nice. Even reading the Macedonian Call in Acts 16. Any of those would do, really. But 2 Chronicles 25? Well, we’ll see, I thought. And so I read.
And a totally ordinary story unfolded before my eyes as if it were written in gold. Amaziah was going to war against Edom and he hired 100,000 mighty men of valor from Israel for 100 talents of gold. But then, right before they go into battle, a man of God prophesies and warns Amaziah that they aren’t to use those hired men, and if they do that God will make them fall; “for God has the power to help and to overthrow.” So Amaziah responds like a good manager of resources would, insisting, “But what shall we do about the hundred talents which I have given to the troops of Israel?” But the man of God responds, “The LORD is able to give you much more than this.” And there I stopped. That sentence glowed. The LORD is able to give you much more than this. What does that mean? The LORD is able to give us much more than these crummy dorms or than this place or is it referring to my not wanting to leave my home and all I’ve “invested” in Oregon. God, what does this mean?
I didn’t know what it meant, but I did know that one thing was clear. Amaziah had gone one direction because he thought it was best, and it had cost him a significant amount of money, but when God revealed that he was then to go a different direction, Amaziah was obedient and considered it worth it to “waste” the 100 talents in order to follow God. So I could stand on this—no matter what, God would be faithful to help us to follow him if we were willing to do it no matter what the cost, and if we were willing to change directions at any point, no matter what the “loss.” This certainly wasn’t a crystal ball answer, but it gave me peace. We’d be ok.
…
Read The Road to Santa Clara (Ch. 2): The U-Turn »
Loving Rebecca
This I command you, that you love one another. John 15:17
The look is hard to describe. It’s such a combination of expressions I’ve seen before, in movies or on the faces of people in the street. At times you’d think she was trying to discern whether you were telling the truth, or looking hard to recognize something she’d seen before, like an eyewitness identifying the culprit from a line of suspects. Her eyes narrowed as if suspicious, but the tinge of pain and hurt in them made it more likely that she was meeting a long lost father, perhaps one who’d abandoned her, and she was left searching for words to confront and express. The frown on her face and the squinting of her eyes expressed deep, harbored bitterness, the kind I’m scared of, that boils and stews, steeps and threatens to, at any moment, erupt in a flurry of hatred. But perhaps all that is assigning too much to a face. I don’t know. I’m trying to understand Rebecca.
I met Rebecca during my first year as a campus missionary. Living on donations and Top Ramen, Goodwill became my department store of choice, and I made an inward commitment to God and myself, to love the unlovable and to demonstrate the “one another” imperatives I’d studied in Scripture. I met Rebecca that Fall.
I did what any normal human who is decent and has some trace of compassion would do. Rebecca was slumped over next to the pay phone in the hallway outside the dining hall, sobbing uncontrollably. Her awkwardly thick, stick straight, pageboy cut hair hung over her eyes, and her oversized Starter jacket sat in a poofy pouch over her body. Below her ankle-tapered jeans were thick, faded, navy blue socks and brown summer sandals. Her backpack sat beside her. I stopped to ask what was wrong. As I squatted next to her chair, she looked up and gave me that look. A moment later, her arms were thrown around me and her head fell on my shoulder, nuzzling her wet face and running nose into my neck, clinging to me as if through fear. She stayed there a long time. I remember feeling awkward, and when it seemed the natural time to by minute degrees pull away, her grip held tight and the loud sobs remained. Looking back, three years later, I don’t even remember what caused her tears. But it began our relationship.
As was my normal custom, after she finished crying I offered to meet with her sometime, to talk, pray, offer some counsel. She said she didn’t have a job but also didn’t drive, so she could only meet me somewhere within walking distance of the apartment she and her mom shared. Though I scheduled all my other meetings at Roni Jo’s, a quaint little coffee shop downtown that specialized in exotic blended coffee drinks, the only available coffee shop within walking distance of Rebecca was an unmarked building with a neon espresso sign lit in the window. That would work. I walked away, questioning for the first time why I always met the girls I counseled in coffee shops.
“Hey Jess! You’re looking lovely as usual today.” Nine a.m., the owner of Roni Jo’s looked up from banging the espresso scooper, and greeted me as the bell above the door announced my entrance. I beamed.
“Morning John! I’ll have my usual.”
“Twelve ounce blended number nine mocha frio in a sixteen ounce cup.” He recites the order to Robin, who has cut and dyed her hair again. I compliment to show I notice.
“Jess!” Kelly jumps up from her seat in the front corner and hurries over to hug me. I marvel to myself how cute she is and I think she’s been doing Tae Bo and I notice she’s only drinking water. Those must be Seven jeans. I think she’s a four. I’m a six. Maybe I should try Tae Bo.
“How are you?!” We settle in, picking up where we left off. “How is the roommate situation? Oh, and how are you doing with the whole David thing?” Kelly updates me on how things are with her life’s issues. The roommate’s boyfriend has stopped sleeping over, which is good, but he still stays until two in the morning and never puts the seat down. It seems doubtful that David, seated at her table in BIO 101 lab, is a Christian, since he jokes about his weekend shenanigans, so that crosses him off the list of possibilities.
“Well, at least you know.”
At ten till ten we pray for each other and thank God. I feel drained, but taking a moment to pray turns everything right side up again. I’m ready to go again. We exchange I love yous, I wave goodbye to John, and in a flash I’m back in my Honda, headed for the neon espresso sign and my first meeting with Rebecca.
The next day Rebecca’s number showed up on my caller ID. I answered, unsure of what to expect. “Hello? . . . I’m so sorry. . . yeah, I did go but all that was there was a Laundromat and I didn’t think that was where we meant, and I didn’t see you, I even walked inside . . . no, I did walk inside and I didn’t see you…yeah, I was there exactly at ten, well, maybe a couple minutes late. . . no, well I saw the espresso sign like we said but I figured a Laundromat couldn’t be where we’d meet.” I’d disappointed her, and she didn’t pretend like I hadn’t.
Be devoted to one another in brotherly love. Romans 12:10
Several days later, I pulled up outside Amber Rose Apartment #4 and looked around: heavily dead-bolted front doors, old cars, dreary, peeling brown siding, and dead grass. I thought of the workout facility and new carpets in my classy apartment complex in Southtown, and slowly knocked on the door. I waited. If it had been anyone else, I would have left and gone home, or called her on her cell phone after several minutes of no answer. But this was Rebecca. She deserved a wait. Finally, several deadbolts clicked from inside and Rebecca slowly opened the door. Her hair was soaking wet, as in still dripping, and combed with a fine-toothed comb slick down on both sides. She stood for a moment and stared at me. “You still wanna meet?” She gave me the look, probably half expecting me to change my mind and drive away. I put on my biggest smile and most enthusiastic voice.
“Of course! How does breakfast sound?”
“I don’t have any money.” She replied matter-of-factly, as if obviously implying that that was the end of that plan. The bitterness oozed from her words. I knew she was testing me.
“Oh, no worries! My treat.” I gave her my sweetest smile and offered my hand for her bag. “How about Shari’s?”
Accept one another. Romans 15:7
“Two. Non-smoking, please.”
We slid into the brown vinyl seats, and sat across from each other. I wished I hadn’t worn lipstick that day. Rebecca slumped down into the poof of her jacket and narrowed her eyes into that look, glaring into my soul with almost frightening perseverance. I figured the “wading into water” technique was the best for getting our conversation heading in the right direction—starting with shallow and working my way deeper. Unfortunately, the shallow was antagonizing to Rebecca. My nauseatingly cheery questions about life and family brought responses of resentment, bitterness, and pain. She was in no mood for small talk.
“I live with my mom and she’s gone all the time at work and school—she goes to school—and she says I need to keep the house clean and make the meals and I need to find a job because I need money and God wants me to give to the tithe but I don’t have any money to give to the tithe and I can’t work because I don’t drive and I can’t drive and so I can only walk and my discipler says I just need to trust God but I can’t f—-ing trust God in the middle of this G—d— mess!” Out of breath, she raised her hands above her head, signaling her complete and utter hopelessness then let her elbows fall heavily onto the table dropping her chin heavily onto her palm, pushing up her bottom lip to an exaggerated frown, turning towards the window and narrowing her eyes at the traffic outside. Her voice had risen to an embarrassing level and I quickly glanced around the restaurant. The waitress had approached to offer us coffee, but veered to the right as she overheard Rebecca’s voice.
As the morning stretched on, I saw in Rebecca what a lifetime of physical, sexual, and substance abuse, coupled with mental illness and years dabbling in sexual perversion and witchcraft can do to a child of God. None of my pat answers worked, and reciting scripture was patronizing. For the first time in all of my discipleship and counseling meetings, I was at a total loss—and my spirit cried out to God. As I prayed silently in my heart, a flood of love engulfed my heart and I began to cry as I looked at Rebecca, and as my eyes filled with tears, I began to see the woman she could be, the woman God created her to be. She saw that I was moved, and for once her face seemed to soften.
“Rebecca?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t have any answers, but I am committing to being your friend. If you will let me in, I promise to walk with you and as much as is in my power, to see you become the beautiful woman God created you to be. I know that I will fail you, disappoint you, and maybe even hurt you because I am a fallible human, but I promise to love you and help you and pray for you, if you will let me.”
I was terrified of my own words. Although she didn’t look convinced, and though she still gave me that look, she didn’t say a word, but as I drove her home, she finally said, “So when d’ya’wanna meet next?” I knew then that she said yes.
I knew that with Rebecca, no neat little discipleship book would do, and further, God had not called me to fix her, He’d called me to love her. I hoped that in the meantime I could teach her by example. Little did I know who would learn the most.
Be kind to one another. Ephesians 4:32
For Christmas, I thought it would be fun to take Rebecca shopping. I didn’t have much money, but I certainly had more than her, so I took her to Fashion Bug, and told her to pick out anything she wanted. After looking through the entire store, she concluded that she didn’t need any clothes. What? I could take one look at her and tell that she needed clothes, but she insisted that she didn’t need any clothes. However, as we went back and looked at accessories, she found numerous things that she wanted me to try on—headbands, hats, hairclips with fake hair in bright colors. As I tried on each thing she gave me, peals of genuine laughter flowed out of her mouth like I had never heard. She squealed loudly as I made funny faces and put on ridiculous sunglasses and large floppy hats. Part of me worried about what the salesgirls must have been thinking, but every time I looked at the sheer delight on Rebecca’s face, it didn’t matter. She finally talked me in to purchasing a little hair clip with long strands of pink hair in them. I clipped them in, and we drove toward her home, but she insisted that we stop by the church office and show everyone my new hair. As she took me around and showed all the church staff, she continued her unabashed laughter of delight. As I dropped her off this time, she stopped for a second before getting out of the car.
“Thanks.”
Bear with one another, and forgive each other. Colossians 3:13
Soon came spring and I was in ministry frenzy—along with attending a one-year Bible school, I was leading two Bible study discipleship groups and writing, producing, choreographing, co-directing, and acting in a full-scale theatrical performance to be performed Easter weekend at a local university. My days were filled from 5am until 10pm and my cell phone rang incessantly. Through this blur of ministry activities, I missed several of Rebecca’s phone calls, with no return. One afternoon as I pulled in to the church office, I saw Rebecca sitting on the sidewalk, with her knees pulled tight up against her chest, her poofy Starter jacket pushed up around her face with the hood pulled over head.
“I’m waiting for a ride home.” She could hear the sound of my heels as I approached her.
“Hop in—I’ll take you home,” I patted her on the shoulder to get her to look up. She pulled on her backpack and climbed into the car. Once I got inside, I pulled my seatbelt over my chest and leaned forward to start the car. “Rebecca, I’m sorry I haven’t returned your. . .” To my horror, she went ballistic.
“Nobody has time for me!! No f—ing people in this whole G— d— f—-ing place have any time for me!!! You’re too busy doing all your stupid things to call me back!! I hate you!!” I sat there shocked as the continued hurtling insults and uncontrolled profanity. After her eruption she swung open the door and shouted that she would walk home, and slammed the door. The sound of the slamming door echoed in my quiet car. The emotional exhaustion of my incessant schedule overwhelmed me and I lay my head on the steering wheel, crying. I was already failing at what I promised her I’d do.
I let her walk away, knowing the best thing to do was let her calm down. I went into the church office and found my friend and boss, Pastor Mark. He’d seen the whole thing and offered an understanding smile. “Just keep loving her. You’re in this for the long haul. Just keep loving her.” I knew he was right.
I waited a day to let her calm down, but then called her one evening. She answered.
“Hey, it’s me.” I held my breath waiting for a response.
“Hey.” She was quiet and subdued. Her voice was soft.
“I just wanted to apologize and ask you to forgive me for not returning your phone call. And I wanted to tell you that I love you and forgive you.”
“You forgive me?”
“Of course. I love you and nothing you can do will ever change that.” Long silence.
“When d’ya’wanna meet again?”
I knew she’d forgiven me, too.
Greet one another. 1 Peter 5:14
It didn’t take long for the Spirit-rush of compassion toward Rebecca to wear off. The honeymoon was soon over, and I was left with the cold reality that Rebecca was hard to love. Because I was her only friend, whenever I arrived at an event, she made a bee-line for me. I was bombarded, in a wonderful sense, with young college women, girls from my Bible studies, friends, etc. and since it was my usual custom to be enthusiastic about greeting everyone, it posed a bit of a problem when there were many people around and Rebecca got lost in the crowd. Eventually, I found myself, without knowing it, showing preference to the girls who I had a natural liking to–the fun, joyful, non-needy girls who blessed me every time I saw them. Then there was Rebecca. Every time I saw Rebecca, she had a sad story, was complaining about every thing that had happened that day, and was usually whining that her feet and back hurt. It was exhausting. One day, she pinpointed my sin:
“Why don’t you greet me like you greet everyone else?” My face turned white. I knew that I’d failed her again.
“I do!” I insisted, though I knew I didn’t.
“You get so happy to see everyone else, except for me.” There was nothing for me to say. She knew it and I knew it.
Confess you sins to one another. James 5:16
“Rebecca, I’m sorry. You are right.” My heart finally softened. There was no use denying what we both knew. I hugged her, and to my surprise, she hugged me back. Without saying a word, I knew that she’d forgiven me. As I looked back on my greeting of people and my interaction with people, it became easy to see the way that with some people I was genuinely excited to see them, and it showed. With Rebecca, I had begun to dread seeing her, and it showed. I knew that only God could change my heart—no amount of fake, conjured up enthusiasm could take the place of genuine love and concern. Rebecca taught me this.
Admonish one another. Romans 15:14
There did come a time, however, after several years of close contact, that God began to give me some freedom with Rebecca. We sat in my car after spending several hours together, and Rebecca began. “I think the Spirit wants me to go to Mexico but I think the Spirit also wants me to go to Latvia, and the trip to Latvia is $3,000 and the trip to Mexico is $500 and I can’t afford to do both, and Pete says that I can’t go to Latvia because I’ve never been on a mission trip before, but if God wants me to go then why won’t He make it so I can go and if I go I won’t have money for laundry, and God always tells me to do stuff but never tells me how to do it or He wants me to do stuff that I can’t do because I can’t do it and if I pay to go to Latvia then I can’t pay to the tithe, but I have to pay to the tithe. I wish God would just figure it out.” This time, I knew it was time.
“Rebecca. I am glad that you can be honest. However, God is just, holy, and perfect. And, most importantly, He is God. Whenever we grumble or complain about a person or a circumstance, we are essentially complaining against God because He is sovereignly in control over all of these circumstances. Anything that God truly calls you to do, He will provide the means for it. But, we have to acknowledge that grumbling is sin against God.”
I could tell that she began to get angry, but she didn’t say anything. She didn’t speak the rest of the drive back to her house, but she called me later that night and asked, “When d’ya’wanna meet again?” I knew she’d received it.
After three years of friendship with Rebecca, my husband and I were leaving the state to serve God in California. I knew this was a significant move—I had been with Rebecca for three years solid, meeting almost weekly. She was now moved out on her own with a full-time job (living on-site at the adult care center where she worked). She joined a church within walking distance, and even sang on the worship team for a special service that the church provided for the handicapped. Outwardly, Rebecca looked the same, but inwardly, she was soft. As I said goodbye to her after our last Sunday there, I realized that I couldn’t remember the last time I’d even seen that look. I could hardly even remember what it looked like.
A year later, we visited that church one Sunday morning. After church, a long line of dear friends and fellow brothers and sisters in Christ stood waiting to hug us (we’d been through a difficult year). As I hugged my friend Selena, I looked up and saw Rebecca, waiting patiently in line, grinning, holding a folder to her chest. I asked Selena to wait a moment, and this time I made a bee-line to Rebecca. She beamed. A moment later, her arms were thrown around me and her head fell on my shoulder, just as at the first, except instead of nuzzling her wet face and running nose into my neck, she laid her head on my shoulder and rested her face against my neck. I started to cry.
“I have to show you this!” She finally let go, and still beaming, shoved a piece of paper into my hands. I began to read.
She’d written her story. She’d written about her past and how God gave her courage to forgive. She’d written about me. She’d written about how the purity of my husband’s and my courtship had inspired her to remain pure. She wrote about her changed heart. She wrote how she’d learned to love others. She was so excited to show me all that she’d learned. I assured her that I had learned more.
Beloved, if God so loved us, we also ought to love one another. 1 John 4:11
