The Road to Santa Clara (Ch. 7): The Barium Vials
Ξ September 12th, 2007 | → | ∇ Stories |
At what felt like the middle of the night, our alarms blared. I opened my eyes to the pitch black, confused as always, wondering where I was. Every morning brought the same sensation, that somehow I was dreaming this all up, that I would wake up and we’d be back in Oregon, surrounded by family and friends and familiar pleasures. But then, in an instant, I’d realize that no, I was really there, in our windowless apartment in Santa Clara. We managed to make the morning work, and we were actually out the door by 5:30. The morning was cold and we maneuvered through the church parking lot toward the main street. We pulled into the left turn lane and waited for the light while I tried to hold my bowl of cereal steady as I slurped the last few bites. When it turned green, Jeff pulled forward and made the sharp left. I tipped up my bowl to drink the last of the milk (yes, I do that) and looked up.“Jeff!” I screamed. He had pulled to the left of the concrete median that ran down the center of the six-lane road.
“Oh my gosh!” Jeff slammed on his brakes, but a wall of headlights were headed straight toward us, a large Semi in the lead. He began honking his horn, and thankfully alerted the oncoming cars, who slowed down and steered clear of us. I hid my face in my hands as we came to a stop and Jeff threw the car in reverse and backed out of the lane and into the middle of the intersection, pulling back onto the correct side of the street.
At that moment, there was no humor in the situation. It felt like it was just one more thing. I hated the city. I hated the traffic. I hated never feeling truly safe. I hated taking my life into my hands every time I had to go to the grocery store. I hated the lack of fresh air and the fact that people were always in a hurry and no one ever smiled. I hated commuting on five freeways just to get to work. I hated this place. I hated it. This all ran through my mind, after what really was a minor traffic mishap, and I leaned my head against the cold window and started to cry.
“I hate this place.” Jeff just leaned over and put his hand on my thigh.
“I know, Sauce. I know.”
After work we rushed back to the church to meet Kathy by 5. At 5:05pm we pulled into the parking lot and rushed into the building, where Kathy was just locking up the church office, her keys jingling as she pulled the door closed. We hadn’t even had time to talk about Jeff’s first day, as he’d gotten three phone calls on the way home, and we were both exhausted.
She smiled, “Hey there! Good day?” We said it was fine and we were so thankful for the dinner invite and offer of assistance with our resumes. We then went back to our car and pulled around to where she was parked, pulling out behind her as she maneuvered her way onto the main street.
Knowing that Jack and Kathy were in their 40s and had both worked full-time jobs their whole adult lives, I was a little surprised when we followed Kathy’s car into Palm Villas, a mobile home community just outside San Jose. Neither of us wanted to say it out loud, but we eyed the scores of narrow, low-roofed homes tucked in one next to the other like long, narrow blocks. Kathy pulled their minivan into one of the slips and got out, motioning to us where we could park along the narrow road. Jack had just pulled up in his Camry and was heaving himself out of the car.
“Welcome to affordable San Jose housing,” he said sarcastically. We both smiled.
“It’s nice,” Jeff said, opening my car door. We followed them inside. Their two sons, aged 7 and 4, were watching TV. Kathy’s mom, who lived with them, was peeling carrots at the sink. We walked in and the boys didn’t flinch.
“Turn off that racket!” Jack yelled toward the boys. They still didn’t flinch. Kathy said hello to her mom and asked what was for dinner. Turkey casserole with mashed cauliflower from the South Beach Diet. Kathy explained that Jack was on the South Beach Diet.
“Ohhh. I’ve heard that’s good,” I said politely. Jack was approaching the boys.
“I told you to turn that off. TV time is over. Go wash up and get ready for dinner.” Jack shook his head, and rubbed his hand over his thinning hair.
Jeff pulled me under his arm and I perched on a barstool, offering to help prepare dinner. Kathy said it was under control and opened an accordion door to a deep pantry, stacked, floor to ceiling, with the most massive collection of food I’d ever seen in a home. My eyes widened.
“We get discount groceries from the military surplus store. Isn’t this great? Peaches, Chile, Tuna, you name it. Jack loves their chicken pot pie soup.” I nodded and smiled.
Jack had heard enough and changed the subject. “Let’s talk about your resumes.” He pulled them out of a folder and placed them on the counter in front of us. “Cute.” We looked up at him. “Your resumes are cute. Well, I’ll tell you what, kids. Cute don’t cut it in Santa Clara. There’re a bunch of sharks out there and if you aren’t tough, you’ll get eaten alive.” Jeff and I just stared down at our resumes, unsure how to respond. “If you want to climb the ladder here, you’ve got to get competitive. It’s a dog eat dog world out there, as they say. If you don’t scrap and battle, you’ll never make it.” But I don’t want to climb the ladder here, was my first thought. I’m working because I have to, not because I have lofty career ambitions. Jeff remained quiet, I could tell he was carefully choosing his words.
“Ok, Jack. Well, how to you propose we could improve our resumes?”
“Well, cut the crap at the top. Just type your name—it doesn’t need to be in italics or any of that fancy schmancy stuff. Kathy can help you with the rest.” And with that he put them back down on the table. “Is dinner almost ready?” Kathy’s mom still had her back to us, peeling carrots into the sink. Kathy was pulling something out of the oven. Jack hollered for the boys, prayed for the food, then told us to grab a plate and dish up some food. We obeyed, taking our plates into the back yard, which was a 10’x10’ concrete pad with fence around it. We sat and ate quietly, complimenting Kathy’s mom on her cooking. Jack sat and told us about himself, his years in the military and how his career path that’d gotten him where he was today. Kathy sat quietly, eating her dinner.
After we’d cleared the dishes and been told by Kathy’s mom that we weren’t allowed to do the dishes, we followed Kathy into their bedroom where a large office was set up on one side. She sat with Jeff first, working over his resume while I watched. When his was done, he left to sit with Jack while she looked over mine. We established an objective—to obtain a job where I could utilize my passion for writing. She began asking questions about my education, job experience, volunteer experience, etc. As she probed, I began remembering things I hadn’t even realized I’d done. My honors and awards at Oregon State, my experience as a technical writer and writing tutor for grad students, writing plays and Bible studies, and writing ministry-related letters and proposals.
“Kari, I don’t think you have any idea how much you have going for you here. I mean, this is really a phenomenal resume.” I looked down, but couldn’t help but beam, despite myself. Really? Did she mean this? She continued to click and drag, editing a word there and a word here, and I sat, stunned. I could hear Jeff and Jack talking, but for a moment, I felt like I was alone, and like God had shone a light down, from heaven, onto my face. I felt like, in the middle of what seemed like a pretty uneventful evening, God had taken a moment to remind me of what I’d suspected for so long. Kari, I have a call on your life to write. Don’t be afraid. I sat there, staring into space, half excited and half terrified.
“. . . Kari!” I didn’t even realize she’d been trying to get my attention. I looked up and saw she’d printed a copy. “How does this look?” I said it was great and thanked her so much for giving of her time for us. She smiled, looking genuinely pleased to have been able to help. “Hang in there, ok?” I nodded and said that I would.
On the way home, I cried. I felt ridiculous because at first I couldn’t even figure out why. Jeff was bewildered, asking if something had happened that hurt my feelings. I sat quietly for awhile, sorting through my thoughts, before I was able to sense some clarity.
“I think there are two things going on in my heart and they’re conflicting.” Jeff nodded, listening. “I think that on the one hand, tonight was one of the most miserable encounters I’ve ever had. I can’t help but feel like Jack is a jerk and he seems to personify Santa Clara to me—rough, mean, insensitive, and self-absorbed. A part of me wanted to just run out the door and get in the car and drive to Oregon tonight, to just flee this crazy place. I don’t want to swim with the sharks and climb the corporate ladder. I just want to serve Jesus!” I paused to collect my thoughts. “But, on the other hand, Kathy said some things to me that I feel like were from God. I feel like He’s reminding me that He has a call on my life, that has to do with writing, and that I need to not be afraid. But I am afraid! I don’t want to fail, I don’t want to step out and do scary things. And that makes me cry too.” I turned to Jeff, feeling emptied of words but filled with the peace that comes after sharing a burden. “Does that make sense?”
Jeff smiled with understanding and reached out, taking my hand in his and kissing the back. “Yes.” I knew he understood.
–
As the next two weeks went by, I began to learn more about Jeff’s experience in his temp job at BioTech. On his first day he was directed to a dimly lit back room, filled with tiny little work stations and men in labcoats and goggles. He was given a labcoat, several sizes too small, with the name Vladimir embroidered across the front. The sleeves reached about ¾ way down his arm, and he was instructed to keep his goggles on at all times. He sat down at his little workstation, next to a middle-Eastern man named Aneel, who wore a turban and had a long, gray beard. He looked about 75, but Jeff would later find out he was in his mid-60s. He was partially lame in both legs so he couldn’t drive, but he could shuffle along with a walker, and his wife drove him to and from work each day. Jeff introduced himself cheerfully and held out his hand. Aneel shook his, looked Jeff in the eye and said with grave seriousness, “Get out as soon as you can.”
Jeff’s job was to fill miniature vials with 1.0000 ounce Barium Resin, using a six-way pipette. This specially-engineered pipette had to be balanced and handled with extreme care to ensure the proper dispensing, which meant hand cramps were an every day occurrence. His quota? He was told that his daily goal should be 25,000 vials. Confident in his competency, he set to work with fervor, only to look up at 4:00pm and realize he’d only done 5,000. Aneel once again warned him, “Never, never do 25,000. If you do, they will make you do more. They are mean, mean men. Never do 25,000.” Jeff assured him he didn’t think that would ever be a problem.
Ten hours of sitting, hunched over with a cramped hand, doing the exact same tedious task thousands of times sounds horrifying to me. But Jeff insisted that it was fine. He was so thankful to be employed, so thankful to no longer be sitting alone in that stale apartment, rotting away while I was at work, that I think he would have been thrilled to do anything, even fill vials with Barium Resin. The thing he truly liked about the job was that they were allowed to listen to music on headphones, if they wishes. Aneel listened to a cassette walkman with something resembling Enya, but Jeff downloaded dozens and dozens of sermons onto his MP3 player, and listened to nine hours of sermons each day, breaking only to talk with Aneel or munch his sandwich during lunch.
The other thing that made the job worthwhile to Jeff was Aneel. Aneel was a Muslim. From the first day, when he gave Jeff his grave warning, he and Jeff took to each other instantly. Aneel would eye Jeff’s sandwiches with suspect, then bring him some middle-eastern morsel for Jeff to taste the next day, as if he felt sorry for Jeff having to eat such detestable delicacies such as turkey on whole wheat. Jeff would always ask Aneel questions, and Aneel would talk. He would tell Jeff about his children and his grandchildren, who came to stay with him and his wife every single weekend. Every weekend was spent as a family, and he loved to tell Jeff stories about the times they’d have and which grandchild was learning to do what new feat. Sometimes he would tell Jeff sad stories, of how he became lame, of how disease had ravaged his life, of how hard he’d worked his whole life so that his wife, Iva, never had to. Jeff would listen for hours. One day Aneel brought Jeff an entire grocery back, full of freshly cooked lamb curry, aromatic Basmati rice, and delicious savory pastries. He explained that his wife had cooked us an entire authentic middle-eastern dinner, so we would know what good food tasted like. When Jeff brought home the meal I was stunned. This woman, who had never met me and had no reason to even care about us, had slaved away, probably all day, cooking us an authentic meal. I marveled that that was more than anyone at church had ever done, but chided myself for the thought.
And in time, Jeff earned Aneel’s ear. As they sat together, Jeff would share with Aneel his own testimony, of how he’d come to hear the gospel of Jesus Christ, how he’d come to have his eyes opened to the beauty and glory of God, how Jesus’ finished work on the cross had set Jeff free and had given him access to a personal relationship with God the Father. And Aneel would listen.
What made Jeff sad was that Jack, it was very apparent, disliked Aneel. From his first day of work, Jack would tease Aneel about being lame, would criticize him for being slow and not fulfilling his daily quota. Jack would come and chat with Jeff, showing him preference and asking how he was doing, then make snide remarks to Aneel and belittle him in front of the others. When Jeff mentioned that he enjoyed spending time with Aneel, Jack snorted and said that Aneel was the laziest worker he’d ever seen and was good for nothing. Jeff responded, “Aneel is my friend.” Jack smirked.
Although we both found good in our jobs, we began to wear thin and really doubt whether this was really worth it. I had begun to hate the Rack. I had no interest in clothing and it made me sick to see women, decked out from head to toe in designer clothes, come in and drop $500 on cashmere scarves. One woman had me break up her $600 purchase into two, one on her credit card and one in cash, so that her husband would only see half her purchase on the credit card bill. The day of our Fall New Arrivals event, women crowded around the front door from 8am on (we opened at 10), fogging up the windows with their breath, trying to see the new Marc Jacobs handbags. When the manager opened the door, she literally got elbowed in the gut and had her toe smashed to smithereens by women actually running toward the handbag display. I stood at a distance, on pad three, colorizing a display of plus-sized sweaters, and felt sick to my stomach.
I did enjoy Hasna. Hasna was my Aneel. She would talk to me whenever we had a chance, but the job was such that there wasn’t much time for chat. We were always spread out on our separate pads. But I loved her, and would try to encourage her and share with her whenever I could. I saw that God had me there for the season, but I was definitely hoping for a change.
After two weeks of our routine, up at 4:30am and home at 5:00, with no hope of any other job for Jeff, we sat down and discussed how we felt. This just wasn’t working. What were we doing? Why on earth were we living down there, working ridiculous dead-end jobs, living in a windowless pit, when we had no hope of getting to do the minisry work that we desired to do? What were we doing? We’d given it two weeks, just as we’d promised ourselves. But now what? It was ridiculous to ask Aaron and Candi to stay there—they’d come to help us with a college ministry, and now there was none. Why stay? It was a Friday night, and we were both exhausted. We knew that if we wanted, my dad would come down that weekend, we could pack up, and be home by Sunday.
We called Aaron and Candi and asked if we could come over, explaining that we needed to talk. When we arrived, we all sat down, Jeff and I on the futon, Aaron and Candi sharing the Lazyboy.
“We don’t know what to do,” we explained. “We’ve failed you. We asked you to come help us with college ministry, but now there is none. We have miserable jobs that we hate and no sign of anything changing. To be honest, we really want to move back to Oregon, but we hate to leave you. But we feel bad that you came all the way down here for nothing.” They sat in silence for a minute, then looked at each other. Candi nodded.
Aaron began, “If you guys decide to leave, we will support you. But you have to know one thing. We know that God told us to come here. To serve you. He told us to come here to serve you. We don’t care if you’re the college pastor or a janitor or a guy filling vials with Barium Resin, we’re just here to be your friends and to serve you. And as long we you’re here, that’s what we’re doing.”
My eyes had filled with tears. I couldn’t believe what they were saying. We’d felt like total failures, like the whole world was against us. And yet, these two beacons of light had set their faces like flint, had determined that no matter what, they were going to love and serve us, the were going to be our friends. Without even discussing it, Jeff and I both knew what we had to do.
“Ok. We’ll stay.”
–
That weekend, we wrestled with God. We felt a challenge to stay, but felt confused. Why on earth would God call us down there, just to rot in these awful jobs. We were influencing no one, we weren’t leading any Bible studies, we weren’t overseeing any ministries. We felt confused all the time. Church was weird, the people were weird, and everytime we interacted with a staff member, we had a sickening feeling in the pit of our stomach. Why, God? Why? Why would he take us out of the most incredible place, where we flourished and grew, where God’s word was taught with passion and resolve, where we were surrounded by incredible men and women of God who spurred us on, encouraged us, and challenged us. Why?
The next day, Aneel was sick and didn’t come in to work. Without his normal conversant, Jeff decided to listen to a series of messages by his favorite Pastor, Damian Kyle. The series was on the Life of David. About mid-afternoon, he started in on a message entitled, Seasons of Preparation, a message from 1 Samuel 18. In it, Pastor Damian examined why on earth God would have chosen to put David, the man after God’s own heart who would soon we anointed King of Israel, and put him in the presence of one of the worst Kings in history, Saul. Saul was a madman and David’s life was in danger innumerable times. It seems logical, that in order to train up David in the ways of a king, he should be in the presence of a strong, godly man, a role model who could show David the proper way to do things. That makes sense. The role model would give David something to emulate, and he would thus develop into a good king. But instead, God gives David a lunatic as an example, and gives David thirteen years of trials and wondering and confusion and grief, before he places him as king.
Pastor Damian went on to explain that God used Saul in David’s life, to show David what He didn’t want him to become. Saul, as horrible as he was, was a tool in God’s hands to mold and shape and build David’s character. He wanted to make sure that David would see, first hand, what to avoid someday when he was king. David saw exactly what he didn’t want to do, and had innumerable opportunities to grow and trust God through the trials that Saul inflicted on him.
As Jeff sat, hunched over his hundreds of vials, God’s voice enveloped his heart. This was it. This was the reason. Jeff knew, without a doubt, that this season was that of preparation. There were many things around us that made us grieved, sad, that frustrated us, but it was all part of God’s preparation for the work that He’d called us to do for His name. God had put us next to Saul. How would we respond?
When I picked Jeff up that day, he hadn’t even closed the door of the car before he started telling me every detail of the sermon. He was thrilled. Our circumstances hadn’t changed, but he knew he’d heard from God. Out of the silent confusion, God had spoken a message so clear, so encouraging, that Jeff knew we would make it. It hit me with the same clarity. I knew it was true.
The very next day, Jeff’s supervisor announced that employees would no longer be allowed to listen to any headphones or music of any kind. It seems there was one employee, Josh, who didn’t have headphones so he brought in his boom box and listened to MegaDeath all day long. So many other employees had complained that they finally just put an end to any sort of music of any kind. Jeff was crushed, but knew that God had allowed him to have his headphones long enough to hear from Him.
…
Read The Road to Santa Clara (Ch.8): The Interview »
