The Road to Santa Clara (Ch. 8): The Interview

Ξ September 13th, 2007 | → | ∇ Stories |

A week or so after our dinner at Jack and Kathy’s house, Jack approached us at church to let us know that BioTech was looking for a technical writer. He’d looked over my resume and thought that perhaps I’d be interested in the job. If I wanted him to, he’d give my resume to his boss, Doug. I said that was fine.
I was amazed that I was even remotely qualified for the job. Two days later, Jack’s boss, Doug, called me to see if I was interested in coming in for an interview. I said that I was. He explained the process, that the interview would be three hours long and would include interviews with three different people. He also asked me to bring samples of my technical writing (of which I had none). We set the interview for the following Monday, which gave me five days to prepare. The next day, Jeff got a call from Swinerton Builders, Inc., a Santa Clara based Engineering firm. Jeff had applied online for their Project Engineer position, and had even said that they would be his first choice as an employer, but hadn’t heard anything for almost three weeks. Now, he also had an interview scheduled for the following Monday at 3pm. We had to laugh at how perfect the interview schedule was. If it had been any other time, we didn’t know how we’d possibly swing it with only one car, but as it was I could get off work early, drive to BioTech for my interview at 2, Jeff could get off at 2:30 and take the car which would be parked in the parking lot there, and go to his interview at 3, then be back by 5 to pick me up. Amazing.
Though I wasn’t even sure if I wanted the job, I wanted to give the interview my best shot. I found a blazer and some black pumps at the Rack (my 30% discount coming in handy), re-read all the interviewing tips online, and even trudged through the BioTech website. When Monday afternoon came, I was terrified. I’d never had a three-hour interview in my life, especially for a position that I was grossly under qualified for.
I arrived at BioTech and parked the car where I’d told Jeff it would be, then headed through the enormous glass double doors into a waiting area. The front was locked, but I buzzed the red button.
“Kari Patterson, here for an interview.”
“Yes, come in.” I entered the lobby and shook hands with the receptionist named Angel. She said Doug would be right with me, and said to have a seat. I pulled my black handback strap up on my shoulder and sat, smoothing my black pants with my sweating palms, trying to get them dry before I had to shake hands with the head honcho. A moment later a man entered the lobby. He was short and round, with thinning hair on a round head and glasses pushed up very close to his eyes. His pants were pulled high and his short-sleeved dress shirt revealed plump, hairless arms.
“Kari? I’m Ben.” He reached out his hand and I shook it firmly. “Doug’s been detained in a meeting, so I’ll be starting out your interview today.” We walked down a long hallway and into a conference room with a long table lined with chairs. He pointed to a seat and took his own across the table from me. “So,” he began, looking over my resume, “tell me about yourself.”
And so the interview began. Ben went on to share about BioTech—their purpose and mission, and why they were in need of a technical writer. Apparently there were hundreds and hundreds of manuals that needed writing and/or revising. They’d been without a technical writer for five years now, and the workload had been piling up that entire time. I tried not to look horrified as I imagined the stacks and stacks of outdated and poorly written manuals, waiting for some poor soul to give them attention, one by boring one.
Ben then took me on a tour of the plant. I wondered if I’d see where Jeff worked. I had to smile to myself, thinking of how shocked they’d be if they knew that my husband actually worked there, as a temp, in the dungeon of the Barium Resin vial room. He took me to Jack Bush’s office, where Jack was sorting through some papers, frowning. He got up when I came in and greeted me, saying he hoped to have me on board as soon as possible. We then put on lab coats, paper booties, and paper face masks and entered the labs. Small men in labcoats were intently working, hunched over beakers and vials and microscopes, completely lost in their work, at first oblivious even to our presence. Then, slowly, they would notice us and stare. I’m not sure that any of them had ever seen a woman before. There were no women, besides Angel, the receptionist, and judging from their reaction, they didn’t know how to respond. So, they just stared until we left the room.
After the tour, we returned to the conference room where I was left to wait for Doug. After about fifteen minutes, the door opened and Doug entered. He was very obviously the boss. Tall, slim, probably in his mid-50s and good-looking, he smiled and shook my hand as I stood.
We went through the same interview motions. He asked me about my experience, background, and interests. He explained the job position and what would be expected. As I answered the questions, I couldn’t help but hope and pray they wouldn’t ask me about Jeff, but eventually, when all the business questions had been answered, he veered toward polite conversation.
“So, Kari, you mentioned your husband is here in Santa Clara with you. What does he do?” I hesitated for a moment, trying to think how to respond. I couldn’t tell him that he worked in the Barium vials.
“Uh, he’s actually a Civil Engineer.”
“Oh really? That’s great. Where does he work?” Another pause. How was I going to deal with this one?
“Well . . . actually. . . that’s funny you ask. He actually works here.”
“Pardon?”
“Here. He actually works here.”
“You mean here in Santa Clara?”
“No, I mean here. At BioTech.”
“He does! That’s great! I had no idea. What department?”
“Well, actually he works with the Barium Resin vials.” Doug looked confused, as if he’d heard me wrong.
“I’m not sure what you mean. Is he one of the Barium chemists or does he work with production engineering?”
“No, actually, he works at filling the vials with the Resin from the little pipettes. He’s a temp.” He still didn’t understand. “In the back.” Dough’s eyes widened.
“Your husband works back there?! He’s a Civil Engineer and he’s working back there?!” He laughed like it was a hilarious joke. I nodded and managed to chuckle, thankful at least that he thought it was funny.
“Yeah, kind of funny, huh? He’s just doing that until he can find a real job.”
“You know, I heard that there was a guy down there who was a Civil Engineer and I just couldn’t believe that he was actually down there filling those vials. I mean, talk about overqualified. I didn’t even believe it! And that’s your husband?! That’s too funny!” And so we laughed, and I was actually relieved because he seemed to think it a great job. After the laughed faded, Doug was all business again and returned to the issue at hand. And finally, at about 4:40pm, he asked the question. “So, Kari, are you willing to do what it takes to succeed at this job? Are you willing to take the classes we send you to, to work the hours, to stay late and come early, and do whatever it takes to succeed?”
I looked him straight in the eye and, with confidence, lied, “Yes, sir.”
“Terrific.”
He then excused himself and explained that Angel would come in for the final portion of the interview. And she did.
“Well, congratulations. We’d like to offer you the job.” She then went over details of the commitment, what would be expected, and finally, salary.
“We can start you at $50,000 and go up from their depending upon your performance.” I tried not to blink. Fifty-thousand dollars? I was making $9.75/hour currently and in Oregon I think both our incomes combined maybe peaked at $20,000. Fifty-thousand dollars? “Would you like time to think it over?” She thoughtfully asked.
“Yes, please. I’d like to talk to my husband and I’ll let you know tomorrow. Thank you so much for your time, Angel.” And with that, I was done. A little stunned by the entire ordeal, I walked mechanically out the door, squinting painfully at the brightness of the afternoon sunshine. I walked around the parking lot and didn’t see Jeff, but didn’t want to go back inside, so I found a shaded spot of grass, kicked off my painful heels, and lay down on my back in the grass. I felt a little disoriented and confused. A moment later, my cell phone rang. It was Jeff.
“Hey hon,” I answered.
“Sauce! I got the job!”
“Me too.”
“Really?! That’s crazy. They’re starting me at $50,000 a year.”
“Me too.”
“No way!”
“Yeah.” Just then he pulled into the parking lot, with his phone still to his ear. We both hung up and he pulled the car up next to where I lay in the grass. He got out of the car.
That night we sat up, Jeff once again rubbing my feet, discussing the new turn of events. In one day our entire financial scene had been transformed, and yet, it didn’t change the way we felt. We both knew, without a doubt, that Jeff’s job was from God. We had a total peace about it. Jeff had loved his interviewer and felt an immediate fit with the environment there. But my job was a different story. Doug’s question haunted me, and I knew that I had lied when I said that yes, I was willing to do whatever to make the job a success. I wasn’t. I wasn’t willing. I wasn’t willing to sacrifice my marriage, my time with God, and my sanity, in order to climb the corporate ladder. Yes, $100,000 a year would be nice, but it wasn’t worth giving our lives for. That wasn’t why we were in Santa Clara. In fact, Jeff’s new job would give me the freedom to leave the Rack, which was what I really wanted. It was flattering to be offered the job, and of course it would be a big pride-booster to be able to tell the folks back home how we’d “made it” down here. But I didn’t want to. Jeff’s job was an answer to prayer, but I felt like mine was a test. That night, I wrote a letter and made three copies, one for Ben, one for Doug, and one for Angel. I thanked them for the interview and for the job offer, but explained that I wanted to make my marriage and family and God a priority and so wasn’t willing to take on a job that was such an enormous time commitment. Though a part of me felt like I was being stupid, peace flooded my heart after I’d written them. Jeff took the letters with him the very next day (since he worked there!) and left them on Angel’s desk. He also took his notice, that Friday would be his last day in the Barium Resin lab.

“You’re wife is crazy!” Jack came to Jeff’s workstation the next day, slamming down his hand on the desk, spilling the six 1.0000 ounces of Resin on the table. Jeff looked up at him through his goggles. “They offered her the job and she rejected it! I busted my butt to get her that interview! She’s crazy. She’ll never get a better paying offer than that!” Jeff took a deep breath to keep from punching him.
“Jack, my wife and I prayed about it and feel that it would be marital suicide for us to both have jobs that require 50-60 hours a week of work. We aren’t here to get rich and we aren’t here to climb the corporate ladder. We’re here to serve God and our jobs are just a way to facilitate that. We don’t serve our jobs.” He took another deep breath, waiting for a response.
“You know what? You guys better grow up. You’ve got to build up your resume if you’re ever going to make it here. She’s not going anywhere working at some department store for a song. I’m not getting you anymore interviews, that’s for sure.”
“That’s fine, Jack. Thank you for your help.” Jeff turned back to his pipettes, consciously trying to steady his shaking hand. Jack shook his head and walked off, slamming the door behind him.
That Friday, on Jeff’s last day of work at BioTech, Aneel told Jeff, “God sent you here to me.” Jeff smiled and thanked him for being his friend.

The next Monday, Jeff started work at Swinerton. Though there was a lot to learn and the hours were long, he found satisfaction in getting to do work that utilized his mind and experience. His comical co-worker, Avery, provided him with plenty of stories to recount to me each evening, and we even began to discuss the possibility of moving out of the windowless apartment. It seemed, for the first time, there was a glimmer of light ahead.
—
Since his new job required him to have transportation, we knew that we’d need another car. About six months earlier we had contributed $2,000 toward the building of a spec house that my dad built. Just before we moved, the house had sold and dad agreed to pay us back $3,000 based on his profit. My dad is also a Jeep guy, wheeling and dealing with Jeep Wranglers on Craigslist as a daily hobby. Every time we visit he has another used Jeep—and another crazy story of how he found it and talked down the price—to fix up and re-sell, always at a profit. Well, at this point he had a tan Sahara Jeep Wrangler that Jeff had been drooling over, and Dad agreed to sell it to him for the $3,000 and call it even. It was a great deal for us, and Jeff had always wanted a Jeep Wrangler. So, we found a $49 one-way ticket from San Jose to Portland, and Jeff got a home-cooked meal, a good night’s sleep, and then was up at 4am to make the long drive to Santa Clara in one day. Six-hundred miles in a bouncy Jeep Wrangler with no top sounds like a good way to go deaf, but Jeff loved it, blaring the radio and enjoying the warmth of the California sunshine as he neared Santa Clara.
The Jeep provided a little bit of fun and adventure. The first night he had it, he insisted we go for a little drive and get frozen yogurt. The night was warm and the air whipped around my hair. I loved the bouncy, rough ride, the worship music blaring as we zipped along side streets toward the yogurt shop. For the first in months, I felt carefree. I leaned back my head to look at the stars, relishing the pleasure of actually having fun. I looked over at Jeff and saw that he was watching the road, smiling. He had gone through so much, had persevered, and I was filled with admiration as I watched him. Each day he’d been stuck, working ten hours hunched over in his labcoat, without even a car to escape in during lunch. And he’d never complained. The Jeep was a tiny little kiss from God for him, and I couldn’t imagine a more deserving recipient.
While our circumstances in general had seemed to improve, things at the church remained weirder than ever. Jeff was increasingly impressed with his co-workers and supervisors as Swinerton. Though he certainly had a large workload, he respected his boss and felt like he was honest and forthright with Jeff. When he excelled, his supervisors showed appreciation and respect.
But our church life remained confusing. We didn’t want to bail on the college ministry just because we weren’t going to be the leaders, so we found out when they supposedly met and decided to attend. We’d been told that there wasn’t really any college ministry, but since arriving, we’d heard that there was sort of one, and that it was temporarily being led by Art Leno, a layperson who’d always been heavily involved with the church and had experience teaching. Art’s son was the middle school pastor and I was familiar with his daughter, who had just entered high school and always hung out with the Riggs boys downstairs.
We heard that the group met at 7, so we came down the stairs at five ‘til and walked across the parking lot to the small fellowship hall where they met. There was no one there except Art, who sat at the front with his ukulele. He was a large Samoan man, with an extremely quiet voice and serious demeanor. Jeff held open the door and we went inside, a little surprised at the empty room. Art looked at us suspiciously so we went up front to introduce ourselves.
“Jeff Patterson, and this is my wife, Kari. We’re here from Oregon.” He nodded.
“Art Leno.” We smiled.
“Are we early? We thought the college group started at 7.”
“No. We start whenever people get here.” He looked down at the ukulele and started playing.
“Ok, well we’ll just wait.” And wait we did. At 7:45, there were a dozen kids there, so he started playing some worship songs. Several kids stood and sang, but the rest sat there, staring at the front or whispering among themselves. His daughter was there, with four of her high school friends. Three people looked to be in their mid-30s. I venture a guess that a total of three people were actually in college. After a few songs, he opened his Bible and taught a passage of Romans 7. Several people had Bibles, which they pulled out and read. After the message, he prayed, and it was done. The kids filed out and his daughter and her friends circled up and started talking. We tried to catch up with some of the students, and managed to meet a few. Tyler was a software developer in his late 20s, and Sean was just about to graduate from San Jose State. Chris was the church groundskeeper and Leiah was a teacher at the church’s elementary school. We talked with them for a little while, then headed home.
“That was weird,” I admitted when we got inside our door.
“I know. Did you get the distinct feeling that Art didn’t want us there?”
“Exactly. I don’t get it.”
“I don’t either, but we still have to try to reach out to people, even if we feel unwanted.”

The next Sunday at church, a large woman in her mid 30s with pale skin and long, dark hair, approached me and introduced herself as Mazy, Eddie’s wife. Eddie was the facilities manager for the church, the same guy who’d had Jeff sell t-shirts at the men’s conference during our initial visit.
“Oh, it’s nice to meet you Mazy.”
“I was wondering if you’d like to come over for coffee this week.” I was a little taken aback by her invitation. I didn’t want to go. I didn’t really want to get to know anyone from church because every single encounter I’d had with any of them had been hurtful. The last thing I wanted to do was buddy up with one of the pastor’s wives, but I knew that that was the wrong attitude, so I forced a pleased and anticipatory look.
“That’d be great! What day?” We decided on Thursday, since that was my only day off that week, and she gave me her address. “See you then!” I smiled and she was off.
Thursday came and I enjoyed my day to sleep in. Now that we had two cars, I didn’t have to wake up until 5:30am each morning to be ready and pray with Jeff and be out the door by 6:30am. This seemed glorious after our weeks of getting up at 4:30—it’s amazing the difference an hour can make. But this morning, I drifted in and out of sleep until an indulgent hour of 7:00. It still felt like midnight, since the apartment was pitch black, but at least I had the pleasure of looking at the alarm and seeing how late it was. I stayed in my pajamas until 8, then took a leisurely shower. I still hadn’t totally gotten over my fear of plummeting through the floor whenever I took a shower, but I told myself that at least if it happened maybe it would convince the church staff that the apartments were a health hazard.
By 9am I was out of the house, squinting, as I always did, when I walked outside. It was a strange sensation to live in a house with no windows because I was never sure what to wear. There was no looking outside to see if the sun was out, or opening a window to feel the temperature. In order to see what the day was like it took going out of the apartment, down the dark interior hallway and out the second door, and with school in session each day and teachers and students bustling about at all hours, making that little jaunt in my pajamas was out of the question.
So I got outside and was pleased to find that I’d been pretty accurate in my choosing of clothes. Cool but sunny. I spread Mazy’s directions on my lap and maneuvered my way through the freeways, heading into the Southeast corner of San Jose, an area I hadn’t been to thus far. It was a little scary. All the houses had bars on the windows, and the streets were lined with seedy looking strip malls and yellow concrete buildings advertising Bail Bonds. I found her home and parked my car, checking twice that my doors were locked before I walked across the street to her front door. After a few knocks, she came to the door and greeted me, letting me inside and pouring me a cup of coffee before we settled down in her living room.
“So, I think it’s God because I’m Hispanic and I only usually like spending time with Hispanic girls, you know? But like, I saw you and just knew I should have you over, even though you’re blond and stuff.” I wasn’t sure how to respond. For one, I would never guess in a million years that she was Hispanic. She was paler than me, and very tall and big. Her kids were pale as well, even though Eddie had dark skin. Secondly, I had never heard of someone only liking to spend time with people of their own ethnicity, especially in ministry. I just smiled back at her. “So, I don’t know anything about you. Eddie just told me, ‘She’s young, and she’s having a hard time living in that apartment.’” I nodded slowly, considering Eddie’s description of me. So that was how people saw me. Hm. I took a long sip of my coffee even though I didn’t feel like drinking it, and Mazy went on. “So, I usually disciple the pastor’s wives. You know, get together and I can help you grow and stuff. And since your husband is the college pastor, maybe we can meet on a regular basis or something.” I looked up at her. Did she really not know?
“My husband isn’t the college pastor,” I said flatly and took another sip of my coffee.
“He’s not! I thought that’s why you moved here,” she seemed to genuinely be confused.
“It is. But when we got here, Pastor Steve changed his mind. So we’re just working. That’s all.” I said it matter-of-factly.
“Oh.” She seemed disappointed that I wasn’t the person she thought I was. “Well, we can still meet if you want.” I knew I couldn’t say no without being offensive, so I said perhaps but explained that I worked full-time and liked to spend my free time with Jeff. After that our conversation seemed stilted, so we limped along at it for awhile, until I could bear it no longer and looked at my watch, feigning surprise.
“Oh! It’s already 10:30. I should get going. Today is grocery shopping day.” I smiled and thanked her for the coffee, then fled to my car.
The drive home was depressing. I thought of her husband’s description of me. Was that how people saw me, as just a young girl who was a wimp and couldn’t handle the trial of living in that pit of an apartment? Did anyone even know how I’d fixed up the place and made it beautiful? I thought of how she hadn’t even known that we weren’t on staff at the church. Was anything communicated to anyone? And why did I feel like I was a project to her, someone to be fixed or something to do, rather than a person. My title, pastor’s wife, had caught her attention, but somehow now that I was just a person, and a Caucasian person at that, I seemed a little less interesting. All of this saddened me. I thought of the godly women who’d discipled me in Oregon, who had seen God at work in me, who had cared enough to love me and encourage me and instruct me and mentor me, through my shortcomings and imperfections. They’d shown me Christ in such a real way, and now, this little encounter over coffee, had just served as yet another reminder that this place was far from home.
Those feelings seemed to just spiral downward through the afternoon. Being alone didn’t help, and I spent the rest of the day battling traffic and grocery store lines, only to return to the place I hated. I once again tried to do laundry and once again found the washer full of mildewed clothes. Didn’t these people ever check on their wash?! Small things that would normally be trivial, now seemed monstrous and insurmountable. As I chopped the onion for dinner, I sliced open my finger. “Dang it!” I ran it under cold water. As I stood there, staring at the wall, I forgot about my finger, and tears streamed down my cheeks. God, why? I feel like we fell off the cliff of your will. Everything seems wrong. Every time I go to church I feel sick. Every time I spend time with people I feel sad. Every time I try to do something, to step out in faith and make the best of things, I feel kicked in the gut. Why?
The door opened, interrupting my thoughts. Jeff came over the sink and quietly put his arms around my waist, hearing my sniffles. He kissed the back of my head and rested his chin on my shoulder. I turned and buried my face in his chest, losing myself in the comfort of his warmth and familiar smell.
That night, we crawled into bed, and settled into our favorite sleeping position, on our sides facing away from each other, with our backs and feet touching. We’d been talking more about our discouragement and our confusion in God bringing us all the way down here just to give us run-of-the-mill jobs and strange relational encounters. As we fell silent, I closed my eyes, settling my face into the pillow.
In the silence, a voice very clearly spoke to me, “I’m keeping you from greater harm. Don’t complain.” My eyes popped open and I sat straight up. One look at Jeff’s peaceful self made me realize the voice had not been audible, and yet, I knew it as if it had been. The clarity, richness, depth of the voice gave me goose bumps, and I realized, I’d heard from God. In a moment I realized a profound truth—in keeping us from going on staff at the church, God was protecting us. He was keeping us from greater harm. By allowing these hardships and trials in our lives, God was keeping us from a greater harm. What that harm was I didn’t know, but I knew that God was speaking, and His directive had been clear: Don’t complain.