The Road to Santa Clara (Ch. 9): The Coffee Shop
Ξ September 16th, 2007 | → | ∇ Stories |
During our initial visit to Santa Clara in May, we’d briefly met a girl named Jenny. She had been in the office when we were just leaving to head back up north to Shasta, and I’d forgotten about her altogether until I saw her again at church. She caught my attention at first because she was so strikingly beautiful. Long black hair and almond skin, with dramatic dark eyes and a wide smile of brilliantly white teeth. I eyed her, unable at first to place her but vaguely recognizing her. She caught me staring and her face lit up, a minute later she’d crossed the aisle and was heading straight toward me.“Kari, right?!” Her face was full of light, looking as if she couldn’t imagine anyone else she’d rather see.
“Yes. . . I know I know you. . . but I can’t place it.”
“I’m Jenny! I’m married to Lacey’s brother. Remember we met in the church office when you guys were visiting before.” It clicked. I apologized for my poor memory but she took my wrist in her hand to stop me. “Don’t even. I bet you’ve met a thousand people. So did you move here?”
“Yeah, well a couple months ago, we got here August 1st.”
“Is your husband—I’m sorry I can’t remember his name—is he the college pastor then?”
I smiled. “Jeff—well no actually, when we got here there was a change and so we’re just here working and living here in the church apartment and helping out when we can.” She looked at me, reading through my well-chosen words.
“Hmm. You’ll have to tell me more. David and I just got married three weeks ago, and now he’s working and going to San Jose State, and Pastor Steve gave me a job working in the church office.”
“That’s great. Where are you from again?”
“Santa Barbara – it’s not too far. I miss my mom so much already, though. I bet you miss home so much. Are you doing ok with everything here?”
I thought for a moment and decided to be honest. “Not really.”
She nodded like she really understood. “Let’s hook up this week.”
I smiled, “Tuesday’s my day off — You know where I live.”
—
The following Tuesday, Jenny knocked on my door. We sat down at my dining room table and I was delighted to discover that she, like me, loved green tea and was very health conscious. So, we nibbled apple slices and sipped our tea, thanking God for small pleasures. We shared our stories briefly—where we were from, how we’d met Christ, and how we’d met and married our husbands. It took no effort—we laughed and confided as if we’d always been friends. I was amazed. I’d never actually connected with anyone from Santa Clara. When I commented on this to her she responded, “I’m not from here, that’s why,” and winked.
I was careful how I explained what had happened to us thus far, especially since she was married to Lacey’s brother. So I tiptoed around the subject, being honest about what happened but trying to remain positive about everyone involved. Her eyes narrowed as she listened.
“Kari, we’ve got to pray!” I looked at her. I mean, I knew we should always pray, but wasn’t sure exactly what she was referring to. “I mean, God needs to do some major things around here and we need to partner with Him and intercede.”
And so we did. We spent that half hour bowed in prayer, interceding for God to work in the church, in the city, in our hearts. Before we knew it it was 1pm and her lunch break was over, so she rushed out the door and back to the office, agreeing that we’d make this a weekly date. After she left, I closed the door and stood there for a moment, deep in thought. I was inspired by her faith and a little rebuked. Rebuked because an enthusiastic call to intercession hadn’t been my response. I mean, I knew some major things needed to happen in that church, but I hadn’t been fervent in praying for those things to take place. I had begun to see things around the church, and especially in the leadership structure and dynamics among people, that were very alarming. In some ways it felt like being on a playground in grade school—where everyone is trying to one-up each other with their scars. If one person shared their story of how hard things were, the other person, instead of offering support or sympathy, would respond, “Well, let me tell you what happened to me!” This happened all the time. When we’d shared with anyone in the church about what had gone on, they’d respond, oh you should hear what happened to so-and-so, they had it really bad when they came here. It especially seemed that any newcomers had some sort of spiritual boot camp imposed on them, as if the church leadership saw it as their personal duty to prove, test, and try every person who ever wanted to serve God.
And it extended to the congregation. Instead of offering love and support, people seemed to be all about proving how tough they could be, how much they could bear, how hard they could work. It was almost like a sick, sadistic competition, to see who could take the most hardship. And it was hard to tell whether it was the culture of the work-addicted city influencing the church or whether it was a skewed view of God among the church leaders that filtered down to every single person in the congregation. I think it was both.
But wherever it came from, it was there. Purposely low salaries, overburdened ministry workers, and harsh, strange circumstances seemed common. We’d just recently met our neighbors—Nathan Leno, Art Leno’s son, who was the youth pastor, and his wife Summer, who lived in an apartment next to ours. While theirs wasn’t trashed like ours, it still was pretty depressing with no windows, and they’d just given birth to their first child. We had had no idea that when Pastor Steve had sat down with Jeff, essentially firing him after one week of work, he’d also sat down with Nathan and let him go as well. Apparently the middle school youth numbers just weren’t increasing at the rate they wanted, so Nathan was let go. At that point Summer had been 8 ½ months pregnant, just two weeks from the birth of their daughter, Millie. We were stunned when we found this out. We finally had them over for dinner one night and were able to minister to each other and encourage each other. I was so blessed by their authentic faith and trust in God through it all. Nathan had no education or experience other than being a youth pastor, and losing his job meant losing their health insurance as well, with a new baby no less. But they saw it as a blessing from God, closing one door so that He could open another. They were just in the waiting season to see what that new door would be. But while we admired their courage and their perspective, we were disturbed by how we’d seen them be treated.
We were also surprised to find out that there had been a history with the college group that we knew nothing about. Apparently, there had been a college group, but the previous college pastor had fallen into sexual sin with some of the girls in the college group. When the truth came out, the entire group was affected and eventually disintegrated when the college pastor was removed from ministry. Because of that event, which was literally just months before we were called, there was a sour taste in everyone’s mouth, a stigma, really, that surrounded the college ministry. None of this was communicated to us when we were told about the opportunities and possibilities available there.
What Jenny showed me, just through her actions, was that my response to these things was indignation rather than intercession. I was bothered, grieved, and concerned, which is good, but I didn’t fall to my knees and pray for God to work. I knew, from our first meeting, that Jenny was a friend.
And so we continued to meet, almost every week. At the end of October, I’d felt the freedom to leave Nordstrom Rack, which I did with joy. I sensed that I’d done what I was supposed to do there and my work was through. Jeff had been encouraging me to take some time and just be home, work on my writing, think, pray, relax. When I left the Rack, the manager, Lynn, wrote me an amazing card, reiterating what she’d teased me about every single day of work: being thankful. She called me “thankful Kari” and used to tease me because she said that I always said thank you for everything and she guessed that if she told me I had to work all night with no pay I’d respond, “Oh, thank you!” After reading the card I poked my head into her office and said, with a wink and smile, “Hey Lynn, thanks for the card.”
So after I’d finished up at the Rack, I’d go in and visit Jenny in the church office, bringing her a non-fat sugar free caramel latte or a Ziploc full of red grapes. She’d call me on my cell if she had errands to run during work, telling me to meet her in five minutes by her car so we could grab frozen yogurt while she was out and about and have a chat.
It was through Jenny that I first heard that the coffee shop, Solid Rock, needed a manager. Nathan Leno had been the manager, on well as being the youth pastor, so now that he had been let go, it had been limping along for a few months but needed some help to keep it alive. An announcement was made at church describing the perfect candidate—outgoing, capable of overseeing people, able to work independently, and willing to really give it Solid Rock a makeover. I was intrigued. Though I’d been discouraged with things at the church, I thought perhaps this would be an opportunity for us to be a part of the body there, to meet people, to give it another chance. Plus, Jenny thought I’d be perfect for it. So, I began to pray.
But while I prayed, something interesting happened. I didn’t necessarily have a strong desire for the job, but was more than willing to do it. But what happened was that every single time I prayed about the job, Luke 10:7 and 1 Timothy 5:18 kept coming to mind, and the phrase, “A worker is worthy of his wages.” I do not claim to be a prophet, but this was very clearly impressed on my heart every time I prayed. I didn’t know what they paid for the position, and it didn’t necessarily matter to me, especially since we had free housing and we didn’t need another income, but the thought kept recurring, over and over, that it was important for the church to demonstrate the fact that they valued people by paying them at least a somewhat competitive wage. And I knew this wasn’t something I’d thought up on my own. Jeff and I had served innumerable hours for free—that’s what it meant to serve in my opinion. But it seemed that here there was perhaps an abuse of a servant’s heart taking place. This impression made me distinctly uncomfortable because I had a sinking suspicion that God was going to ask me to voice this at some point. I didn’t even necessary want the job, but over and over and over, it kept haunting my thoughts, with the same verses and the same phrase: “The worker is worthy of his wages.”
So, I submitted an application. A few days later, Jenny called me to say that they wanted to interview me. I prayed and prayed about what God would have me to say, and the same things kept coming to mind. The next day I went in for my interview, and to my surprise, Jenny was the interviewer. We caught up briefly on how we were doing, and then went onto business. She explained what the job would entail, forty-hours a week plus evenings when Bible studies were in session, plus Sunday mornings before and after church. I shared my experience and why I was interested in the job. Finally, as we finished, I asked what the job paid.
“$8.00 an hour. But no overtime.” I nodded slowly. Minimum wage in California was $7.50, so this was certainly a legal wage. However, I knew from experience that as an entry-level clothes-sorter at the Rack started at $9.75, and this job required skill, long hours, and management qualifications. It may seem a petty thing, but the impression on my heart was there.
“Ok,” I took a deep breath. “I really feel like there’s something that I’m supposed to share, Jenny, and I’m sharing it at the risk of sounding like all I’m interested in is money. I promise that is not the reason. We do not need the money. We are fine and I don’t even need to be working, but I feel like I’m supposed to say that whoever gets this job is supposed to be paid fairly. I know this sounds strange, but I think it’s wrong to devalue people by underpaying them, just for the sake of proving that they’re servants. It really is not the most important thing to me whether or not you give me the job, but it is important to me that God’s people are treated with love and respect. I believe that God wants us to know that the worker is worthy of his wages, and I think this job is just a tiny example of what is happening on a larger level in the church. Just know that I appreciate you taking the time to interview me, and I appreciate you listening. I’ll pray that God chooses just the right person for the job.” And with that, I was done. Jenny had been listening, intently.
“Ok, let me get this right. You’ll only take the job if we pay you more.” I closed my eyes, knowing that she hadn’t “gotten” what I’d meant.
“No. That’s not it. It’s not about me. Whoever gets this job, I believe, should be paid a fair wage.”
“So—how much would we have to pay you to take the job?” I took a deep breath, feeling like everything I’d prayed about and said had been totally missed.
“Well, I’m not sure what is reasonable for a management job, but an entry level retail worker makes $9.75, so perhaps $10/hour would be a good wage. But that’s just a guess.”
“So if we pay you $10/hour you’ll take the job?” Once again I sighed, feeling like somehow all the ways I’d connected, heart to heart, with Jenny, had been lost. I shook my head slightly, giving up.
“Sure.” She smiled and said she’d get back to me.
—
Walking back home, I felt sad. I knew that I’d said what I was supposed to say, but once again I felt like it fell on deaf ears. I got home and just prayed that somehow, Jenny would be able to communicate my heart to the pastors and leaders. I knew my job wasn’t to change anyone’s heart, it was just to be obedient to God, but it still felt discouraging.
The next day, Jenny called and said she wanted to see me in the office. It’d been a particularly rough morning. I was missing my family so much it ached. I longed for someone to just understand how I felt, for the familiar smell of my mom’s embrace. I took a deep breath, unsure how this meeting would go. I entered the church office and walked over to Jenny’s desk. She gave me a quick and polite smile. My heart sank. Something was different. All of a sudden, she seemed like one of them.
“Well, Kari, I’ve spoken with the pastors and they’ve decided that if you’re that interested in the money part of it then you’re heart’s not really in it, so we’re going to keep looking for someone else.” I sat and stared at her. Her voice was prickly, her eyes emotionless. I felt like I could see her friendship slipping through my fingers like sand, like all that I’d cherished in her kindred spirit was slowly disappearing. I smiled sadly.
“Ok.” She looked back at her computer screen, but I thought I’d see if I could chat her back to the old Jenny. “So, what are you up to this weekend?” She looked back at me.
“Oh, David and I are heading out of here Friday at noon so we can beat traffic and we’re going to Santa Barbara for the whole weekend to be with my family. I’m so excited I can’t wait. I can’t wait to just hug my mom and eat her food and relax and just be home.” Her words kicked me in the stomach, and for a moment, I couldn’t breath. Tears stung my eyes but I battled to keep them back. I finally managed to take a breath and forced a smile—a broken, hurting, bleeding smile.
“That’s great, Jenny, that’ll be fun.” She smiled, but didn’t respond. “Well, I better get going. I’ll talk to you soon.” And with that, I stood up, mechanically putting one foot in front of the other, literally, to keep from collapsing in a heap of tears. As soon as I closed the church office door, I started to sob. Loud sobs, tears running down my cheeks, my stomach in a knot. I walked quickly up to the apartment, and right before going inside, stopped and looked at the old wooden office door, the safety glass tiny square window in the top with a piece of paper taped over it for privacy. I looked at the piles of trash and discarded belongings, still in the hall. I went inside and stared at the walls, dented and peeling. Jenny’s words still echoed in my ears. I couldn’t tell which was worse—the thought of the pastor’s sitting around condemning me as a money-hound or the thought of Jenny getting to spend an entire weekend with her beloved family while I ached with missing mine. I had trusted her, loved her, and this felt like just another kick in the gut. I staggered to the couch and collapsed, curling up, holding my stomach with my arms, pulling my knees to my chest and burying my face in the couch cushion, crying and asking God why He was allowing me to hurt so much. As I lay there, I felt as if all my strength were utterly sapped—I was a heap of brokenness, with no energy to even get up and try again. When I’d cried myself dry, I reached up and turned off the light, letting the pitch black of the apartment reach around me, engulfing me in its darkness. I lay there for a long time, lost, and eventually drifted to sleep.
