The Road to Santa Clara (Ch. 17): The SonShiners
Ξ October 8th, 2007 | → | ∇ Stories |
That Sunday afternoon we talked through exactly what it would take for this dream, of attending seminary, to come true. Apparently Clive Cowell, the recruiter, had been calling Jeff every three of four days, just to answer any question and see where we were at with possibly attending the following year. We were both very attracted to the possibility of attending full-time on Fridays, still giving us the ability to work, since neither of us had a peace, at the time, about taking out loans for school. We wanted to pay as we went. The Friday only program would enable us to do just that, if we both found jobs where we could work four days a week. Jeff was adamant that we only do it if he found a job that would support us as a family; he didn’t want the financial burden of providing for us to fall on my shoulders. I agreed. In fact, he insisted that, if this all went as we hoped, I could take a few months off to just be a wife again and rest before jumping into school in the fall.The unknowns were many. We didn’t know how we’d fund our schooling, had no place to live, and no jobs. We also hated the thought of leaving Aaron and Candi. But, the more we prayed about it, the more we realized that we couldn’t stay forever just because of them. God had us there for a season, and we were responsible to stay for as long as God told us to stay. So, we continued to pray that if this was not Him that He would take away our peace, give us some roadblocks, anything to keep us from going forward if it wasn’t of Him.
Jeff felt like he found an instant friend in Clive. With a strong British accent, he not only entertained Jeff, he encouraged him as well. He kept up on what Jeff was doing, listened to Jeff share about the joys and struggles we were experiencing down in California, and prayed for him every time they were on the phone. Though perhaps Clive was just doing his job, he ministered to and encouraged us like a friend.
That next week, Clive emailed us both to inform us that the deadline for scholarship applications was March 15th. He strongly encouraged us to apply. So, we stayed up late filling out applications, writing essays, and emailing former pastors and ministry overseers, asking for recommendations. March 12th we sent in our scholarship application packets, praying for the best.
–
Just the thought of potentially leaving made me excited and sad at the same time. Before, I had seen the situation as endless and hopeless. Now, with a possible light at the end, it shed a different perspective on our situation, and made me appreciate people more than perhaps I did before.
For one, I realized more than ever that the SonShiners were amazing. Way back, before Christmas, Jeff has been asked by Jimmy Jenson, the pastor of the Seniors ministry, to take over teaching for a few Sundays while he was having knee surgery. The group was called the SonShiners. The SonShiners were supposedly the fifty-and-over group, but in truth they were the eighty-and-over group. They were old. They met every Sunday morning, before church, for a sort of Sunday school, which was really just an abbreviated church service that catered to their needs and desires more than the big service. When Jimmy asked Jeff, we had both laughed, amazed that he’d entrust us, two kids, with leading a group of fifty seasoned saints who’d been receiving social security longer than we’d been alive. He insisted that he knew what he was asking, so we agreed.
The first Sunday, I was a little unsure how to mingle. Before the service, a beverage table was spread with Folgers instant coffee granules, donuts, and Danishes. I had made the mistake of saying to the woman I was talking to, “Mmm. . . I smell coffee! Let’s go get some.” When I got to the table and saw the Folgers crystals, I gulped and made some excuse about deciding I really wanted a donut hole instead, figuring at least the donut hole would do less damage than an entire donut or a cup of Folgers dirt.
But what amazed me about the SonShiners was their love for us. From the very first Sunday they came and talked to us, wanting to know every detail of what we did, our past, how we’d met, what our family was like, and what we planned to do in the future. At times I’d get caught with a talker, and though at times I’d wished I could escape and avoid hearing another story from World War II, God pricked my heart and kept reminding me what incredible heroes these men and women were.
And they were heroes. Their prayer requests weren’t for better paying jobs, they were for healing from cancer, salvation for a wayward child, for safety for a grandson in Iraq. They had seen friends die, children grow up, leaders rise and fall. Many of them had been at the church for thirty or forty years, they’d seen pastors come and go, they’d watched the building age. A few had seen it built. I was even blessed by how they dressed. Despite aching joints, they dressed for the occasion, showing respect for others and for God. The women wore heels, skirts, and sweaters with broaches or scarves. They weren’t trying to impress anyone, but they were demonstrating, by their appearance and the respect they showed for others, that church was a time for honoring God and each other.
We had a lot to learn, so we let the SonShiners lead the way. Jimmy had warned us that they were very set in their ways, liking to follow the same routine Sunday after Sunday. So, we took our cues from them. We began with hymns, led by Fred who lifted his hands as he sang, his right hand shaking from Parkinson’s. After the first three hymns, we’d wait in silence for a few minutes, then Clyde would lead out in the Old Rugged Cross. No one even had to use the hymnals, except for Jeff and me; they all knew the hymns by hearts, every verse. After the hymns, Fred would take prayer requests, then we’d open the time for prayer for all the requests that had been made. I was always humbled and amazed at the prayers—the heartfelt, confident, rich words spoken from lips that had moved the heart of God for a lifetime. Almost every week, a report was made of someone who had passed away, either from the group or a friend of someone in the group. It was sobering, yes, but glorious to be reminded, every week, that this world is not our home, and that we longingly await a greater place with our Lord.
Jeff loved to teach them. A handful of them fell asleep each week, but Jeff never felt discouraged, because usually even those people came up to him afterwards and remarked what a great sermon it was. He felt inadequate all the time, speaking of things he knew theoretically but that these people knew experientially. It certainly kept him humble, and he often let them know that he wanted them to teach him just as much as he taught them. And they did. They talked to us, loved us, prayed for us. They embraced us and encouraged us. When Jimmy’s knee recovery was over, his wife became ill and he asked if Jeff wouldn’t mind just taking over the group for the next three or four months, to give him a break. He enthusiastically agreed without a moment’s hesitation. Little did we know, when we moved down for Jeff to be the college pastor that he’d end up leading the SonShiners, and loving it.
–
And so, in mid-March, we were faced with the reality that our time there might come to an end in the coming months. Our main concern at that point was a job for Jeff. It was highly unlikely that he could find a full-time position as a Civil Engineer where he was able to only work four days a week. We pray every day, asking God to confirm if we were supposed to move. We talked to Aaron and Candi about it, who, in their amazing selfless love, said they were totally supportive.
In one sense, perhaps us broaching the subject of moving freed them to explore other possibilities as well. They both admitted that they certainly didn’t want to live in Santa Clara if we weren’t there, and they weren’t in love with their jobs, so they began praying as well, that if God had another destination for them that He’d make it clear.
Another important variable in the equation was figuring whether my undergraduate scholarship would extend to cover the cost of tuition for my Master’s degree at Multnomah. So, I contacted the Foundation where I’d received funding, and filled out all the appropriate forms. I was then required to write an essay explaining why I was now wanting to continue my education and why funding from the Foundation would benefit society was a whole. So, I wrote about Santa Clara. I wrote about what I’d learned from real life, more than any college degree could ever teach. I wrote about Christ and what He’s done for us, and why I wanted, with all my heart, to be as equipped as possible to spread His word and His truth to a world desperate for Him. I was certain that it was different from the other essays they’d receive, and wasn’t sure what response I would get, but licked the envelope and once again, prayed for the best.
By April 1st, we both had a feeling that we’d be moving home. Though all the pieces weren’t in place yet, we both just had a feeling, an anticipation, of how God was going to put it all together just in time. We scheduled doctor’s appointments—eye, dentals, and physicals, since we had such great insurance through Jeff’s work and we thought we might not have much longer to use it. So, April 1st, we met in the late afternoon and rode together to have our eyes checked, since it’d been years for both of us and Jeff desperately needed a new pair of glasses. As we walked to the car, Jeff stopped by the apartment mail boxes and grabbed the mail slipping it under his arm and meeting me at the car. He opened my door and I slid into my seat. He tossed the mail on my lap and then went around to his side. As I glanced down, three letters caught my attention and I held my breath, looking over at Jeff.
He looked at me. “What?” I looked down at my lap and he followed my gaze down. He saw the letters—two from Multnomah, one for each of us, and one from the scholarship Foundation addressed to me.
“Should we open them?” I glanced at the clock. We had a few minutes before our appointments and the doctor was only four blocks away. I handed Jeff his letter. Silently, we both slid open our Multnomah letters and began to read. I gasped and looked at him and realized his face was shining, his eyes wide and dancing as he skimmed the opening sentences. “I got the President’s Scholarship! I can’t even believe it—that’s the highest one you can get!” He leaned over and kissed me, handing me his letter. He had also been awarded a scholarship, the next highest one. I shook my head in disbelief as I realized all the ramifications of this, all that this perhaps would mean. I looked down at the other letter and tore open the top. A look at the first word, “congratulations”, meant what I’d been hoping and praying for was a reality—my Master’s degree would be paid for . . . in full. I closed my eyes as they filled with tears, shaking my head at our Heavenly Father. I didn’t know yet how it would all work, but it was somehow as if God, my loving faithful God, was reminding me that He knew. That He’d seen my heart, my hurt, my tears, that He knew all along that there’d be an end, that we’d turn a corner and see new scenery, that the dark night would pass.
Our optometrist appointment was a blur. By five o’clock Jeff had ordered new glasses and I was told I still had 20/20 vision. We drove home and immediately got on our cell phones, dialing our parents to tell them the good news. Later that night, we went knocked on the wall to warn the Seifers that we were headed over. Candi met us at the door. “Well?” She grinned. We told them everything.
Late that night, after an impromptu game of Catan, we got back into our apartment and I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth, flicking on the deafening fan. As I was brushing, I saw Jeff on the phone, but couldn’t hear him, so I finished brushing then washed my face. As I flicked off the light and fan switch and as I walked into the bedroom to change into my pajamas, I heard Jeff finishing up his conversation.
“Wow. . . man, thanks again. We’ll definitely pray about it. . . . Yeah, let’s talk in a few days. Ok. See ya.” I leaned out the doorway and looked at him questioningly. I recognized the look, the dancing eyes trying not to betray his excitement. His effort not to break into a full grin.
“Who was that?” Jeff set the phone on the table and took a deep breath, holding his hands behind his head and stretching his back.
“That was Benjy.” I frowned, not knowing why a talk with Benjy would be of some significance. Benjy was Jeff’s college roommate and longtime friend. It was Benjy who had, eight years earlier, first shared the gospel with Jeff. He had been the only Christian Jeff knew, who truly lived out his faith. After coming to Christ, they had become best friends and both graduated in Civil Engineering. They’d worked together for a heavy civil construction company in Reno, where Jeff lived with Benjy before he’d gotten married. Jeff was the best man in Benjy’s wedding and Benjy had been a groomsman in ours. Zephyr, Benjy’s wife, had, amazingly enough, been my housemate in college, before she and Benjy were even a couple and years before Jeff and I were anything. She’d had the bedroom next to mine in a house of seven girls, and we’d become close friends. When we’d all married, we marveled at how God brought us all together. They’d been living in the Seattle area for the past few years, but had planned to move down to McMinnville, Oregon, where Benjy wanted to start his own construction company doing underground utilities.
“So, what’s up with Benjy?”
“Well, they ended up moving to McMinnville a lot sooner than they thought. He’s been working at Smith Construction there since December but this month he’s taking it over and he’ll be the owner of his own company, Kamph Construction.”
“Wow, that’s awesome. That’s been his dream for so long. I can’t believe it’s actually happening.” I knew Jeff was happy for him, but still wasn’t sure that that was responsible for the sparkle in Jeff’s eyes. “So . . . is that all?” Jeff looked me in the eyes and squinted and smiled ever so slightly, the look I’d come to know meant he was loving and relishing and savoring me.
“He asked me to come work for him. Four days a week.” I leaned forward, hardly able to believe what he’d said. He smiled and nodded.
“How? . . . How did he know?”
“He just knew that we wanted to come back to Oregon, and I told him about Seminary. He said he wanted to do anything he could to help us make it all work. He said I could start in May.” I shook my head again. The word May rung in my ears. During all this, I hadn’t dared to let myself think of a timeline. I’d hoped we could start school in September, but I’d never dreamed that we’d be able to move that soon. It was April 1st. If this happened, it meant we had a month, only a month, left in Santa Clara. I walked over to Jeff and he wrapped his arms around me, pulling me into his chest, resting his face on the top of my head. I buried my face in his chest, crying, unable to believe how everything had changed in one day. We had scholarships, we had a job, we had a dream of ours, coming true, right before our eyes.
That night I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed and watched the lights from car headlights stream across our bedroom wall, listened to the sound of car horns and alarms and doors slamming. The pas nine months began playing, like a movie, through my mind. The moving, the windowless apartment, the tears, the confusion, the hurt feelings, the frustration, the despair. But now, as I lay in bed, listening to Jeff’s soft breathing, it all came into focus. It seemed so clear. I looked at Jeff and watched him, watched the slow rising and falling of his chest, the curve of his lips, his dark eyelashes against his cheeks. I touched his shoulder, warm, just above the covers. I thought of all that we’d walked through during the last nine months, the innumerable nights we’d cried, vented, prayed, confided, hoped, and despaired. I thought of Aaron and Candi, just beyond the wall. As I thought about them, their love for us, their self-sacrificing devotion to our good, I turned my head and cried into my pillow.
The following weekend, we booked a flight to Oregon, to meet with Benjy, get a tour of Multnomah and attend a seminary new student orientation, and look for a place to live. We were amazed when we’d evaluated our finances. Because we’d both been working, because we were used to living on a missionary’s donation-supported budget, and because we’d been living in the Acropolis instead of the Bella Villagio, we had somehow saved $19,000 in nine months. How exactly we have no idea. I didn’t even know where it came from, and it was almost as if it wasn’t there until we really sat down and figured out what we had. Because of that, we realized that we were able to probably afford another small home in McMinnville. A home. A home of our own, with windows and square rooms and a fan in the bathroom that still enabled us to have conversations. We didn’t need anything extraordinary, especially since we were used to living in a 400-square-foot apartment, but the thought of having a home, a real home, was like a kiss from God.
April 10th we gave our notice to our workplaces. Jeff’s boss simply said, “You have worked hard and served us well. We wish you luck and if you ever need a job again, we would happily hire you at any of our locations.” Minoto was dramatic about it, insisting that they’d never find another person to hire. But of course she would.
Jeannette insisted we go to dinner. And so we sat, over salads and cokes. She shared, with tears, how much I’d meant to her, how I was like a daughter to her that she’d never had. I marveled at her words, and marveled at God. How could He, with my bad attitude and my daily struggles and my constant whining, manage to make good out of all of it. I shared with her more about God, about what was the most important thing that I wanted her to know. She still insisted that she wasn’t interested in religion, but I promised, or threatened as it were, that I would pray she’d change her mind.
And then there was Nieve. Nieve had become like a sister. We talked constantly, had met for coffee frequently, and she’d always remained open to me sharing about Christ. For her birthday, she’d invited me to join her sister and her mom in traveling to San Francisco for a special Irish Dancing competition. Of course I went. We three sat and watched her, cheering her on and oohing and ahhing over all the dancers. She was beautiful, her long legs kicking in and out, amazingly choreographed and synchronized with the other dancers. On the drive home, I shared with her about our plans to move back to Oregon. She was obviously disappointed, but said that she knew it would happen. She said she could tell that my heart was there. When we , she invited Jeff and me over for her birthday party, and we were thrilled to attend. When we got there we realized what an honor it was, as it was only her family in attendance and then a few of her closest friends arriving later for cake.
Her parents, Geraldine and Patrick, with their thick Irish accents, were warm and welcoming, talking with us for almost an hour while Nieve hung out with her friends talking about school and college plans and the upcoming graduation party. Her parents had moved here from Ireland when Nieve was three years old, and they spoke with a depth of experience that was rich. They were genuine people, who seemed to truly enjoy their daughters and flourish as a family in the midst of the materialistic, work-driven culture in which they lived. Patrick had to work long hours, he admitted, but he loved that Geraldine could have time to work in her garden and only work part-time as a dietician at the local hospital. He spent his spare time cultivating their garden, which took up almost their entire backyard. Trellises with curling, crawling vines, rows of lush vegetables, and fruit trees bordering the whole yard, it looked straight out of Eden. A fountain sat in the center, flowing down into five trickling streams that ran throughout the garden. Geraldine had herbs hanging in the kitchen, drying, and garlic strung along over the sink. I could only imagine the culinary masterpieces she must have put together for their meals.
After Nieve had caught up with her friends, she opened her gifts and we ate big slabs of homemade champagne cake Geraldine had baked the day before. As we began to excuse ourselves, saying it was time we headed home, Nieve insisted she give us a tour and show us her bedroom before we left. We followed her around as she told stories of all her dad had done, transforming a regular ranch style home in to a haven of beauty and unique detail. Her room was last, a rich blue color with brightly striped curtains and a checkered rug in blues and greens. I admired her trophies, dozens of them, from her years of Irish dance competitions. As I stood admiring a large photo of her, dressed in costume, kicking out one leg and holding a trophy next to her mom, she came over to me and stood at my side.
“There’s something I want you to have.” I looked at her and saw, in her hands, a medal. It was a figure of a blond girl, dancing, with red and green ribbon behind and a medal hanging below that read, 2004 Berkeley Invitational Champion, San Francisco, CA. I looked at her, my mouth open.
“Nieve, this is yours. You earned it. You worked so hard for it.” She smiled and pressed it into my hand.
“I want you to keep it, to remember me by and to remember this day.” I hugged her, then pulled away and admired the beautiful medal. “You’ve been like a sister to me, Kari. I love you. I’m going to miss you so much.”
“I’m going to miss YOU, Nieve.” She smiled and I hugged her again because I hated those moments where I wanted to say something beautiful and meaningful, but wasn’t sure what. We walked back out and met her parents and they walked us to the door. Jeff put his arm around Nieve to say goodbye and Geraldine put both her hands on my shoulders, looking up into my face.
“You have meant so much to our daughter. I’m going to make sure she writes you and stays in touch.” I nodded, and assured her I’d do the same. And with that, we were off. We climbed into the Jeep and bounced off into the night, the soft top flapping in the wind as we drove. I laid my hand on Jeff’s thigh and gazed out the front.
“Our time here has been good, hon. It’s been really good.” He squeezed my hand and we rode the rest of the way in sweet silent peace.
