Why write
The Road to Santa Clara? To revisit old hurts? Highlight the shortcomings of others? Not at all. I wrote
The Road to Santa Clara first and foremost for Jeff and me to remember. We are commanded, innumerable times in Scripture, to
remember. Remember Egypt and how God brought deliverance there (
Deut. 5:15), remember God’s marvelous works (
1 Chron. 16:12), remember His death on the cross whenever we share the Lord’s supper (
1 Cor. 11:24). The Old Testament Feasts were centered on remembering all that God has done. We should do whatever it takes to call to remembrance the faithfulness of God. In Santa Clara, God was faithful. The story is first and foremost a call for Jeff and me to remember the faithfulness of God. Countless times, when I have been discouraged, I have called to remembrance Santa Clara and what He did there, and have been bolstered in my faith.
Secondly, it is a lesson. I wish that I could only write things that make everyone look good, including myself. I wish I could write how this perfectly wonderful person responded to this other perfectly wonderful person in a perfectly wonderful way and we all represented Christ perfectly and everyone was happy. But this would not be real. This would not be true. Jeff and I have both failed, and do fail daily. Others have failed. The Bible says that all have failed (
Rom. 3:23). But there is grace from God for these failures, so that we can in turn extend grace to others, and so we learn from these failures and grow in our imperfect love for God and man.
The last thing I would ever want to do is highlight the shortcomings of others. The Apostle Paul, in
Galatians 2:11, reports on a conflict he has with Peter over an issue he saw as wrong and needing to be corrected. Both Paul and Peter were godly, wholehearted followers of Christ. It is written for us so that we will know not only that even spiritual giants like Peter make mistakes, but also so that we would be able to avoid the same pitfall in our lives. My purpose is similar. Jeff and I made mistakes. At times we were too sensitive, at times we jumped to conclusions, at times we grumbled, at times we were judgmental. As we reflect we see this more and more. But God was growing us, maturing us, molding us, through it all. At times we were hurt, truly deeply hurt, by the shortcomings of others. But God forgives us as we forgive others (Matt. 6:15). We receive His grace, extend His grace, receive the lesson, and extend the lesson. This is my prayer.
I hope that it’s obvious that I write with a free heart. God has set us free. We no longer have to demand perfection from ourselves and our fellow brothers and sisters. We can walk in the grace of God, daily asking for His Spirit to enable and empower us to live a life that glorifies His name.
I leave you with this one thought, which is the life truth that sustains my every breath. God is all powerful, all knowing, and all good. Because He is all powerful, He can do anything He wants. Because He is all knowing, He knows exactly how to use the power that He employs. Because He is all good, we can rest in knowing that the all powerful, all knowing God is working at all times for my good and for His glory. My whole life is God-filtered. All that is in my life has been pre-screened by my gracious heavenly Father, and is therefore perfectly formulated for my sanctification. All things are not for my happiness; all things are for my good. “And we know that all things work together for good to those who love God, to those who are the called according to His purpose. For whom He foreknew, He also predestined to be conformed to the image of His Son, that He might be the firstborn among many brethren” (
Romans 8:28).
This is why we took the Road to Santa Clara.
The next weekend we flew to Oregon for a three-day whirlwind weekend. Our visit to Multnomah was like sliding together two perfectly fitted puzzle pieces. Everything was right. Clive met us at the front, like an old friend, and took us to lunch in the café where we met several other seminary students. We sat in on a class where the professor taught through Hebrews and we sat, captivated, like two sponges just soaking up every word. Since we were there on a Friday we ran into our friends, Mark and Adam, plus five or six other guys we hadn’t even known attended Multnomah. It was like a reunion. As we pulled away from campus, heading out Highway 84 across Portland toward McMinnville, I could scarcely believe this all was for real.
I turned to Jeff and tried to articulate my thoughts. “Am I dreaming? Do we really get to move here? Get to go to seminary? I feel like we don’t deserve any of this. I mean, I complained so much about California. I don’t feel like I ‘passed’, I don’t feel like I did anything to deserve getting to have this dream of ours come true.”
He smiled at me and squeezed my hand. “We don’t deserve it, Sauce. None of it. You’re right, we didn’t pass. We never do. That’s not why He’s letting us come back. That’s why we just praise God for all of it.” I nodded. I knew he was right.
In McMinnville we met up with Benjy and drove around town. Jeff and Benjy talked about work, ironing out the details of Jeff’s schedule, work-load, and job description details. He showed us different neighborhoods, stopping whenever we saw a For Sale sign with a flyer on a modest home. By late afternoon we’d collected a stack of flyers and I’d collected a discouraged heart. Though certainly cheaper than California, I was surprised by how expensive homes were, and our down payment sum, which had seemed huge in my mind, shrunk more with every home we saw. The next day, Saturday, we had a meeting with our realtor, a family friend, so we hoped she’d have some ideas.
We met up with Carole, our realtor, at noon the next day. The afternoon was a little discouraging, as we realized our price range was more limiting than we had anticipated. We felt strongly that we didn’t want a mortgage that would require me to work. We’d always felt that we should keep our standard of living to Jeff’s salary, so we agreed to stick to our price range. At the end of our afternoon we’d exhausted her list and found nothing. We were scheduled to move May 1st, in just two weeks. What were we thinking, that we’d be able to buy a house for less than $150,000 over a weekend and move in two weeks later? We sat in our car, a little discouraged, and prayed. That night we stayed in town and went to dinner with Benjy and Zephyr. Being with them was great. We laughed ourselves silly, then they drove us around more, insisting that we’d find somewhere perfect for us to live. Before going home, we said we wanted to see the home they were building. They were scheduled to move in in another month, and they hadn’t really described it to us, so we were anxious to see it.
As we drove toward their home, we cross through a new subdivision with beautiful, well-kept homes. Along one side, new town homes were being built, in a split-level San Francisco style, with beautiful landscaping and single garages. We stopped so Jeff could grab a flyer, and I was amazed to see the price—$147,000. I folded the flyer and tucked it in my pocket. I had a feeling we’d just found a home.
That night, we called Carole again, asking if we could make one last trip to McMinnville on Sunday before we flew home that night. She enthusiastically agreed and we decided to meet at noon at the town homes. We arrived a few minutes early, so we thought we’d have a look around. They weren’t finished yet, but I walked over to one that had already been painted and looked almost complete. The garage door was open, so I cautiously walked inside, calling hello to see if anyone was there. No one responded, so I checked the interior garage door—it was open. I slid off my shoes and opened the door, the smell of new construction filling my lungs. As a daughter of a home-builder, I’d come to love the smell of sawdust, fresh paint, and new carpet. The home was perfect. The colors, the carpet, the trim, the floorplan, everything, was more than I could have ever imagined. With two bedrooms and 1200 square feet, it felt spacious to us after living in the apartment. The kitchen we open, the ceiling vaulted, the appliances new and beautiful. I walked around, stunned, amazed that this little home was sitting there, waiting for us. I stood and looked out the back window at the beautiful green forest, listening to the birds, inhaling the fresh air through the open window. I closed my eyes and tears fell down my cheeks—this home was from God. I stood there and couldn’t believe how He was demonstrating His love, His care, His extravagant provision so far beyond anything I ever deserved. I didn’t even hear Jeff and Carole walk up the stairs and into the room.
“What do you think, Sauce?” I turned around and they both smiled when they saw my face. Jeff came over and hugged me.
“How about if I let you two talk alone for a few minutes while I check out the house,” Carole suggest sensitively. Later, we met up again and finished opening doors, cabinets, peaking out windows and visualizing furniture. Jeff went over with a more critical eye, inspecting craftsmanship and quality.
“Let’s make an offer.”
There was one unit already completed, so even though we hadn’t seen it, we decided to make an offer on that one since we needed to move in two weeks. Carole drafted up the offer, we signed it, and drove straight to the airport, grabbing dinner on the way. While we arrived back in Santa Clara, we had a message from her saying that they were selling quickly and the one we made an offer on already sold. The next one to be finished was, amazingly, the one we’d happened to stumble upon and walk through that very day.
Jeff didn’t hesitate—“We’ll take that one.”
The next day Carole called us. “Congratulations. Your offer was accepted. I’m going to overnight the paperwork to you, so you can sign the docs, overnight them back, and we’ll close in two weeks. The unit’s not finished but the builder said he’ll have all his guys work on that unit and have it finished by closing. I’m seriously amazed, you guys. I’ve never had a house finish and close this fast.” We shook our heads, once again, in amazement.
Every spare minute we spent packing or hanging out with the Seifers. Now that we knew our time was limited, each evening or conversation or game of Catan felt sacred. The following weekend, Chase invited Jeff to stay late after church and play basketball with a bunch of the guys. Jeff had done this a few times, off and on, and since we figured this was our last time, we agreed to stay. Jeff also wanted a chance to talk to Pastor Steve, in person, about our decision to leave. Since Pastor Steve always stayed to play, Jeff figured he could catch him afterward and have a quick talk since he didn’t have a chance during the week to get off work and see him. I stayed to watch Jeff play, hoping to run into Kelly and talk to her in person as well.
Kelly and the seven Riggs kids were there. The older kids played with the men while the younger kids zoomed around on skateboards, threw each other on the high-jump pit in the corner, and took turns jumping off the stage until one of them hit his head and Kelly said that was enough. Patience, the lone girl, sat with me and asked if she could braid my hair. We cheered for the men while she pulled at chunks of my hair, jerking my head back at times but content to play and make me “pretty”.
I talked with Kelly briefly, as we kept getting interrupted by children’s injuries or famished tummies needing snacks. She was in total support of our decision, as I knew she would be, and wanted to hear all the details. “This isn’t home for you,” she said. After the game, Jeff sat down briefly with Chase and told him as well. I could see that he was sad, but also, I could see that he was committed to supporting us.
“I’m sorry, man. I was so excited to see you guys down here. I’m sorry about how it’s all gone for you.” He hugged Jeff quickly.
“Chase, there’s no need for anybody, anybody, to apologize. God brought us here. God had things to do in us. It’s been good. Hard, but good. We’re gonna miss you guys.” Chase didn’t like sentimentality, so the hugged turn into a punch in the shoulder and he pulled back, heaving the basketball into Jeff’s stomach.
“Without you here, who’m I gonna school on the court?” Jeff laughed and tossed back the ball as he caught sight of Pastor Steve heading toward the door.
“I gotta run, man. I’ll talk to you later.” We said goodbye to the Riggs nine as they trailed off, lugging skateboards and balls and sweatshirts and fruit snack wrappers as they went. Jeff grabbed my hand for me to go with him, and we caught up with Steve as he reached for the door.
“Can we talk a minute?” Jeff asked. Steve smiled again, the same inside-joke smile, and it made me wonder if he already knew we were leaving and somehow thought it was funny.
“Sure thing.”
“Well, I wanted to let you know in person that we’re moving to Oregon.” Steve chuckled and rubbed his hand over his mouth as if wiping off his smile.
“Can’t take it, huh?” He leaned back and smiled.
“Pastor Steve, with all due respect, it’s not that we can’t take it. It’s not about the church or you or any of those things. We’ve always dreamed of going to seminary, and God’s opened a door for that to happen. He’s provided a job, and scholarships and a home for us all, miraculously, in the last month. We’re moving May 1st.” Steve nodded.
“Just like Jenny and David. You know they walked away too. They couldn’t handle it either. Some people just aren’t cut out for difficult environments.” Jeff shook his head. It was like communicating with a wall. He took a deep breath, visibly restraining himself.
“Pastor Steve,” he began, then like a balloon slowly releasing its air, he let our his breath and stopped his sentence. He thought for a moment, then began. “We want you to know that we thank God for bringing us here. We felt like you wronged us, but we forgive you and we’ve moved on. We’re sad to see people get hurt here, and we just hope it doesn’t happen to anyone else. We love the people here, and we’re sad to leave them, but we know our season here is over. We’re not headed back to Oregon, we’re headed on to Oregon.” Steve just looked at us and smiled his same smile. Jeff smiled sadly, then extended his hand. Steve shook it, wished us luck, and walked out the door. I reached over to Jeff, who stood, still facing away, his hand still halfway extended, and wrapped my arms around him, squeezing around his middle, ignoring the sweat, now cold, that soaked his shirt. He, as he’d done so many times, kissed the top of my head.
“That’s it, Sauce. We can go home now.”
–
My dad once again volunteered to fly down in order to drive the U-Haul back up. We rented a tow package from U-Haul so we could tow the Jeep and Jeff could drive the Honda and I could just ride along and relax. We had been appalled at the price of renting a one-way U-Haul out of Santa Clara. It’d cost us $300 to rent one for the trip down, and $2700 to rent one for the trip back up. We decided that was the reason why California was so densely populated—no one could afford to leave. The night before, Aaron and Candi and Jeff and I stayed up until midnight, playing one last game of Catan and then spent a half hour praying together for each other. As we said goodnight, I kissed Candi on the top of the head and turned away before I started crying.
Dad arrived that morning with the U-Haul. We’d actually rented it out of Sacramento because it was cheaper, so Jeff’s dad picked my dad up and took him to the U-Haul yard and then Dad drove it down early that morning. He arrived about 10am, full of energy as always, remarking how lousy the Egg McMuffin was that he’d scarfed for breakfast. He hugged me so hard it took away my breath, as always, greeting me with the usual, “Hey baby!” He hugged Jeff, patting him hard on the back, telling him how much he loved him, as always. Aaron and Candi came outside with brave smiles, ready to help us load. It went quickly. We’d rented a small U-Haul, deciding that anything that didn’t fit we’d get rid off. The Lazy Boy didn’t make the cut, so Rick, who’d come to help us move, said he’d be glad to take it home.
When the final boxes were being situated, I ran a quick vacuum over the carpet and swept the 4-foot by 4-foot kitchen floor one last time. Jeff came inside as I finished and took the broom from my hand, pulling me close into his arms.
“I love you, Sauce. I am so proud of you. You did it. We’re going home.” He took the broom and vacuum out to the truck while I prepared myself to say goodbyes. I walked to the doorway and saw Candi a the corner of the apartment complex, burying her face in Aaron’s chest. My stomach knotted and my face scrunched up, as tears fell down my cheeks. I didn’t even think I could talk to her. I had come to love Candi more than I ever dreamed I’d love a friend. She’d loved me, encouraged me, prayed for me, sacrificed her whole life for me. She saw me coming and pulled herself away from Aaron, meeting my tears with her own. We fell into each other’s arms, crying and laughing at the same time, feeling silly but not caring how we looked.
“How did we come to love each other so much?” She asked, muffled by my shoulder. I shook my head. I didn’t know. I couldn’t talk so I just kept crying.
“You will always be my friend, Queen Candice.” She smiled up at me, through her puffy eyes and red, tear-stained face. We hugged one last time and I looked up, realizing that Jeff and Aaron were crying too, but in a more manly way, standing up tall. My dad, sensitively, hollered that he’d go get gas and meet us at the Texaco station so we’d have time alone. We stood in a silence for a few moments, then finally, Jeff said we’d better go. We all embraced, a four-way group hug, and then Jeff wrapped his arms around me, leading me toward the car. I sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window at my friend. As we pulled away, I leaned out the window and waved, and waved and waved, until I could no longer see Candi’s face.
On our way out, I remembered something and asked Jeff to swing by the Right Stuff real quick on our way to the gas station. I grabbed a manila envelope I’d tucked into my bag, and ran inside, leaving it at the front desk for Nieve.
“What was that?” Jeff asked as I hopped back in the car.
“Twenty-five pieces of stationary and twenty-five envelopes, stamped and addressed to me at our new house. That way I know she’ll write.” He grinned at me and kissed my lips.
Once we got to the gas station, Jeff suggested that I ride with my dad for the first leg, since he’d come all this way for us and that way we could have some time to catch up. I thought that was great, so I hopped in the U-Haul, still wiping the mascara from underneath my eyes with my sleeve. Once we hit the freeway, I had the same feeling I had the very first time we’d visited Santa Clara, when we’d driven away and my cold had suddenly cleared up. My head felt clearer and everything seemed in perspective. I called Candi on her cell phone, even though we’d only been gone thirty minutes, just to hear her voice and make sure she wasn’t crying. She sounded like she was, but insisted that she was good and said that Aaron was taking her out to dinner that night so she didn’t have to cook. About an hour and a half into the drive, as we drove through Tracy, Dad and I heard a loud clang and then a crash behind us. We immediately looked in the rearview mirror and saw Jeff return from a swerve toward the center lane, but couldn’t see what had happened. A second later, my cell phone rang.
“The fender flew off!” Jeff shouted. Dad heard it through the phone, looked back on his side, and started laughing. Sure enough, the entire metal fender on the driver’s side of the tow trailer had come loose and flown off. “It flew twenty feet in the air and landed right in front of my car on the blacktop and bounced off the road. It’s a miracle it didn’t hit my windshield.” Then we realized how serious it was and thanked God that it hadn’t caused an accident. Dad grabbed the phone from me.
“Should get off the freeway and go back and get it? They might charge you for it at the U-Haul place.”
“No way,” Jeff insisted, “We’re going home.”
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.
The next day, Friday, Jeff was at work all day and said he’d try to be off by six and come straight to the dinner, where I would have clothes for him to change into and be ready for the dinner at seven. He felt bed about me having to set up and get everything settled and arranged by myself, but I insisted that I’d be fine. Aaron and Candi both had to work, but planned to be there to the dinner by seven as well.
Around noon, I arrived at the church to set up my table. I unloaded the car, piling laundry baskets of dishes by the front door, then toted them to the foyer where the dinner was being served. Tables were set out and immediately my heart sank. Table after stunning table was decorated to the hilt. Absolutely stunning, detailed painted china filled every table. Elaborate flower arrangements, embroidered napkins, napkin holders (which I hadn’t even thought of), and endless assortments of various glasses and silverware filled each table. I had no idea. The tables were from a different planet than what I had stuffed into my laundry baskets. I didn’t even have matching dishes, let alone china. If I would have had any idea I wouldn’t have even . . . my thoughts were racing as I realized that tears were stinging my eyes. I felt paralyzed as I took in the scene. Women buzzed around, placing finishing touches on table, eyeing them from different angles, placing candles and little favors on each plate.
Taking a deep breath, I talked myself through each action to keep from crying. I hadn’t even wanted to do this stupid job and here I was, making a fool of myself. I looked around for an empty table and decided on one in the very back, shaded from the overhead lights. Perhaps no one will notice. I unfolded the tablecloth and smoothed it over the table, keeping my eyes down so I couldn’t look at the surrounding tables. Piece by piece, I laid out my dishes—scratched and chipped. It was almost comical. Where I had thought the dishes were simple and sophisticated, here they just looked childish. It was like putting paper plates next to expensive china. Holding my head up, forcing myself to be brave, I finished setting the table, putting out my little red centerpiece and placing the water glasses at each place. I stood back and took a deep breath. It looked horrible. Who was I kidding? I closed my eyes and prayed, God please help me. I feel like a fool. I feel so alone and stupid, please help me. I know you don’t care about china, you care about my heart. I want to please you by serving in this way. Please help me. Just then I heard a woman going around from table to table, exclaiming loudly as she admired all the exquisite china. “Ooh that is just stunning!” she’d say, and then, “Oh no—that is just too charming!” She kept making her way around the room. I kept my head down as she looked at the table next to mine, exclaiming how she loved the ribbons and beautiful crystal glasses. Then, I could hear her steps behind me. I kept my head down. I knew I couldn’t face her. She stopped briefly behind me. I prayed she’d just keep walking, but she stopped. I peered over my shoulder, up at her, and she must not have noticed me sitting there in the shadows. Her raised her eyebrows, scrunching up her face in disgust. Then she shook her head slightly, wrinkling her nose, then chuckled to herself and moved on. I lowered my head, the tears rolling down my cheeks. I knew I shouldn’t care, but it hurt. Here I was, a grown woman, but felt like I was in grade school all over again, rejected by the popular girl or made fun of for something I couldn’t help. I slid out of my chair, before anyone could see me. I couldn’t go out the front door because someone would see my tears, so I slid through the door into the sanctuary, slipping into the very back pew, hidden in the shadows. I pulled my knees up to my chest and buried my face, weeping. Slipping my hand in my pocket, I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Jeff.
“Hey hon, what’s up?” I couldn’t speak I was crying so hard.
Finally, “I’m sorry, honey, this is so stupid.”
“Sauce, what’s wrong?! Are you hurt? Are you ok?”
“I’m ok.” I went on and told him what had happened. “I know it shouldn’t matter, but it still hurts. I feel like every single time I try to step out and serve here, I get kicked in the face. I hate this place.”
After he’d talked me back into a right state of mind, I wiped off my face with my sleeve and decided to just go home. I passed through the foyer without facing anyone, and heard Lacey, Steve’s wife, talking about her table and how she loved getting to use her China.
By the time I got back home it was four o’clock, so I ate a snack, stuck some spoons in the freezer and showered, then used my tried-and-true cure for puffy eyes—frozen spoons on my eyelids. By 5:30 I was out the door, arriving at the church at 6:00. Couples were already arriving, candles were lit, live music was playing. The foyer really did look stunning with the shiny glasses and elegant tableware. I felt tired and emotionally drained, but God had met me while at home, as I sang worship music in the shower and allowed Him to minister to my sad heart. It always surprised me how God gave me a quiet peace, an inner joy, when I felt the most sad and empty. I found my table, which wasn’t difficult to see as it contrasted those around it, and put my purse at my place, then mingled, hoping to find Aaron and Candi. They were nowhere in sight, but hors d’oeuvres were being served in the café so I speared some cheese cubes and some bruschetta and busied myself munching and pretending to be lost in thought. Finally, Jeff arrived, still in polo and khakis, and ducked into the bathroom to change his clothes. He emerged a different man, spiced with cologne and dressed in a red collared shirt and black pants with a pewter-colored tie. He was famished so I found him some snacks, which he munched noisily, as hungry men do. We stood and talked, me reassuring him that I was ok, while figuring out whom we should approach to make conversation with. As Jeff took the last bite of shrimp cocktail, a small balding man approached us and held out his hand.
“Fred Balmer. Are you the couple from Oregon?” Jeff shook his and I nodded and smiled.
“Yes, we are. Jeff and Kari Patterson. Pleased to meet you Fred.” Fred leaned in as if to talk in confidence.
“So, I hear you’re the one who’s into running the college ministry. That right?” Jeff paused, tilting his head slightly as he contemplated this blunt question. He answered slowly.
“Well, we moved down here to help with the college ministry, yes. . . but. . .we feel like God is moving us onto other things. Right now we’re leading a home fellowship and we’re just pretty much focusing on that.” Fred chuckled as if he’d caught us.
“Quit huh?” I could feel Jeff’s back stiffen a little beneath my hand.
“Excuse me? Well, no, really we just sense God has a new direction for us, that’s all.” Jeff remained gracious, with visible effort.
“Yeah, well, this place isn’t for wimps, that’s for sure.” He chuckled again as if he’d told a joke. “Well, I’ll tell you what. I’ve decided that I’m going to go ahead and get this college ministry jump started. So, if you want to be involved at all, you just let me know, alright? It’s Fred Balmer—you can find my number in the directory.” And with that he saw someone he knew and was off. Jeff and I just stood there, still staring after him as he walked off, speechless.
“Did that just happen?” Jeff took a sip of his cider and shook his head. I closed my eyes and smiled.
“I love you, hon.” I leaned up and kissed Jeff’s chin, then nestled under his arm.
Just then Aaron and Candi appeared. “There you are! We’ve been looking everywhere. Can we sit at your table?” Candi was all smiles, looking beautiful as she hugged me.
“Of course! Let’s go—they’re about to get started.” As we made our way through the crowd, none other than Jack Brush appeared, standing in our path.
“Jeff, I’d like to talk to you.” He said in his most serious voice. Jeff waved Aaron and Candi ahead and I stood at Jeff’s side, linking my arm in his. “You know, you really need to branch out and meet new people. I don’t want your friends sitting at your table—make them meet other people.” Jeff started at him and for a moment I really thought he would tell him to mind his own business. But he didn’t. He nodded slowly.
“Ok, Jack,” and he led me off toward our table. When we arrived at our table, no one was there except the Seifers. Jeff told them what Jack had said and they agreed to mingle, finding another table nearby. This left us alone. All the other tables were filled, as people filed in and found friends, oohing and ahhing over the beautiful table settings. We sat alone, in the darkened back of the room. Finally, as the service started, a few stragglers, including the woman who was performing the special music for the night, came, saying something about all the tables being filled. By that time I was thankful for anyone, and told them we were thrilled to have them.
The singer, a very large woman with dyed golden hair who talked loud and told jokes about her husband, looked over my table and then looked at me and winked. “I like your table. It’s simple and sophisticated.” I somehow knew she meant it, and immediately I loved her.
Dinner was surprisingly painless. After we’d finished our final course and leaned back in a satisfied recline, the woman at our table rose and sang her solo on stage, then the speakers made their way to the mic. They were an extremely attractive couple, who looked in their early 30s but admitted to be nearing 40. They had a remarkable testimony and I immediately connected with them and hung on every word. After sharing about their individual salvation encounters, they talked about their experience there, in Santa Clara, at that very church. I hadn’t known that they had been a part of this church, so my ears perked up. They explained that he’d come on staff when they were first married, and that he was supposed to be the children’s, middle school, high school, and college pastor all at once. Plus he was in charge of maintaining the grounds. They both laughed at the absurdity of it. I shifted in my seat because I knew that they were still expecting people to have loads like that here. Then she interjected her part of the story.
“Yeah, and we actually lived here, on the church campus. Can you believe it? We lived in this horrible little apartment that was filthy and had no windows. I can’t even believe it now when I look back. I cried myself to sleep every single night I was so depressed. But you know, I guess we just had to get to the very bottom of life, while we lived here, before God could take us up and allow us to be used to our greatest potential.” I sat, shocked at her words. First of all I couldn’t believe she was so bold as to talk about how horrible the apartment was. But second, I was blessed to tears, just to hear someone else affirm that yes, it was bad. For some reason it helped, just having someone say, “Yes, it’s bad there, but yes, God uses it for good.” Her words, her simple words, spoke life to me. It encouraged me that I hadn’t made everything up—it had been hard, it continued to be hard, but it was ok—God was using it for good. All of a sudden, nothing mattered. The china, the hurtful phone call, the ridiculous man who pompously announced he was starting a college ministry—none of it mattered. God knew. God heard. God felt my hurt. He loved me. He understood. And He was using it for good. It was going to be ok. I closed my eyes and smiled, nuzzling up to God in my heart.
After the speakers finished, we made more conversation while the servers began taking dessert preferences and served coffee. As I sipped my water, I felt a hand on my shoulder. Turning around, to my amazement, stood Jenny, dressed in an apron and jeans.
“Jenny,” I said in surprise, “Hi. I didn’t know you were here. I haven’t seen you in ages.” She looked me in the eye.
“We have to talk.” She took my hand and I followed her to the back of the room. She explained that David was working but that she’d volunteered to serve in the kitchen. Then she was quiet for a moment and leaned closer. “Kari, please forgive me. I was wrong. I was so wrong. I had it all wrong. I see now. I see it so clearly.” She had tears I her eyes and I shook my head, not understanding.
“Sorry for what?”
“Kari, I had it wrong. I just did what they told me to do. When I interviewed you for that job here in the church cafe, you were right. You said what God showed you to say and I judged you wrongly. I was wrong. You said the right thing. There is an abuse going on here and it is so sad. I see it now. I see everything so clearly now. I’m sorry that I hurt you and I’m so sorry that that severed our friendship. Please forgive me.” I couldn’t even speak I was so amazed at her words. God had healed my heart, and I’d felt free from the pain I’d felt those months before, but her words were so sweet, I began cry.
“Of course I forgive you, Jenny. You were just doing what you thought was right. I love you.” I hugged her and she held me tight with her strong little arms. Then, she shared. She shared all that God had showed her, the things she’d seen while working there that were wrong. She shared how her heart was broken, how David and she were torn because his family was involved there so deeply but they both felt like they needed to escape, like they needed to move far away and find a new church home.
“We have to fight, Kari. We have to be willing to say when things are wrong.” She thought about her words for a moment before continuing, “Even if we lose our friends.” She smiled and I hugged her.
“I know, Jenny. I know.”
–
A week later, at church, Jenny pulled me aside. “We’re leaving,” she confided. I smiled and hugged her, promising her I’d email and pray for them both as they told their families and dealt with the conflict I knew they’d face. The following Sunday, during the sermon, Pastor Steve talked about backsliders, those who fall away from the faith.
“We even have some, in our own congregation, even family members, who forsake God and abandon ship, leaving church, filled with selfishness.” Jeff and I sat in our pew, listening. We didn’t look at each other, but Jeff squeezed my hand. That afternoon, as we sat over lunch, Jeff pulled out the Multnomah Seminary catalog.
“So, Sauce, I’ve been praying.”
By this time I had apparently climbed the Health Club corporate success ladder and was just below Minoto in terms of responsibility and authority at the Right Stuff. Cora became extremely unfriendly and finally just left one day and never came back. So, I was now in charge of hiring new employees, which included posting positions on Monster and Jobdango and screening resumes, calling applicants, and setting up interviews.
As I sorted through the masses of incoming applications, I set aside the good potentials, shaking my head at the resume that had actually listed, under “skills”, “Filing, both alphabetically and chronologically.” After narrowing the search down to five strong candidates, I conducted the phone interviews, using the same familiar script I’d heard Minnie use just months earlier.
Three candidates seemed good over the phone—Darlene, Adrian, and Tana—so I scheduled those for interviews with Minoto. Adrian was a certified personal trainer, and scheduled for the following Tuesday in the later afternoon. However, on Monday, I was talking with Jeanette and mentioned that we were interviewing a new personal trainer. I showed her Adrian’s resume.
“Adrian? It’s a woman?” I was taken back.
“Of course it’s a woman, this is a women’s health club.” I stated the obvious.
“Well, I know, but I mean, Adrian can be a guy’s name.”
“Well it’s not a guy because I called and did a whole interview with her. Adrian’s a girl.” Jeanette’s eyes danced the way they did when she sensed something ridiculous going on. She leaned back and folded her arms, grinning at me.
“Are you absolutely sure?” I thought back to our conversation. I mean, it had sounded like a girl, but I couldn’t remember specifically discussing whether Adrian was a female or not. I started to doubt.
“I mean . . .” my eyes widened thinking about the possibilities, “I think Adrian’s a girl.” Jeannette tossed her head back and laughed, loving the scenario.
“I’m going to call. I want to hear for myself.” She grabbed the resume and headed to the trainer’s office like a little kid heading to candy. I trailed behind her.
“What on earth are you going to say? Hi Adrian, are you a man?” She waved me away as she was already dialing.
“I’ll think of something!” She whispered and put her finger over her lips to shush me. I waited as I heard the faint sound of the phone ringing on the other end and a person answer. Jeannette was grinning. “Adrian? Hi! It’s Jeannette at the Right Stuff Health Club. Hey, we had some confusion about your appointment tomorrow—did we book that for 3 or 3:30?. . . 3? . . . Oh ok, good, that’s perfect. Thanks, we really can’t wait to meet you!” I rolled my eyes at her choice of words as she winked and hung up the phone.
I folded my arms and raised my eyebrows, “So?”
“It’s SO a man!” She said, satisfied.
“Well, we’ll just have to wait and see for sure!” We shook hands, in a silent bet.
The next day, Jeanette left her client on the treadmill to cool down while she strolled to the front desk at 2:55pm, smiling at me. And, sure enough, at 2:58, a man, dressed in a sweat suit, walked in from his car and came in the front door. Jeannette turned her back to the front door so only I could see her face, mouth open wide, mouthing I told you so.
Fortunately, Adrian didn’t seem to notice that there were only women in the club, and perhaps missed the sign at the front that read “Women’s Fitness Club.” Also fortunately, we had alerted Minoto of the questionability of his gender, so she was prepared. She actually behaved with remarkable poise, explaining during the interview that she was responisible for conducting all preliminary interviews before sending all applicants on to the final interview with the owners at the co-ed club. I applauded her quick thinking, and as poor Adrian thanked us and walked to his car, we decided that I was no long allowed to conduct phone interview with applicants having gender-neutral names.
The humorous little mishap provided a way for Jeannette to tease me and really spend more time talking. I truly enjoyed her company, so when she invited me to her card-making party at her house, I convinced Candi to go with me and we did, sipping apple cider and creating little cards with stamps and stickers. She knew I was a Christian, and I knew that she was not, but for whatever reason, God gave me such favor with her. She made no bones about the fact that she loved me. She said she loved my joy and loved how when she walked in the door every morning, I acted truly excited to see her. And I was. When everyone else came in complaining about weather or traffic or a long line at Starbucks, she managed to take those same complaints and make them jokes, she seemed to have that perspective that enabled her to weather the frustrations of daily life.
The other two applicants were, thankfully, actually women. Both Tana and Darlene were great, so we hired both. Darlene was the mom of teenagers who stayed at home but needed some extra income. She was black as night and loved to talk. And talk and talk and talk. She was also a Christian, which was, I admit, part of the reason I really pushed to hire her. It was refreshing to have another believer around. We’d talk about Jesus and encourage each other in our walks and our witness there at work. We prayed for Minoto together and tried to help each other not be critical of her peculiar ways. A few times we actually succeeded, too.
Tana was a Life Coach. I wasn’t sure exactly what that was, but she had her own business doing so. However, I suspected that perhaps business as a Life Coach wasn’t booming if she was willing to take this job for $10/hour. Tana was very pretty, with flawless, dewy skin. I figured she was in her late 20s, but couldn’t be sure because she didn’t put any dates by her university attendance on her resume. Finally, one day, she mentioned how old she felt, to which I responded that she wasn’t old at all. Then she told me she was forty-two. I was stunned, absolutely stunned. I demanded she tell me her secret, which she said was Swiss Chard. I’d never even heard of it, but she insisted that it was magic. She grew it in her backyard and at it by the pound, cooked down into a green mush.
What was great about Tana was that because she was a life coach, she was very into personality studies, behavioral psychology, and philosophies of life and success. This opened the door immediately to talk about religion, spirituality, and Christianity. She wasn’t a Christian, but each time I would share a biblical truth, she would be amazed because it would line up with exactly what she had found to be true in her studies of people and behavior and success. She was a challenge, because she turned out to be somewhat flaky and irresponsible at work, but I advocated for Minoto to keep her on because we had such fabulous discussions and her heart truly seemed open to listen. Conversations, of course, were punctuated by phone calls, members complaining or needing clean towels, and Minoto’s incessant need to monitor all things at all times, but they still were little kisses from God, encouraging me that He had me there for a reason.
—
Back at home, January brought an addition to our lives that we had no idea would be so significant—or so addicting. My cousin, Matt, who has the huge biceps and helped us move into our apartment, came over for dinner one evening, as he did once a month or so. As an extremely health conscious bachelor, he lived on cans of tuna, carrots, and protein shakes, so he usually responded pretty favorably to our offers of homemade soup or chicken enchiladas.
One Saturday, we invited him over for lunch because Megan, my friend from Oregon, was down visiting us and we thought we could all hang out together. Aaron and Candi brought homemade bread and Megan, who couldn’t cook to save her life, tossed the salad as instructed. Matt came in, as always, ducking his head to miss the top of the door jamb, and carrying his 6-foot-eight-inch self across the room toward the kitchen. This time, he dropped a box on the table, a game box. In our family, Matt is the game guy. He’s brilliant and creative and always manages to find some new game to bring home to Oregon for holidays. He was the one who originally discovered Cranium, long before most people had ever heard of it.
“What’s that?” I glanced over from the stove.
“It’s called the Settlers of Catan.” It’s a German game and someone gave it to me a long time ago, but I’ve never played it.
“Hm.” I turned back to the stove and continued sautéing. After lunch, we all decided to give it a try, and though the first time was frustrating and confusing, by the second round we had all gotten the hang of it. Here is the scary thing—we played for nine straight hours that night. At 11pm, Jeff finally put his foot down, insisting that we had to go to bed. But we were hooked. Matt insisted we keep the game.
After that night, an epidemic ran through the Acropolis #9 and #10. At least three nights a week, Aaron and Candi would knock on our door, or we would quietly tap on theirs, and upon opening we’d go inside and make small talk for a minute before admitting the real reason for the visit. . . “Do you wanna play?” And of course they did. This went on for weeks and weeks. Eventually we decided that we were only allowed to play one night a week, but on that night, we went for it. Usually it meant staying up until 2am. We were always the same color, and created names for each player—I was the Red Raja and Jeff was Ninja. Candi, Jeff and I all had our tea. I drank green tea while Jeff and Candi had chamomile. Candi and I ate chocolate chips, and we all shared a bowl of popcorn. This was the ritual. Game, tea, chocolate chips, and popcorn. As soon as one of us would be victorious, we’d all look around, waiting, until one of us would say, “Oh just one more game!”
We’d rotate who would host the game night, depending upon who needed the heat most. See, we’d both, in our ridiculously stubborn attempt to give as little money as possible to the California economy, insisted on never turning on our heat. Ever. So, when our apartments got cold, we lit candles, which, because of the tiny size of our units, actually kept them livable. We layered sweatshirts and socks, and one late night of Catan provided enough body heat to really boost the host apartment a degree or two. So, the coldest apartment usually won the right to host Catan – and the heaters stayed off the entire winter.
Yes, it was only a game. But we knew, as we sat around those cold nights, enjoying our game night ritual, that we were creating something. We created a tradition, an environment where we would talk, laugh, play, relax, be ourselves. We were creating memories, and as we all talked about and contemplated our futures, we knew that wherever God took us in the future, we’d always remember Catan and those innumerable long nights sipping tea and trading resources by the flickering light of our candles.
–
In the end of January, on a Friday afternoon, I pulled the car up after work and walked around to the middle of the complex to get the mail. As I sifted through bills and missionary newsletters, I glanced at a large manila envelope addressed to Jeff. The return address was Multnomah Biblical Seminary.
I tore it open and found a letter to Jeff from a recruiter named Clive Cowell. Also enclosed was a catalog with general information on the school and a list of degrees offered, course schedules, and financial aid information. That night we sat up and read the entire thing cover to cover. As we read, I could hear my heartbeat in my ears, could feel a sense of excitement wash over me. I had hardly even known Multnomah existed, and now we sat, reading, overwhelmed by the feeling that it was exactly, exactly, what we had been desiring to do for so long. As we finished reading, Jeff pulled me close, under his arm, and kissed the top of my head.
“What do you think, Sauce?” I sat in silence for a minute before responding.
“We can’t afford it, and about a million things would have to fall into place to make it happen.” He pulled me closed and kissed me again.
“Let’s pray.”
–
Before we’d gone home for Christmas, we’d been, once again, approached by Jack Brush. This time we were informed that he and Kathy were in charge of overseeing the couple’s Valentine’s Day Dinner, hosted at the church in conjunction with the annual couple’s retreat. Jack informed us that he and Kathy were in charge of the dinner portion of the retreat, and he asked if Jeff and I would oversee the table hosts. He explained that each table had a couple host it, which included facilitating conversation, etc. He wanted us to oversee these couples, ensuring that they knew where to go, what to do, etc. We said that would be fine, and he said he’d let us know what to do when we got closer to the event.
So, Jeff and I signed up for the retreat and paid our fee. The final week of January, the day we got the Multnomah enveope in the mail, Jack Brush called us at home and said we needed to get moving on recruiting couples to be table hosts. Since we really knew no one at church, we were a little unsure of how to do that, but he assured us that it would be easy because probably all the people from the year before would sign up again. The following Sunday we saw an announcement in the bulletin directing everyone that was helping with the couples retreat and dinner to stay afterwards for lunch and a brief meeting. So, after church we said goodbye to Aaron and Candi and made our way to the prayer room where the meeting was held.
About a dozen people were there, milling around over sub sandwiches and chips. We introduced ourselves to a few couples, and a few moments later Jack and Kathy came in. Jack raised his voice and directed us to sit, explaining that he knew we all had things to do so he would make it short and sweet. He then began, in his booming military voice, to go over the major components of the weekend and what were supposed to do and why it was such an important responsibility. As he finished he asked us and another couple, the Peters, to stay afterward. We hung around obediently while everyone filed out, and were joined by an elderly couple, presumably the Peters. We introduced ourselves and found that they were indeed Jim and Loraine Peters. Jack came over to us as we exchanged pleasantries.
“So, Jeff and Kari, this is Jim and Loraine. You guys will be working together in this. I’ll let you take over from here. Here is a packet that goes over everything that a table host is expected to do. Make sure everyone has this information and that they arrive on time. Also make sure you have alternates in case people have to cancel. We need twenty-five couples, one per table, with two alternates. You should call them every few days just to check in and make sure they’re still on board and don’t have any questions.” He acted like he was finishing and I began to panic, realizing the immensity of this task.
“Twenty-five couples? Fifty people? We only have two weeks? Where are we supposed to find these people? Can we offer them some sort of discount on the dinner or do they get to come for free or something?” I tried not to sound as panicked as I felt.
“Oh the Peters know lots of people. No, nobody comes for free. And here’s the list of all the couples who did it last year. So just talk to all of them and ask them to do it this year.” I looked down the list and my heart sunk. Calling strangers and asking for involvement in something I knew nothing about? Ok. I had no choice. And with that, Jack was off. I looked at Jeff. He took charge.
“Ok, so Jim and Lorraine, should we divvy these up? We’ll call half, you call half?” They looked at us.
“Well, that’s not really how we did it last year.” I stared at them. They’d done this before?
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you’d done this before.” Jeff was genuinely surprised.
“That’s fine. We’ll just talk to the people we know when we see them. We know a lot of people on here.” Jeff nodded slowly.
“Ok, well, should we call the rest?”
Jim shrugged, “If you want.” Jeff took a deep breath.
“Ok, well, can you tell me who you’re going to talk to so I know who we should call?” He held out the list so he could cross off names but soon realized that was not going to work. They looked it over and vaguely would say, “Oh you know her” or “I might see him this weekend” but never committed to anything and we soon realized it would be useless to force the issue. Finally, Jeff resigned. “Ok, well let’s all just work on it and we can talk later this week. That ok?” They nodded. With that, we excused ourselves and escaped out the front door, walking around the front of the sanctuary to avoid a run-in with Jack who had another couple cornered in the back.
I procrastinated as long as I could, the list sitting next to the phone, haunting me, hanging over me as I dreaded sitting down and calling people. Finally, I did. Mercifully, most were not home, so I left messages, trying to sound enthusiastic. Several kids took messages that I knew would not be passed on to parents, and several couples who were home, apologized and said they could not attend this year. When I’d finished calling, a weight was lifted—at least I’d done my part. The problem was that after a week I’d only found eight couples. We called the Peters and spoke with Jim. He’d found eight couples as well and had spoken to everyone he knew. We were at sixteen, which was way more than I thought we’d get, but still far from our necessary twenty-five.
We talked to all the couples in our small group, introduced ourselves to couples at church, and asked each of the church staff couples. Miraculously, the night before the dinner, we found the twenty-third couple. We had no alternates, but we just prayed that God would keep everyone healthy and let them all show up. By now I was exhausted, having spent all my spare time organizing, returning phone calls, calling back numbers who never responded, fielding questions that I had no idea how to answer, and futilely attempting to communicate concrete details with the Peters.
As I had read through the information packet, I saw that each table host was responsible for providing the tableware for their table. There was a very detailed list of what to bring, and unfortunately I had not closely evaluated the list with regard to what I had. I had effectively communicated the list to all the couples, but at about 11pm the night before the dinner, it dawned on me that I was responsible for a table as well, and I better check to see that I had all the dinner table components. My heart sunk as I realized I was far from well-equipped. I thought that I had a very satisfactory set of table ware. We had dinner plates, salad plates, bowls, silverware, and water glasses. We even had four champagne glasses for drinking sparkling cider. We even had a fiesta ware water pitcher. What else could we need? Apparently a lot. I didn’t have chargers, wine glasses for eight, dessert plates, steak knives, matching serving utensils, matching serving platters, a gravy boat, the list went on. But, I am a firm believer that simplicity is elegant, so I found some simple white pieces, packed them up in towels and put them in a laundry basket for transport, and was satisfied. For a centerpiece, I found a red square plate at Pier 1 on sale and some little red glass beads. I thought it looked modern and smart with the plain white dishes. I didn’t have a fancy dress, but figured black pants and a red sleeveless top would be appropriate for the night, and went to bed relieved that the stress of the event was over. I thanked God that the hard part was done–the next day would be a breeze.
