From: "Heidy" <[EMAIL PROTECTED]>
Warehouse Evangelism
Holly L. Hudson
Gritting my teeth, I slowly picked up the phone. A fruitless search for a good summer
job had driven me to my last choice on the list of prospective positions. I didn't
even know what the job description meant.
Hello, I'm calling about the job opening for the picking department . . . ?
Within days my reluctant shadow darkened the doors of the Alfred Dunner clothing
warehouse in Parsippany, N.J. The latest addition to my resume would involve long
hours of filling (picking) department store orders, hauling the piles of clothing onto
suspended rolling racks, and pushing the racks into oblivion (or at least to the other
end of the building, which was beyond my scope of vision).
I walked up to the secretary and announced my arrival. She handed me a punch card and
instructed me to join the rest of the newbies. A punch card, I thought. I have to use
a punch card. I didn't go to school for this! I'm a journalist, I'm a graduate
student, not one of these . . . blue-collar picking people. Come on, Lord, what about
that part-time job at Newsweek!
I shuffled into line and received my introduction to the art of picking. I saw a few
other people who looked my age, and who also appeared to have sucked lemons for
breakfast. College students.
As a manager droned on about our responsibilities, I observed some of the veteran
employees already busy with their duties. I saw shiny black hair, and skin of various
shades of bronze. I could hear voices, but the words sounded like gibberish. Then we
walked past them. With a jolt I realized they were speaking Spanish.
Intrigued, I continued to scan my surroundings. It looked like 90 to 95 percent of the
workers were Latino. I suddenly felt like I'd been transported to another
country, even though I was less than three miles from my family's predominantly Anglo
neighborhood.
The light of understanding began to glimmer. Maybe God had actually sent me to work in
the Alfred Dunner Picking Department. The thought seemed logical enough; I enjoyed
meeting international people and had studied French. How hard could it be to pick up
on a little Spanish? These folks were acting like they'd known each other for years.
How hard could it be to befriend them? And how hard could it be to fling clothes
around for a few months?
When I went home that night discouraged by cold stares, exhausted and sweaty from
physical work, and wincing at the collection of angry red lines on my forearms (the
result of carrying 18-20 weighted wire hangers at a time to fill every order), I
thought I'd better lower my expectations.
As the days passed I learned crucial Picking Department Survival Tips. I took an old
athletic sock and cut holes in it for my fingers, wearing it on my arm as padding
against the wire clothing hangers. I learned to watch for every opportunity to keep
the clothing racks rolling; if you didn't keep up, you soon heard accented yells:
Poosh
da line down!!
I watched the clock like a hawk so I wouldn't miss one minute of the strict lunch and
break times. During these brief moments of rest I began learning some names. I met
Rita, a short, stocky lady from Peru. Then there was Neris, a bubbly young gal from
the Dominican Republic.
Jorge, Jasmine and Alex were all natives of Colombia.
Joaquin hailed from Costa Rica. And the list went on.
I soon developed a genuine respect for my co-workers.
Nearly all had come to the United States to learn English.
Many took classes after work or headed to a second job.
Most lived in an industrial town with a bad reputation, but that's all they could
afford. Several had exchanged good jobs in their homeland for this difficult
lifestyle,
just for the chance to become bilingual. They worked hard, shared lunches with each
other, carpooled to and from work. Despite their varied backgrounds and dialects, they
had developed community within this strange American culture.
The affinity slowly became mutual. Eventually, Rita and Neris decided to adopt me. In
between filling orders, they began writing out Spanish lessons and helping me with
pronunciation. I found that my background in French helped me pick up the phrases
without much difficulty. Except when it came to rolling R's.
The instruction in R-rolling became a team effort. One friend taught me a children's
poem; another slowly exaggerated the pronunciation. Perro, he said. Pe-rrrro.
They eventually gave up, but I tried to return the lingual assistance by answering
dozens of questions about English.
I began sitting with my new friends during breaks and lunch times. The college
students I'd noticed on my first day often sat nearby, and I never heard a positive
comment from them. Interacting with them was like watching myself as I applied for the
job. I didn't like what I saw.
My friends and I continued to get better acquainted. One day Rita invited me to come
to her home for a meal. Since I was carless, my ability to do so depended on getting
my mother to drive me there or let me take the car. Mom was intrigued, too we made the
trip together.
It was unnerving to drive through neighborhoods where one's first instinct was to lock
the car doors. But we found Rita's apartment, and were delighted to find that
Neris had come to eat with us, too. We had a great time!
August arrived before I could even process that the summer was nearly over. Before
long I would be on my way back to seminary. I was grieved because language
difficulties had blocked opportunities to tell my friends about the Lord.
But God opened a single door. One of the warehouse managers had become engaged, and a
lunchtime bridal shower would be held during my last week at the warehouse.
My mind took off. I had brought my guitar to the company picnic in July and played
without embarrassing myself too much . . .
When I received permission to provide music for the bridal shower, I knew the idea was
God's.
The big day came, and halfway through the party the emcee announced me. I walked to
the center of the room, the whole group cheering me on. I told them I'd be singing
them a song about love and I wanted everyone to know the words.
I read 1 Corinthians 13 aloud. Love is patient, love is kind . . . ? Then I read it in
Spanish ? El amor es pacinete, es bondadoso . . . ? and the room exploded with
cheers. And then I played and sang for them, praying that the lyrics, taken straight
from the Scriptures, would sink into their hearts and minds.
Several days later, I said a painful goodbye to the vibrant people I had come to love.
God had changed me through that summer job. He taught me what His love looks
like, and that all He needs to communicate it to those who don't know Him is someone
willing to be the means of communication.
I nearly wasted the moment ? nearly wasted a summer sucking lemons over my
circumstances and ignoring people I felt were unworthy of my energy and time. But
Jesus used a summer of warehouse evangelism to show me that the
privilege was mine.
[Non-text portions of this message have been removed]
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