by Katherine Hamann

I lost a job I really loved. For years I had worked as a volunteer services coordinator in a state center for people with developmental disabilities. It was a pleasant office job, and the end result was about helping people.

Organizing gospel concerts and ice cream socials for our residents and their families, chairing a human rights committee that ensured disabled people a voice in their treatment  — all these activities had direct positive results that I could see.

Then one snowy day my supervisor came to our office with a look of distress to tell us that our jobs were at risk. Layoffs or demotions were imminent. Because of my lack of seniority, I received only one offer on the campus where I worked every day. It was a demotion. I was offered the position of supervisor in the center’s "nutrition management department"  — another name for a big industrial kitchen.

Stories about the basement kitchen were endless. The infamous Christmas Day battle with giant cans of peaches was a favorite among colleagues who began calling as soon as they learned my situation. "I’d take the layoff before I’d work down there," one said. A former kitchen worker counseled, "Don’t ever let them see you weak. Don’t ever let them see you cry." Others warned, "They’ll eat you alive."

HARD REALITY SETS IN
The kitchen produced meals for more than 2,500 people at three state centers, and the kitchen crew had to work weekends and holidays. The hard reality sank in when I learned my schedule: I was assigned to work every weekend a month but the third one. Missing Saturday mornings at home was disappointing; however, I could look forward to quiet mornings off during the week. But missing church, all my church friends, and teaching Sunday school — now that seemed seriously wrong.

On Sundays, during lunch break at 10 a.m. (my shift started at 6 a.m.), I would sit alone in my car and imagine my husband sitting in "our pew" without me. I felt lost without my community. While they were worshiping, I was working in my assigned area — the trayline.

Nine of us put food onto trays as they whizzed by on a conveyor belt. Many of the people we served were medically fragile, requiring complicated diets that had to be followed exactly. Keeping in mind their preferences, dislikes, and allergies as well as their complex diets, we on the trayline had to make split-second food substitutions to avoid dire consequences.

Teamwork was essential. As supervisor, I was expected to keep everything running on schedule, solve every crisis, and be ready to step into any position if needed. Our shift was in charge of three mealtimes. Regina, the trayline queen, checked each tray to make sure we had put the correct items on it. Fear of her scorn put a continual knot in my stomach. As senior employee, she insisted on a few unwritten rules, like no singing on the line. Once, when I unintentionally annoyed her with politeness that she saw as exaggerated, she snarled at me: "No ma’am, no please, and no thank you!" As I walked to my car at break time, feeling sorrier for myself than Job ever did, I overheard Regina talking on her cell phone. "Hello, Mother," she said. "Everything’s just fine." The tenderness in her voice almost broke my heart. I knew then that however she felt about work, she didn’t burden anyone at home with it.

RECIPE FOR DISASTER
My presence in the kitchen was a recipe for disaster. Every single kitchen employee knew my job better than I did. For me it was a demotion, but for many of them it would have been a promotion. They resented me — an outsider — taking a position that could have made their lives easier.

Eventually, I began to understand that for many of the kitchen employees, career advancement was a distant dream. Lack of education was an issue, but the attitude that grew out of the situation was worse. One grim holiday when none of us wanted to be at work, Regina informed us that we were all there only because we were rejects. We chuckled knowingly because we agreed. We felt like rejects. We felt that no one at the state center understood or appreciated what we did.

Summer months in that kitchen were grueling. As we labored underground, day after day, in the sweltering heat generated by enormous dishwashers, stoves, and ovens, I began to see a resemblance to hell. Beyond that, I started to see the kitchen as a prison. Our grim little outdoor break area by the garbage hoppers resembled the exercise yard at Alcatraz. I saw prison imagery everywhere. I thought Regina was kidding me when she called the bread we served "prison bread," until I learned it really was made at a state prison.

Every evening at sunset I began to dread the next day. Every morning at 4 a.m. when I got out of bed, I wondered whether my work was making a difference. I tried to be positive by paying attention to God’s creation as I drove to work. I watched the mist rise from the fields, or the moon setting, or the sunrise just starting to turn the clouds pink. Still, my anxiety deepened as I reached the parking lot, got out of my car, and started walking down the ramp to our underground kitchen.

What important task would I forget today? How did I wind up here? Did I commit some unpardonable sin? The ramp became the focus of all my dread. I could stand it once I got inside, but I just couldn’t bear walking down that ramp.

WAITING FOR JESUS
Finally, I started praying and asking Jesus to walk down the ramp with me. I felt comforted, but I was a little disappointed when he didn’t instantly appear. I’ve always loved the story of Jesus appearing on the road to Emmaus. I had a childish hope of seeing Jesus or just feeling his hand in mine. I was annoyed that there were always other people walking down the ramp at the same time, interrupting my time with him.

Then I began to think about my co-workers. I realized that even though some of them had made my life miserable, a lot of them had tried to help me.

There was Terri, a single mom who drove a beat–up old car because she hoped to buy a car for her son. She started working in the kitchen at the same time as I did, and she always defended me in any dispute. She could be raucous and funny, daring to break the Regina "no singing on the line" rule by bursting into gospel song at unexpected moments.

Clardene’s friendly smile helped me in moments of panic. Another Terry, a young man, literally picked me up off the floor when I slipped on grease. Kim took me under her wing on my first day and was always patient and kind. Yvonne made everyone laugh. She expected to win the lottery and liked to dream about her winnings. She planned to buy us all a special meal of White Castle burgers. She hadn’t decided whether she would bring them into the break room or just drive by slowly and toss them to us out the car window. Anytime someone made a mistake, she’d say, "I forgive you."

Some of my early errors drove the cooks to fury, but when they saw how desperately I was struggling, they did many favors for me — always presenting their gifts with gruff kindness, "There’s a pan of grits for you in cooler nine," or "Here, I pureed some ham for your breakfast run."

Other kitchen supervisors spotted problems and warned me before they became serious. Mary winked at me when we passed each other in the hall. Floyd quietly got a mop and helped me clean up when I drenched myself and the floor in salsa verde.

Then there was Claretha, who often worked a full shift in the kitchen after working all night with the local police department. Her dream was to be a cop, and her powerful faith made everyone both love her and love to tease her. Some of the younger workers joked that she would arrest people by shouting, "Stop in the name of the LORD!"

On one of my worst days, Claretha caught me crying. She was the only person who ever did. She didn’t snitch on me, though. She just said, "Don’t give up. Don’t take it so hard. You can do it." That was the day I thought, "I could just leave right now. They can’t stop me. I’m not really a prisoner."

The next morning, as I faced the ramp, I felt as though I had reached the end of my rope. I felt so alone. My prayer was almost a challenge: "Jesus, if you don’t walk with me today, I’m not going to make it."

And then it hit me. I wasn’t alone. Someone always walked beside me down that ramp. Every day a different co-worker was Jesus for me.

I SAID YES
When I shared this discovery with my pastor, he suggested that perhaps they saw Jesus in me, too. This startled me. I hadn’t thought about it like that, and it made me uncomfortable. It also spoiled the neat little punch line to my story.

After I had worked four months in the kitchen, the center’s director called me to his office. He asked if I’d consider serving as the Equal Employment Opportunity and Affirmative Action Officer. He told me that the job would involve mediating disputes between employees and investigating claims of discrimination. He told me I’d have to be unbiased and make Solomon–like judgments. I had a background in human rights, and he thought I could do the job. Oh, and could I start tomorrow?

I said yes. He called my boss and she was gracious, after we agreed that I’d finish my shift that day. I didn’t know how to tell my co–workers, so I waited until the end of the shift, when I usually said something like, "Good work, trayline." I told them. There was a shocked silence. Then one employee asked, "Will you fight for us?" and I answered, "Yes, I’ll fight for you."

And then I realized that I really would fight for them. Unlike Jesus, I wouldn’t be asked to die for the people who worked in the kitchen, but like Jesus, I had gotten a chance to live with them, to understand them, to know them, and to learn from them.

I saw Jesus in them. I hope they’ll get a chance to see Jesus in me.