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Stratton Press - Rev. Heidi Revelo

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52 pages

English

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What does ministry look like in a 2,800-employee beef-processing plant? Chaplain Heidi takes you by the hand as she gently pulls back the thin layer of veneer of real experiences with Muslims, Christians, languages, cultures, customs, traditions, and a splash of corporate policy. It's a merry-go-round of colorful stories with emotional highs and lows punctuated with laughter. "If we can see each other as people, not a label, it changes the way we see the world. I'm a mom, and that Muslim woman is a mom. Now we're seeing each other through the same lens of life's camera. I want others to meet the people I love, care about, and minister to."

Sujets

Musulmán

Musulman

Islam

Autobiography

Biography

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Publié par	Stratton Press
Date de parution	28 juin 2021
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781648954573
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0000€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Chaplain Ministry in a Beef Processing Plant

Rev. Heidi Revelo

CHOP! CHOP! CHAPLAIN!
Copyright © 2021 Rev. Heidi Revelo

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Stratton Press Publishing
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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in the work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

ISBN (Paperback): 978-1-64895-456-6
ISBN (Ebook): 978-1-64895-457-3

Printed in the United States of America

Contents Chop! Chop! Chaplain! Scarf Connection Bless You, My Cow Saying Goodbye What’s Worth Living For? The Right Words When There Are No Words Pedro Paparazzi! Am I Famous?! What They Don’t Teach You Celebrate! Mecca Glow Going to Hell Laura Fairy House Almost Nothing, Almost Naked Names Pandemic Chaplaincy One in Every Crowd One Liners Lead a Horse to Water My God, Your God

1
Chop! Chop! Chaplain!
The beef-processing plant had an opening. The 2,800-employee facility (3,000 if you include subcontractors) wanted a part-time chaplain. The plant was 70 percent Hispanic (Mexico, Guatemala, Honduras, etc.), 20 percent African/African American (Somalia, Sudan, South Africa, Kenya, etc.) and 10 percent others (Asian countries, Philippines, “white”).
They called for an interview. I arrived at the plant. I got out of the car, straightened my jacket, and tried to look like I wasn’t nervous as I passed sixty feet of windows. I arrived at beautiful double glass doors at the end of a smooth walkway planted with ornamental trees and shrubs. I pushed the door. Nothing. I pulled the door. Nothing. I pushed and pulled the other door. Nothing. I waited a moment, sure someone would open it from the inside, say they were so sorry, and let me in. Nothing.
I looked inside like a kid smashing their face against the glass to see the prize inside. I saw the shiny tiled entryway, tall receptionist desk, and classy waiting room chairs.
I looked around, deciding what to do. The only people I saw were on the far side of the building, so I walked back down the walkway, followed the sidewalk past all of those windows, and there I found another door with two ramps and a set of stairs. People came in and out, so this door must be open. I passed people sitting against the building clad all in white like nurses, but with hard hats. They were smoking or talking on their phones and had little notice for me.
I got inside two sets of double glass doors. I was supposed to be looking for security. To the right was a line of closed doors. To the left were vending machines and chairs. I continued forward, and around the next corner was a rectangular room complete with a wall of windows five feet from the floor to the ceiling above a wall lined with counters and a guard. A uniformed security guard slid a glass door sideways like a drive-through burger joint. I signed in and was asked to wait in the lobby.
I returned to the vending machine room and found one of the preformed plastic cupped chairs screwed together unceremoniously on metal bars and legs. The floor was cement. The vending machines were the only color in this world of gray walls and gray floor. I waited.
A tall, thin, lanky black man sat close to me. While my 4’11” frame left my feet off the floor if I slid back in the chair, this man’s arms and legs dangled like wet spaghetti as he slouched to one side with his eyes closed. I sat down, and he awoke. We made eye contact. I smiled and nodded. After a few minutes of silence, he spoke. “Do you work here?” English wasn’t his first language, but I understood.
“No,” I said, “but I want to.”
“What job?” he asked.
“Chaplain,” I answered.
His face tensed as his mind entered ‘chaplain’ into his brain’s search box to dig through the bytes of information in his brain. His face lit up as he thought he found the answer. “Oh, chop-lain,” he said, trying to repeat what I had just told him. He sat up, making a chopping gesture across his throat and neck. “You chop-chop the heads off the cows, right? A chop-lain?”
“No.” I shook my head. How was I going to explain this? “It’s like a pastor or counselor. We help people.”
I thought that answer sounded lame, but I didn’t know what else to say with the images of headless cows swirling around my thoughts.
He asked me more questions, and I learned a little about him before I was called to the interview.
As I was whisked off down another hallway, he said, “Good luck!”, giving me a thumbs-up.

2
Scarf Connection
“You touch them?” someone asked me. It sounded perverse and disgusting. My mind froze for a moment. Was this white person I’d known for years really asking me if I touched other people? They already knew I was a chaplain. They knew I wasn’t deviant.
I quickly flashed through several snapshot moments of my daily dealings with people. Filling out applications. Talking to people in my office. Saying hi in the hallway. We’d wave and raise our voices above the noise.
“Hi!”
“Hi there!”
“How are you today?”
We’d talk one-on-one in the hallway, in a room that wasn’t occupied, or in my postage stamp–sized office I shared with the other chaplain. Our hands touched when I handed them a pen. I’d hugged many women. I’d fist-bumped a few men, and some had offered their hand in a handshake.
I snapped back to the question at hand. “You touch them?”
I like to think the person asking the questions heard their own question as they said it, imagined a stenographer in a court room reading it back to them, and suddenly felt shame and guilt at the racism and lack of respect. I believe their mind ping-ponged to the next question before I answered.
I had no professional experience working with multiculturalism. No thesis. No long research study. No specialization of classes. No high-caliber reading lists and mind-warping immersion adventures. I had real-life experience, which I thought was fine. Of course, I knew this would be different from pastoring a church, but I believed I treated people as people—with respect and dignity. If I could see them as individuals, maybe they too could see me as an individual.
From the first job interview, it was apparent the chaplain would be expected to work with people of other languages, cultures, and traditions. I thought by applying for the job, I was communicating that I was willing to do this. They asked me anyway and seemed to pause, sit back, and peruse my expression, then look at me sideways when I answered. They seemed to be waiting for me to ask for clarification, specifics, or for me to spit out some magic answer. I didn’t have one.
As I was introduced to people in the plant and in the community, there was a barrage of similar questions. Experience working with Africans and Hispanics? Had I done anything like this before? I had not been wary of this before, but now I wondered what terrible predicament I had put myself in. What did the rest of the town and plant know that I didn’t? Suddenly, I was in a building with 2,800 people who were different than myself, and I was not only not ready, maybe I was doomed.
I stood in the hallway during shift change while half the people left and half arrived for the next shift. It was loud, fast, and crazy. A Somali lady came in through the front door and was headed off to processing when I saw her. She had on a burka, a traditional dress that covers a woman from top to bottom, down her arms to her fingertips, all the way to the floor, and her head was wrapped in a hijab. Not just a hijab; it was a vibrant blue, almost teal. It covered her head, over her forehead, and wrapped around her face. It fell over her shoulders and flowed halfway down her back. It was my favorite color, and the light made it dance and shine like a halo.
I moved toward her without thinking. I don’t remember doing this. My hands reached for the edge of her hijab, and the silky fabric caressed my fingers. The woman stopped, looking startled, but I didn’t notice. “Ohhhhh, I love your scarf,” I cooed. I sounded like a third grader standing in front of Cinderella minutes before the ball. I stroked the scarf softly. “It’s so beautiful,” I said, looking up. I caught a glimpse of her startled expression before her face melted. She looked down, as if embarrassed, and then our eyes met. A smile started at the corner of her mouth and turned into a grin.
Now I was the one unnerved. What was I doing? I had better manners than this. I didn’t just walk up to people and grab their clothing. I was so ashamed, but I was still holding the scarf. The look in her eyes forgave my forward approach. She heard the compliment and knew I wasn’t pretending. This was real.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” I said.
Her smile got bigger instead of smaller. With a quick dip of her head toward the floor, she turned and disappeared into the line of people headed for the stairs. We still smile at each other and say hi. Th