by Neta Jackson
I took Nony’s hand in mine. “Thank you for the prayers,” I said. “God did something amazing around Christmas—but first we had to ask, ‘What did Jesus do?’ ” It sounded trite the moment I said it, like the WWJD catch phrase that ran rampant through Christian pop culture a few years back. I meant it, though. Not, “What would Jesus do?” but “What did Jesus do?”
Nony’s eyes glistened. I think she knew.When I had a chance, I’d tell her about Denny’s decision to ask MaDear’s forgiveness—as though he really had committed that sin against her. “Because,” he had explained to me later, “she needed to hear someone say, ‘I’m sorry.’ And because I’m not guilt-free.”
Nony looked away and I heard her murmur, “Yes, Lord! You said you came to heal the brokenhearted and proclaim liberty to the captives, to make the blind see and set at liberty all who are oppressed!”
I grinned and squeezed her hand. Nony was definitely back.
Forty minutes later we pulled into their driveway on Evanston’s north side. As the guys unloaded the lug-gage, Nony sat for a moment just looking at her house—a red-brick two-story, pretty even in the dead of winter, with bare ivy creeping up the brick and framing the windows and wheat-colored decorative grasses waving gently in the chilly breeze. She sighed. “It’s good to be home.” Then I realized how tired they all must be after their twenty-four-hour journey.
“I thought about making Japanese lunch for welcome home,” Hoshi said shyly. “But then I thought, Marcus and Michael would like something truly American.”
“Pizza!” the boys yelled in unison.
“You didn’t.” Nony rolled her eyes.
Hoshi nodded with a guilty smile. “With do-it-your-self toppings, all lined up on the kitchen counter, ready to go.”
Denny and I were invited inside to partake of the do-it-yourself pizzas, but we declined, knowing it took energy to chat, even with friends, and they all probably needed a good nap. Amanda was a convenient excuse. “We have to pick her up at the Metra station,” we said, giving every-body one last hug and climbing back into the minivan—leaving out the itty-bitty detail that her train didn’t get in till almost five.
AMANDA POPPED OUT OF the Metra train, lugging her backpack. “You both came to pick me up?” She seemed highly amused. “Good grief. I was only gone one night.”
“Two days,” her father reminded her, taking the bulging backpack and giving her a big squeeze. “Two long, gloomy days. The house was quiet, the phone never rang, no snack dishes stacked up in the living room, no undies left in the bathroom—”
“Dad!” she screeched, but he made her laugh.
I opened the sliding door and climbed in the middle seat so Amanda could sit up front—a ploy Denny and I once figured out if we actually wanted to talk with one of our offspring while in the car. “Did you have a good time with Patti?”
Amanda shrugged and looked out the window. “I guess.”
That got a sidelong look from Denny. “You guess? I thought you girls were best buddies back when.”
Another shrug. “Yeah, guess so. Once.”
This wasn’t what I expected. “Did something happen, honey?”
“Not really . . .” Her voice trailed off, and I thought she was going to leave us guessing. But suddenly she whipped her head around, eyes flashing. “It’s just . . . Patti and her new friends are so . . . so ignorant. They were, like, telling me all about the cute boys at school, and all the R-movies they sneak into, and they asked if I liked anybody, and I said kinda and told them about José—”
I pressed my lips together.
“—and they, like, got all weird because he’s Hispanic and started asking all sorts of embarrassing questions, like if we’d, you know, done it yet, and what’s the matter, don’t I like white boys anymore? And is it true Latino guys just want weird sex—”
“Amanda!” My mouth flopped open in spite of myself. “Patti said things like that to you?”
“Well, not exactly Patti. It was some of her friends we met at the mall. And she laughed, too, and didn’t seem to get it. I mean, I tried to tell them he’d been shot last spring—and right away, they started making jokes like, ‘Ooo, Manda’s sweet on a gangbanger.’ They made me so mad!” By now Amanda was practically yelling. “So I just walked away.Who cares about them, anyway?”
Denny pulled into the garage from the alley. “You walked away? What did Patti do?”
“She, like, ran after me, and we took a bus home. But I think she was upset that I’d made her leave her friends. Later she tried to ask me about José—trying to make it up to me, I guess—and I really wanted to tell her how he told the drug dealers to butt out of the park that day so his kid brother and sisters could play, and he plays a tight set of drums at Iglesia, and he wants me to have a quinceañera, and that he’s one of the sweetest guys I’ve ever met.” By this time Amanda was climbing out of the car. “But it felt like . . . like throwing pearls to the pigs. So I just told her to forget it!”
She slammed the car door.A second later she opened it again. “Oh. Thanks for picking me up.” And the door slammed again.
Denny slowly turned his head and looked at me. I know my mouth was hanging open. And for once Denny was speechless.
6
Denny and I just sat in the car for a little while, sorting through our thoughts. Finally he said, “Did we want to know all that?”
I snorted. “Well, yeah.Not knowing would be worse. The way those girls talked! It’s more than ignorant. It’s . . . it’s . . .”
“Slander. Bigotry. Spreading rumors about an entire ethnic group.”
Well, that too. I was going to say crude. Vulgar.
“I’m proud of her, standing up for herself that way.” He chuckled. “Feisty gal, isn’t she? Must get it from you.”
I let that one go. Not sure it was a compliment. I get feisty, all right—dumping on my husband and kids when I’m upset. Yet not always feisty when I should be, reluctant to make waves in the teachers’ lounge when they’re gossiping about someone or when the politics get hot. But Amanda had walked out. Ha. I could just see her. Not slipping away demurely, either, but probably storming through the mall like her hair was on fire.
“Denny, what do you really think about José and Amanda? I mean, she talked like José’s her boyfriend—and she obviously knows he wants to throw her a quinceañera. Kinda surprised she hasn’t been bugging us about it.”
“Yeah. Give her points there.” Denny scratched his chin. “I think she’s too young to date, and we can set some limits there, but we can’t dictate her heart. And if she’s going to ‘kinda like’ a guy, José Enriquez is pretty good news.We know his mother, he goes to church, and he’s been hanging out with Uptown’s youth group.”
I agreed with all that. Yet I hated what I was thinking: I don’t want my daughter swept off her feet by a “Latin lover.”Would he follow in his dad’s footsteps—end up a high school dropout driving trucks?
“But as far as this quinceañera thing goes,” Denny continued, “it depends. An informal Mexican party? Sounds fun. The whole nine yards? I agree—it’d feel awkward to have José and his family throw a big shindig for our daughter. Sounds like a lot of money we can’t afford—and I don’t think the Enriquezes can either. Still . . .”
“Still . . . what?”
Denny looked at me with a funny expression. “It kinda fits Amanda.Who she is.Who she’s becoming. I mean, she came back from that mission trip to Mexico last summer soaking up the culture. Her Spanish has been improving by leaps and bounds. Huh! Remember a year ago this time? She was making Ds and Fs. This year? As and Bs. And it’s not just José—she’s crazy about the whole Enriquez family, especially Emerald. And Edesa Reyes too.”
“I know. I just . . .”
For some odd reason, the song I’d been listening to in the car the other day popped into my head: “God is in control.” Did I believe that? Or was I always going to approach problems the Old Jodi way—stewing and fret-tin
g till I’d wrestled them to the ground? No! My Yada Yada sisters had been teaching me to “go to the top” on the first round, not the last. Not just to believe in God, but to believe God.
“Denny, why don’t we pray about it and ask God what we should do?” And then I giggled. “Good grief. I sound just like my dad. I used to hate it when he said that!”
FOR SOME REASON, PRAYING with Denny about the quinceañera was like pricking my anxiety with a pin and letting all the air out.Not that I was clear what we should do. So why not call Delores and talk it over? Tell her our reservations; ask more questions.Why not?
Yet when I called Saturday evening, Delores was working the late shift in pediatrics at the county hospital. Doesn’t matter, I told myself as we four Baxters climbed the stairs to Uptown’s meeting room the next morning. I’ll call her when we get home from church.
Avis was already there, talking to Pastor Clark. They made a funny contrast. Pastor Clark, pale, thin, and gawky, dressed in his “Mr. Rogers” sweater and slacks that looked like they needed a good press. And Avis, tall for a woman, her cocoa-brown skin smooth and unlined even though she had already passed the big 5-0. She had a new hairstyle since I’d last seen her—braided all over her head and tied in a knot on top—and she was wearing a smart black and tan tunic slit up at the sides over a pair of wide-legged slacks.
Both Pastor Clark and Avis had lost spouses—funny, I’d never thought about that before.Widower and widow . . . except now there was Peter Douglass, Avis’s new “friend,” sitting by himself about two-thirds of the way back, a lonely island in a sea of empty folding chairs. The only African-American male, he wore a black sport coat, gray dress pants, and a gray and red tie—a little over-dressed for Uptown’s casual garb. But he did look fine. I liked the touch of gray to his close-clipped black hair.
“Denny!” I whispered, giving a short nod in that direction. “Go say hi.”
Denny obediently walked into the row of chairs just in front of Avis’s guest and extended his hand. “Peter Douglass, right? Denny Baxter. And my wife, Jodi.”
Peter Douglass stood, an impressive three inches taller than Denny. “Yes, I remember,” he said, shaking both our hands, smiling politely.
“Mind if we sit?” Denny peeled off his bulky winter coat. “Hardly need this today. Can you believe this mild weather for January?”
I was hoping we’d get a chance to talk a bit, even if it was just the typical dance around jobs, sports, and how Chicago weather compared to Philadelphia. But just then Avis gave the call to worship: “Praise the Lord, church! If you have your Bibles, please turn with me to Isaiah 43.” I dug into my tote bag, but Avis was already into the Scripture, reading strongly into the handheld mike: “Fear not, for I have redeemed you! I have called you by your name; you are Mine! When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow you.When you walk through the fire, you shall not be burned, nor shall the flame scorch you. For I am the Lord your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior!”
I expected the music group to launch into the first song, but Avis held up her hand as though to put them on pause. Instead, she picked up a copy of the Chicago Tribune and said, “I don’t know how many of you had a chance to read the paper yet, but there was another suicide attack in Tel Aviv this morning.”
Murmurs of “Oh no!” and “Lord, have mercy” spun around the room. I flinched at the picture of carnage I could see on the front page even from my seat. The news from the Middle East was so disturbing lately, I could hardly read the newspaper anymore.
“This is the first Sunday of the New Year,” Avis continued, “yet we are reminded with painful reality that we still have the same old problems infecting our world, our nation, and ourselves. And yet, brothers and sisters, we must not behave as though we have no hope. For our God is a mighty God—”
“Thank ya, Jesus!” No mistaking that voice. Florida must have come in. I twisted in my seat to catch sight of Stu, Florida, and the three kids sitting toward the back. Stu must’ve picked them up. No Carl, though.
“Even though the nations rage, we can trust in God—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—who is not only Redeemer and Friend, but Lord of the nations. One day we will see His glory in its fullness—yet even now, we, His people, must reflect that glory by abiding in His truth and pouring out compassion for all who are caught up in endless cycles of violence and revenge. For our God is not only a God of justice, but of mercy, forgiveness, and grace. Our challenge is to let His light shine through us to all the world—beginning with our own neighborhoods right here in Chicago.”
“You preach,Avis!” Florida called out—and to my surprise, Uptown’s mostly white congregation actually clapped, with a few amens, hallelujahs, and several chuckles thrown in. But Avis was done. She walked away as the music group launched into one of Uptown’s favorites, “Shine, Jesus, Shine.” The words had special poignancy after Avis’s call to worship for the new year: “Flood the nations with grace and mercy . . . let there be light.”
On the other side of Denny, I saw Peter Douglass’s eyes follow Avis as she walked back and forth off to the side, giving herself up to worship with raised hands and tears while the music group of guitars, keyboard, drums, and vocals plunged forward with song after song of victory and praise. A small smile tipped the corners of his mouth.
And then it hit me. That man is head over heels in love with Avis! I was so taken aback I hardly knew what to think.
But my thinker was pulled back to the service when Pastor Clark began his sermon. All over Christendom, he said, churches were celebrating Epiphany—the visit of the wise men to the child Jesus. “It’s an old, old story. Yet it’s a story that’s still being written.Wise men and women—children too—are still bringing their gifts to Jesus.”
And then he told the familiar story of the boy who came to hear Jesus teaching in the countryside one day, bringing along a lunch his mother had packed for him—five small loaves of bread and two dried fish. And he gave them to Jesus. “Jesus used that little gift,” Pastor Clark said, “to feed and bless and refresh thousands of people who were hungry and tired. A miracle, we say. But Jesus is still waiting for us to bring our gifts to Him, so that He can continue to feed and bless and refresh a hungry and hurting world. That is the question I’d like each of you to ask yourself as you head into this new year: ‘What is the gift that’s in my hand? Am I willing to give it to Jesus?’ ”
Being the first Sunday of the month, the service ended with a simple communion. After I’d taken my piece of bread and sipped from the goblet of wine, I closed my eyes, thinking about Pastor Clark’s question. Did I have any gifts in my hand? I couldn’t think of any. Certainly not like Avis, who had the gift of worship . . . or Nony, who seemed to be a wellspring of memorized scriptures that came pouring out in her prayers. All I could come up with was teaching third grade at Bethune Elementary. That’s it, Lord? My job?
WELL, YEAH, I THOUGHT, as I dumped my tote bag on the teacher’s desk in my third-grade classroom the next morning and changed out of my walking shoes. I’m a teacher, so guess that’s what I’ve got in my hand. But how could I give my teaching to Jesus? I certainly couldn’t talk about God in a public school! So? Just be a good teacher, I told myself.Yet sometimes I felt as if I was barely hanging on with my fingernails. This school was better than a lot of Chicago public schools—especially with Avis Johnson at the helm—but I still felt overwhelmed by a classroom so diverse, English was the second language for almost half the children. And the parents! Back in Downers Grove, my classroom had thrived with lots of parent involvement and support. Here? I still hadn’t met some of the parents, even on report card pickup day. And some kids got dropped off at seven in the morning and didn’t get picked up till six at night, like the school was expected to provide breakfast, child-care, after-school supervision, discipline, healthcare, and—oh, yes—the ABCs too.
And then there was Hakim. Correction: Hakim’s mother. She hat
ed me—with good reason. I’d killed one son in that auto accident; why should she let me teach her other son? Was she still trying to get him transferred? I didn’t really blame her. And now that I knew Hakim’s identity, it wasn’t easy to see the personification of my guilt staring back at me every morning in the classroom when he took his seat.
About once a week I felt ready to pack it in and try waitressing.
I took a deep breath. Almost time for the bell to ring. Okay, God. It doesn’t feel like much to me, but it’s all I’ve got in my hand right now. A new year . . . one teacher scrabbling for a foothold . . . one troubled boy who needs redemption . . . and thirty other squirrely eight-year-olds. If You can do anything with that, it’s all Yours.
7
We’d packed the Christmas decorations over the weekend, but I still lit a group of pillar candles on the dining room table as I called Josh and Amanda for supper. It felt good to be back on some kind of schedule after the holidays—maybe we’d even sit down at the dinner table all at one time. At least soccer was over and Josh had a couple of months before baseball practice started at Lane Tech. Right now Denny’s after-school schedule was the wild card since he was assistant coach at West Rogers High for several team sports—soccer, basket-ball, baseball. But I expected him any minute.
Sure enough, Denny walked in just as we were serving the scalloped potatoes and leftover ham. “Hey! Candles! What are we celebrating?” He tossed his jacket on top of Willie Wonka, dumped his sport bag in the corner, and planted a kiss on my forehead.