by Neta Jackson
“When?” I burst out laughing. “Oh, you guys are rushing her now. Shouldn’t we wait for an announcement or something?”
Delores shook her head. “Those two, they’re past the age for a long engagement. If they decide to do it—bam!—two weeks and they’re married.We wouldn’t have time to put together a quilt.”
“I dunno nuthin’ about quiltin’,” Yo-Yo protested. Murmurs around the room agreed with her.
“You don’t have to,” Delores said, grinning ear to ear. “Here’s my idea . . .”
26
Temperatures fell below zero that last week of February—but not before I caught a nasty germ that dehibernated during the previous week’s high of fifty degrees, thinking it must be spring. My head tingled and my throat felt scratchy while we practiced for the all-school assembly on Monday, and by Monday night I crawled into bed feeling like week-old garbage.
“You’re not going to school, are you?” Denny asked the next morning as I packed my tote bag.
“It’s just a cold,” I muttered, though staying home was exactly what I felt like doing. But what teacher stayed home just because she had a headache and a scratchy throat? I’d gotten through a lot of school days tanked up on Tylenol and throat lozenges. Besides, this week was the all-school assembly we’d been working on so hard! Not to mention I still had to pick up the petition letter from Avis. She’d been busy all day Monday, and I’d had to leave it on her desk with a note. Stu was probably upset that it wasn’t mailed yet; I didn’t dare leave it another whole day.
Denny pressed. “Don’t forget what the doc said—you gotta be extra careful about colds and flu since they took out your spleen. Maybe you ought to call the doctor.”
I’d forgotten about the “be careful” lecture from Dr. Lewinski after the accident. Except for the stiffness in my leg each morning, I’d been pretty healthy since school started. “It’s just a cold, Denny. I can’t call the doctor and say, hey, I’ve got a headache . . .” Denny narrowed his eyes at me. I felt too weary to argue. “Okay, tell you what—if I start feeling worse or my nose starts running, I’ll come home.”
Somewhat mollified, Denny gave me a ride to school, which helped. Yet my third graders must’ve picked up on my muddleheadedness, because it seemed like I was breaking up fights or yelling at the kids not to yell or counting to five all day. What I wouldn’t give to have my student teacher back, I moaned to myself, flopping on the couch in the teachers’ lounge for five minutes during lunch.
Then I remembered the letter to the parole board and struggled up again. Better see if Avis was around and get it from her while I could.
I stopped in the school office and saw Avis on the phone through her open door. She waved me in, still on the phone, and handed me the letter. I started to leave, but she said to her caller, “Wait—can you hold on a minute?” She put her hand over the receiver. “Jodi. You look awful.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“You sick? You should go home.”
I shrugged listlessly. “Too late to get a sub. Only got a couple more hours. Hakim’s got his session with Ms. Gray right after lunch; I’d hate to not be here when he gets back. But thanks for this.” I waved the letter. “Stu’s got a burr under her saddle to get this off.Not sure what the rush is.”
“I’m sorry I missed the discussion and prayer.Talked to Nony last night—sounded like a full evening.”
“Yeah.” Under normal circumstances, I’d ask how her Palmer House date went, but I didn’t have the energy. “Oh. Did Nony remind you about our church visit next Sunday—St. John’s Lutheran?”
“Yes. I’m supposed to lead worship next Sunday at Uptown. I can probably trade with someone, though. Shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Okay.” I turned to go.
“Jodi? Stay home tomorrow. That’s an order. Tell the secretary on the way out you need a sub.” She turned back to the phone. “Peter? . . . Sorry. Had to take care of some-thing. . . .What?” She laughed. “Of course you play second fiddle when you call me at work!”
I suppressed a grin in spite of my headache. Delores was right on the money with that friendship quilt idea.
AS IT TURNED OUT, I stayed home Wednesday and Thursday, with a temperature of 101. I did call Dr. Lewinski, who gave me the usual song and dance: plenty of rest and fluids, call him if the fever lasted more than three days. Avis, bless her, said she’d practice with my class for the assembly.
I half-expected Stu to take over the Baxter household if she knew I was sick—but all she did was pop in Wednesday evening for five minutes to bring me some flowers. “Sorry to hear you’re sick, Jodi. Let me know if there’s anything I can do, okay?” At the moment I was having a coughing fit and could only nod my head. It wasn’t likely I would ask Stu—but I was actually dis-appointed she didn’t show up with a pot of chicken noodle soup or even sit for a while. Stu wasn’t as predictable as I’d thought—in fact, since she’d moved in, she was sometimes downright moody.
But by Thursday evening I felt a lot better. Friday morning my temp was normal, and I made it back to school for the all-school assembly. I was glad I did, because my third-grade class did an awesome job reporting on the life of Mary McLeod Bethune—even got a standing ovation from the teachers and parents who attended. I was so proud of them! . . . until we got back to the classroom, that is. Maybe it was the letdown after the assembly, or because the kids had been confined inside all week because of the subzero weather. Or because they’d had two days with a substitute teacher, and it was Friday to boot. Whatever. But I practically had to peel my charges off the wall and tie them in their seats to get any-thing done that afternoon.
I finally gave up trying to review simple fractions, took them to the gym and ran them around four times, then brought them back to the classroom and read three chapters of Little House in the Big Woods. It might as well have been a story about Mars from the blank expressions of kids who had no idea what “venison” or a “butter churn” were.
My headache was back, big-time.
Well, at least it’s the weekend, I thought gratefully, fishing the mail from our box on the front porch and letting myself in the door with my key. Gas bill, bank statement, credit card bill, junk mail, junk mail . . . and a fat envelope from Delores Enriquez. I was tempted to rip it open, but Willie Wonka wanted out the back door—now!—zero degrees or not. Once I’d popped two extra-strength Tylenol, let Wonka back in, and had a mug of hot tea to warm my hands and throat, I slit open the envelope and pulled out its contents: a square of muslin material about twelve-by-twelve inches, several skeins of colorful embroidery thread, and a sheet of instructions.
“Dear Yada Yada sisters,” the paper said, and proceeded to give tips on how to personalize and embroider the enclosed quilt square. Embroider? That was daunting enough, but . . . make up my own design? Sheesh.
The only thing that made sense to me at the moment was to crawl into bed and pull the quilt over my head.
DENNY AND AMANDA DID the grocery shopping on Saturday—always a risk, because they came home with things like jicama (which I had no idea how to cook) or arugula (way too expensive). I wasn’t complaining, though. A day to lounge around the house and drink gallons of hot tea with lemon and honey—hey, the doc said plenty of rest and fluids!—did wonders for my spirit, and probably my body too.
I invited the rest of my family to go with Yada Yada to St. John’s Lutheran Sunday morning, but they weren’t interested. “Don’t think you ought to go either, Jodi,” said Denny. “Just stay home and rest.”
I considered that for about ten seconds. There was a point when “rest” began to feel like “stir-crazy.” “Stu said the service is only an hour,” I pointed out, “and I promise I won’t go anywhere, do anything, no cooking, no cleaning, no laundry this afternoon—I’ll just veg out in the recliner with the TV remote.”
“Huh. I’d like to see that. Except for the remote. Big game on.”
“Besides,” I called after him as Denny and
the kids headed out the door, “Monday is a holiday. Pulaski Day, remember?” But they were gone.
Stu rang the doorbell at ten thirty, and we drove the twenty minutes to St. John’s Lutheran in her sporty Celica. She wasn’t very talkative, which was fine with me, because my throat still felt raw—yet I did yell “Stop!” when she almost ran through a red light. A few minutes later I had to say, “You can turn right on red, Stu,” when she sat at a red light with her right turn signal blinking and a car beeping behind her.
“Guess I’m nervous,” she said, giving me an apologetic grin. “Haven’t been back to St. John’s for almost two years.”
“Why nervous?” If we went back to visit the church we’d left in Downers Grove a year and a half ago, it’d feel like a family reunion.
“Oh, I don’t know. Don’t want to have to explain anything.” She pulled into the parking lot of a large stone church building in one of the older Chicago neighborhoods. Don’t know what I expected—Cadillacs and Mercedes? Maybe a few Lincoln Town Cars. But the parking lot was full of Toyotas, Nissans, minivans, and a few SUVs. Nice cars, though not high-end.
“People change,” Stu said. “It’s water under the bridge.” She gave a short laugh. “Anyway. It was my idea for Yada Yada to visit here, wasn’t it?”
The subzero temperatures had warmed up to the high twenties, but we scurried across the crowded parking lot and into the warm foyer of the church anyway. I was wearing nylons and heels, expecting a more “dress-up” church—and was surprised to see a lot of women wearing pantsuits and men wearing slacks and sweaters or sports coats. No fancy hats. Only a few suits and ties.
A man and a woman wearing Greeter badges shook our hands and said, “Hello! Welcome!” but didn’t ask our names or anything. Nobody seemed to recognize Stu. Florida, Delores, and Edesa were already there, sans kids, waving us over.We figured five Yada Yadas were enough of a critical mass to go sit down together in a nice wooden pew with a long, padded seat cushion. We spread out, saving room for others who might come.
I gazed up at the cheerful, vaulted sanctuary. Modern stained-glass windows (no biblical scenes or ancient Latin words) let in bright colorful light, making the church feel warm in spite of the winter outside. Banners hung between the windows, saying things like Rejoice! and Hallelujah! Organ pipes filled the center of the wall beyond the platform and a beautiful oak pulpit sat off to the side, leaving the platform open except for a couple of oak armchairs with burgundy padded cushions. I was wondering vaguely where the choir sat—or if St. John’s had a choir—when Avis, Nony, and Hoshi appeared in the aisle and we all scrunched closer to make room. A few moments later Ruth scooted into the pew behind us, with Adele and Chanda and Chanda’s three kids decked out like it was Easter Sunday right on their heels.
I did a quick head count, just as a deep resonant voice from somewhere in the back called out, “All rise!” The triumphant tones of the organ suddenly filled the room like majestic trumpets, and an invisible choir up in the balcony began singing the processional.
All the Yada Yada sisters except Yo-Yo had shown up at St. John’s Lutheran.
27
So how was it?” Denny asked, bringing me a sandwich on a paper plate. True to my word, I had come home from church—beating Denny and the kids by thirty minutes, heh heh—shed my coat, hat, and mittens, and flopped into the recliner with a box of tissues and the biggest mug I could find of hot tea.
“Short. One hour, start to finish . . . mm, thanks.” I sank my teeth into the Dagwood sandwich, piled high with shaved chicken from Dominick’s deli (à la Denny and Amanda’s grocery shopping trip), arugula lettuce, cucumber slices, Swiss cheese (also from the deli), and ranch dressing.
Denny pulled over the rocking chair, obviously not satisfied with my one-word answer. “So tell me.”
I chewed another bite of sandwich, wondering where to start. I hadn’t had time to process this morning’s service for myself yet. I was surprised at the feelings it had brought out in me. But I tried to start at the beginning . . .
When the processional started, little Dia George cried out, “Look, Mama! Birds!” Sure enough, walking behind the pas-tor—a fortyish man wearing a white robe with a colorful stole around his neck—came a girl and a boy about thirteen or fourteen, also robed, carrying a large brass crucifix and a brass candlestick with two tall, white candles. They were fol-lowed by several women holding aloft long, thin poles with large birds and butterflies on the tips, bending and swaying over the heads of the congregation in time to the joyous music coming from the choir in the balcony. My mouth wasn’t the only Yada Yada’s that dropped open in delight. It was like watching kites—or real birds—dancing in the air over our heads. For some reason, tears darted to my eyes at the unexpected beauty and celebration.
The processional was followed by a liturgical prayer of confession and forgiveness. I’d always assumed liturgical prayers were rote and meaningless. But this morning the words rolled around in my heart and I read them from the order of service as a real prayer . . .
Pastor: “We have spoken ill of others and not been diligent in protecting their good names.”
People: “Forgive us, Lord.”
Pastor: “We have refused to make peace with those who have hurt us.”
People: “Forgive us Lord.” . . .
I made sure to stuff a copy of the order of service in my tote bag so I could go over that prayer again.
The congregation sang “What Wondrous Love” from an actual hymnbook, followed by the Kyrie (“Lord have mercy; Christ have mercy”) in a singsong chant by the pastor. More prayers, a scripture—all printed in the order of service—and then it was time for “A Word for Children.”
The pastor, still in his liturgical robe, plopped down casually on the wide steps leading up to the platform and called all the children to come sit around him, casting all formality aside. Chanda’s kids went forward, too, outshining every child there in their frills and finery, the only dark faces in the small crowd of European-American offspring. But all eyes were on “Pastor Bill” as he told the story of the boy who gave his lunch to Jesus—the lunch that ended up feeding thousands and thousands of people. Again tears lurked close to the surface.We used to have a children’s sermon back at our church in Downers Grove, and I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed it.
“But the biggest surprise,” I told Denny, “was the Gospel reading, the story of Mary anointing the feet of Jesus. A drama group did it like a series of tableaus. The reader rang a bell and we were supposed to close our eyes while she read a portion of the story.When the bell rang again, we opened our eyes, and the drama group had arranged themselves in a tableau to depict what had just been read. Ring—close eyes and listen. Ring—open eyes and see. It was so powerful! I thought the drama group did an awesome job.”
Denny nodded. “Sounds effective. Guess I should’ve gone, huh?”
It was effective . . . moving, as well, to see the expressions on the actors’ faces frozen in dismay at Mary’s “waste” and the compassion on the actor-Jesus’ face.
But maybe the most moving part of the service for me was Communion. Several pairs of “ministers”—men and women, all in plain white robes and cloth belts—stood at the front with a cup of wine and a small loaf of bread as row by row, the congregation moved forward to receive “the Lord’s body” and “the cup of our salvation.” People who had colds or didn’t want to drink from a common cup could take a tiny cup from a tray.
For some reason, I felt teary again as I saw my Yada Yada sisters moving forward in the line to receive communion, strangers in the midst of this mostly white, upper-middle-class church . . . and I thought, this is the bottom line. Not our differences.Not our color or culture.Not our denominations. But what Jesus has done—for all of us.
Denny stood up. “Well, hope you didn’t overdo. Uh . . . mind if I turn on the game?”
I did mind. I wanted to sit there in the quiet and think some more about our visit to St. J
ohn’s. Because what I didn’t tell Denny were the conflicting feelings that had been rising inside since I’d come home.
“That’s it? We done?” Florida had hissed in a stage whisper as the pastor, the ministers, the acolytes—or what-ever Lutherans called the teenage assistants—all strode down the aisle to the recessional sung by the choir in the balcony. The hands of my watch pointed straight up to noon. Florida fanned her order of service. “Girl, you in trouble at this church if you can’t read all this print.”
But I’d liked reading ahead and seeing what was coming next. I liked getting home with half a day still to go. (Wasn’t Sunday supposed to be a day of rest?) I’d been missing hymn singing and hadn’t even known it. I even enjoyed some of the liturgy. (Surprised myself.) But most of all, I enjoyed not feeling different from these “white-bread” folks.
Did I dare share these feelings with Yada Yada when we talked about our experience at St. John’s? What was I doing at hodgepodge Uptown Community, which hadn’t really decided what church tradition it reflected? Did I really belong in Chicago’s Rogers Park, the most diverse neighborhood in the U.S.? Even among my sisters of color in Yada Yada . . . who was I really?
Am I just a pretender? A seagull, trying to strut with the peacocks?
DENNY WAS STILL SNORING away at seven thirty the next morning, even though it was a Monday. My teenagers probably wouldn’t be up till noon. Josh had taken advantage of the Pulaski holiday and squeaked in by his curfew—but of course that meant I didn’t get to sleep till after midnight. At least I got to sleep in an extra thirty minutes. Might’ve been longer, but Willie Wonka’s bladder wasn’t on holiday.
Thank you, General Pulaski, I thought, turning on the coffeepot and making a mental note to tell my third graders about the obscure Revolutionary War hero who gave them a day off from school on the first Monday of March—not that I knew much. Maybe I could track down some info about Casimir Pulaski on the Internet.