by Neta Jackson
Several voices chimed in. “—don’t need to be afraid!”
“That’s right. That’s right,” Florida said again.
“Oh God. Oh God!” Nony began to weep. “You are my refuge and strength, my ever-present help in trouble! Your Word says I don’t need to be afraid, though the earth gives way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea! But . . .” Fresh tears flowed. “Help me, Lord. Help me! Because I am afraid.”
Delores and Edesa, on either side of Nony, wrapped their arms around her. My vision blurred. I was afraid too. Afraid that Mark would die. Afraid that Nony and her boys would be left alone. Afraid of the spark fanned by the hate group. Afraid of what could so easily happen when emotions exploded. And afraid of . . . afraid of what could happen if Dr. Mark Smith, professor of history, died at the hands of—
“God, we’re all afraid.” Florida began to pray. “But we know the Evil One wants us to be afraid, ’cause then we take our eyes off You, and we gonna be sinkin’ just like ol’ Peter. But instead we gonna put on the armor of God and stand! Stand against that ol’ devil, who only comes to steal, kill, and destroy. But You! You’re the Good Shepherd, who gave His life for us sheep. We’re already under the blood. You already fought ol’ Satan and won. We’re gonna stand on that, Jesus. Stand together. You came to give us life. Life! Hallelujah! Oh Jesus! . . .”
WE PRAYED UP A GOOD STORM FOR THE NEXT HOUR. I felt my fear melting under the passion of the prayers of my sisters. God is who the Word says He is: Elohim—All-Powerful! Jehovah-Jireh—Provider! Jehovah-Rapha—Healer! El-Shaddai—the All-Sufficient One! Nony, too, prayed several times, her voice growing stronger each time. Don’t know what the nurses or other folks thought who walked past our closed door—we got kind of loud at times—but nobody came in to tell us to be quiet.
Chanda slipped out to meet her realtor, but as I scooted my knees over so she could get by, she leaned her mouth close to my ear. “Mind if I call you soon, Sista Jodee? De new ’ouse—it’s so beautiful. I want you to see.” She beamed at me and closed the door behind her.
Hmph. Maybe if the sun stands still to create more hours in the day. I hadn’t even had time to think about Josh’s graduation coming up in two weeks!
Before we left, Avis handed out a list of what she called “healing Scriptures,” and encouraged us to pray these verses every day on Mark’s behalf. Then Adele closed us out by starting the gospel song based on Proverbs 18:10: “The name of the Lord is a strong tower; the righteous run to it and are safe.”
I knew the song—the Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir sang it on one of the CDs we kept in the car. Later, as I headed the minivan toward my house where Ben was waiting for Ruth and Yo-Yo, I handed the CD to Yo-Yo and asked her to stick it into the player and turn up the volume.
The name of the Lord is . . . a strong tower!
The righteous run into it . . . and they are saved!
Ruth sat in the middle seat with Stu, fanning herself like a queen in exile, though she looked a little green around the gills. Yo-Yo and I were jammin’ in the front seat as we came to the chorus:
Jesus is the name of the Lord! . . .
I was still humming the song after the Garfields’ big Buick disappeared down Lunt Street, with Ruth fussing at Ben about something or other and Yo-Yo rolling her eyes. Still humming when Denny took the minivan to pick up the kids from youth group, which for some reason had ended up at the Reillys’ house. Still humming as I picked up the trail of dishes that had migrated from stem to stern of the Baxter domicile. Including two empty bottles of Michelob Light, which I dumped into the recycle bin. I didn’t care. I stuck the dishes in the dishwasher and just kept singing.
The prayer time at the hospital had not only been good for Nony but good for me. There’d been so much prayer, so much Word in that minuscule “family consultation room” that there’d been no room for fear.
The name of the Lord is . . . a strong tower!
The righteous run into—
The back door banged, and Amanda sailed through the kitchen without her usual kissy-face love fest with Willie Wonka. Or me. A moment later, I heard the bathroom door slam. Denny came in shortly after, pecked me on the cheek, and pulled open the refrigerator door.
I peered out the door. The backyard was empty. “Where’s Josh?”
Denny shrugged. “He wasn’t at the Reillys’ when I got there to pick up Amanda. Rick said he stayed at Uptown.” He pulled out a carton of orange juice, screwed off the cap, and chugged it down straight from the carton. I bit my tongue. Denny wiped his mouth. “From what Rick said, New Morning was still having a prayer meeting at Uptown when the kids got there for youth group. Miscommunication, I guess. Rick smoothed it over and got the kids over to his house—except Josh. Josh said he wanted to stay for a little while, listen to the service, and he’d be over shortly.” Denny shrugged. “But he never made it.”
“Denny! Aren’t you worried? What if something hap—”
“No! I’m not worried.” Denny’s reply came back so quickly, it almost snapped. “He’s eighteen. He’s been through a lot this weekend. He needs to work it out himself.” He headed for the living room, and I thought I heard him mutter, “Me too.”
I followed. “Did you and Ben have a good time? Hope it was OK he came over. He kinda invited himself.”
Denny sank down into the recliner. “Yeah. It was OK. We watched the Cubs pick up a few good hits. Not enough to win, but hey.” He tipped the recliner back with a thump and closed his eyes.
I wavered between taking the hint and pretending I was clueless. I went with clueless. “So. What do you think? Should we talk to Amanda about last night? With José, I mean.”
“Already did.” Denny’s eyes stayed closed.
“What do you mean? When?” I felt relieved. Then irritated. I didn’t really want to talk to Amanda tonight, but . . . where did Denny get off doing it without including me? Or at least telling me first. “What did you say?”
Denny’s eyes slowly opened, exuding forced patience. “In the car. Perfect opportunity. Had her to myself. I told her being in the house alone with José was verboten and she knew it. Told her falling asleep together was over the top and would never, ever happen again if she wanted José to step foot in this house again.”
“Did you bring up her ‘vow of purity’ at her quinceañera?”
“She said she didn’t mean to—you know, the Amanda ‘innocence wail.’ Then she said maybe it was ‘spiritual warfare.’ ”
My jaw dropped. Oh brother. “What did you say to—”
Footsteps on the front porch distracted me. My ears perked. A key turned in the front door lock. Josh was home. Thank You, Jesus! I quickly motioned to Denny that I still wanted an answer.
A grin slipped out on his face. “I told her temptation comes from the world, the flesh, and the devil. But in this case, she could forget the world and the devil.”
29
I half-expected Josh to mumble “Hi” and head for his room. But he stood in the archway of the living room, hands loose at his side. Just stood there. Like the time he was five and we got separated in the grocery store. He’d just stood still, lost, waiting for me to find him, trying not to cry.
“Josh? Are you OK?”
“Yeah.” Josh slumped onto the couch. “No.” His head sank into his hands. “I don’t know.”
The recliner unreclined with a thump. I sat down on the hassock. “I was worried when Dad went to pick you up at youth group and you weren’t there. What happened?”
Josh glanced up, wary. “You guys mad?”
“No.” Denny leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Rick Reilly told me that New Morning was still having a prayer meeting or something when the teens showed up at Uptown, and you wanted to stay. We figured you had your reasons.”
Josh heaved a sigh. “Yeah. Thanks.” Then he snorted. “To tell you the truth, I was mad. Some of the kids in the youth group got real upset that somebody else was using our space, that w
e had to find another place to meet. Mr. Reilly could hardly make them shut up! You should have heard ’em! They were grumblin’ and dissin’ downstairs, and upstairs New Morning was praying for Mark Smith, lying up there in ICU, unconscious. Begging God to spare his life! Man!” Josh wagged his head. “Good thing Mr. Reilly got the rest of the kids out of there, ’cause I was afraid I was going to haul off and punch somebody.”
“Mo-om!” Amanda’s voice floated loudly from the back of the house. “Wonka’s got really bad gas and needs to go out! Pee-eew.”
“Then put him out yourself!” Denny and I yelled in perfect unison.
Josh barely seemed to notice the interruption. “So, yeah, I stayed for a while. Sat in the back. Nobody paid me much attention, ’cept Mr. Douglass. He saw me come in, nodded at me.” He was silent for several moments, lost in his thoughts. Denny and I just waited. “New Morning is mostly black. Guess I knew that, but I started having a lot of funny feelings. Remembered us praying for Dr. Smith this morning. Then here’s his own church, in the very same building, praying for him this evening. It felt . . . felt like the cafeteria at school. Latino kids at one table, blacks at another. Whites all hanging together. Just a few strays here and there crossing the color line. Made me feel weird. I mean, we were all praying for Dr. Smith. It seemed like we should be praying together.”
I stared at my son. I’d sensed it, too, when we took communion that morning. Something skewed. Something not right.
Denny pursed his lips. “I can understand your feelings, son. But don’t make too much out of it. I’m sure they’re grateful to have a place to meet until they can move into a new space. It might be a nice thing to do something together; but given the size of Uptown’s space, it isn’t really practical.”
Denny’s words hung in the air like unabsorbed air freshener. Didn’t really touch the heart of what Josh was trying to say, just made it smell nice.
Josh blew out a breath of pure frustration. “Yeah, but . . . I dunno. I started feeling confused. I got all geeked up when I heard what the White Pride group was doing at Northwestern. Told my debate adviser I wanted to do something on hate groups, ordered those books—oh yeah, Josh Baxter was really going to take it on. Now?” He threw up his hands. “I don’t have the books anymore. Couldn’t make my case even if I wanted to. But you know what? I don’t even want to anymore. I’m glad the books are gone. Good excuse to chuck the whole thing.”
Denny and I just gaped at Josh, who found his legs and started pacing back and forth in front of the couch, running one hand over his nonexistent hair.
He stopped and pointed a finger at us. “And you wanna know why I don’t want to get up there and make some big argument for racial harmony? To stand there and say people like us can make a difference? Because . . .” Josh’s voice broke. “Because when push came to shove at that rally, it didn’t matter what I believed! It didn’t matter that I was there to support Dr. Smith and not the White Pride guys! It didn’t matter that Dr. Smith had asked us to come. It didn’t matter that our families are friends. No! To that big linebacker with his loud dreadlocks, I was just a white boy. It was ‘us’ versus ‘them’! He thought he had a right to get in my face and push me around. He pushed my mother down, for God’s sake! And it’s never going to be any different! And then . . .” Josh’s shoulders heaved. “Then some white thug beats up one of the coolest men I’ve ever met—just because he’s black! And we don’t know if Dr. Smith’s going to live or die or be a vegetable!”
Josh fell back onto the couch, his eyes tortured. “And here we are, the Christians. It isn’t any different for us either. Black and white. Us and them.” He put his head in his hands and began to weep. Loud, gasping sobs. “It’s . . . never . . . going . . . to be . . . different!”
DON’T KNOW HOW I MADE IT THROUGH SCHOOL the next day. The kids were always squirrelly on Mondays anyway. On top of that, it was the first week of June and felt like summer already. Eighty-six degrees and humidity to match. Too many energetic third graders confined in a too-small space. Add one teacher with nerves like frayed electric wires after the events of the past weekend, and I spent most of the day shouting down squabbles, repeating classwork instructions two or three times, and marching miscreants to the principal’s office. Let Avis deal with the little criminals, I thought, parking Ramón, Cornell, and Terrell in the chairs just inside the main office, glad to have them off my hands for even ten minutes.
When the last bell rang and my classroom emptied like runners at the starting gun of the Chicago Marathon, I collapsed at my desk, head in my hands, trying to find a solid place on which to get some emotional footing. I’d felt so helpless last night, watching my nearly grown son cry. It had unnerved me to no end. Josh had a good heart, even if he didn’t know the difference between the laundry hamper and the floor. But his idealistic expectations, his hopes that good intentions could make a difference, had been body slammed into a brick wall of reality.
I couldn’t help him. Denny couldn’t help him. We didn’t have any answers either.
“God,” I moaned. “Help Josh. Help Denny and me. Help Mark. And Nony . . .” My prayer sounded hollow in my ears. Help Josh. Help Denny and me. Help Mark and Nony. Good grief. What kind of prayer was that? “I don’t even know how to pray, Jesus. Not when it really counts.”
Yes, you do, Jodi. The Voice in my spirit was so strong, I looked up, half expecting to see that Avis had walked into my classroom and overheard me. But I was alone in a sea of desks. You know a lot about prayer. First things first. You need to praise Me.
Well, yes. Why was that so easy to remember when I was praying with Yada Yada but so easy to forget when I was praying on my own? I squeezed my eyes shut. Lord, You are worthy of all my—
No. Silent praise—any silent prayer longer than thirty seconds—usually ended up getting bombarded by random Jodi thoughts and mental lists of stuff I had to do. I stood up and began to walk up and down the rows of desks—straightening a few along the way—speaking aloud my praise to God. I prayed the names of God that we’d lifted up at the hospital last night: God our Provider, God our Healer, the All-Sufficient One. “Thank You, Lord, for who You are!”
Now pray the Word, Jodi. Claim the promises God has given you for your son, for your family, for Mark teetering between life and death, for Nony in her suffering.
What promises? My mind went blank. The only verse I could pull out of the air was John 3:16. Making a beeline for my desk, I grabbed the Bible I kept in the second drawer, glad for the underlining I’d done. Neon yellow words leapt off the pages at me. “I will never leave you nor forsake you” . . . “If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask God, who gives generously to all” . . . “If two of you agree on anything you ask for, it will be done for you by My Father in heaven.”
Oh wow. I took the Bible with me as I resumed walking my classroom and prayed the verses aloud. “Thank You, Jesus, that You promised You would never leave us nor forsake us. We need You now. Mark and Nony need You! Josh needs You! And I confess my lack of wisdom. I don’t know how to help Josh with the questions he’s struggling with. He feels caught in the middle. But You said we can ask You for wisdom! So I’m asking, God—asking for Josh, asking for myself, asking for Denny. Asking for all of us who are confused and bewildered by what happened this weekend.”
I stopped by the fingerprint-smudged window and looked out at the deserted playground, then glanced down at the verse I’d underlined in Matthew’s Gospel, chapter 19: “If two of you on earth agree on anything you ask for, it will be done for you by my Father in heaven.” Did I dare . . . ?
“Jesus,” I breathed, “I’m here alone, praying by myself, but I stand in agreement with all my sisters in Yada Yada, with the prayers of Uptown Community, with the prayers of New Morning Church yesterday afternoon. We’re asking, God, for Your healing touch on Mark Smith’s body. Please, God. Please. In the name of Jesus . . .”
I stopped myself before saying amen. The name of Jesus wasn’t just som
e way to sign off on my prayer, a spiritual “Over and out.” If I’d learned anything from Yada Yada, it was that the name of Jesus was the authority I had stamped on my life, enabling me to come boldly to God, even though He was holy and I wasn’t. The authority I had to rebuke Satan and all his evil plans and—
The door to my classroom swung open. Clara Hutchens, a first-grade teacher, poked her head in. “Coming to staff meeting? Mrs. Douglass sent me to get you.” She peered disapprovingly over the top of her reading glasses.
“Uh, be right there.” But I smiled to myself as I gathered up my books and papers and stuffed them into my tote bag. Avis would understand.
STAFF MEETING WAS MERCIFULLY SHORT. I realized why when Avis pulled me aside afterward. “I’m going up to the hospital now to avoid the evening crowd of visitors. Do you want to come with me?”
I did a mental check of supper possibilities—no leftovers, unfortunately, since I hadn’t cooked on Sunday—and phoned, leaving a message on the machine for Amanda to pull out some bacon to thaw. Scrambled eggs and bacon for supper. Why not?
We rode up to Evanston Hospital in Avis’s black Toyota Camry, threading through late afternoon traffic, neither one of us saying much. I almost told her about the struggle Josh was having, then decided it wasn’t mine to tell. Not yet. Unless that was an excuse to avoid the awkwardness of discussing racial barriers and his feeling that “it’s never going to be any different.”
I turned my face to the window. Oh God, it has to be different! We’re Your body—the body of Christ here on earth! All of us!
To my delight, Hoshi Takahashi and Nony’s boys were in the ICU waiting room, drawing pictures and making signs. Michael popped up, showing off the picture he’d drawn with bright-colored markers. “We’re making pictures to hang in Daddy’s room,” he bragged. “Ms. Enriquez said we should make lots!”