by Neta Jackson
“Sure. What’s up?” Footsteps coming down the outside stairs distracted me; I glanced out the window in time to see Stu hustling out to the garage, shutting the yard-side garage door behind her. Where in the world was she going this early on a Sunday? Some DCFS emergency situation probably. Guess we could take Becky to church if Stu didn’t get back—
“—Mark’s birthday is this week,” Nony was saying in my ear. “I know it might seem pointless, but I’d like to have a birthday party for Mark at the hospital Tuesday evening. For the boys’ sake, more than anything. And I was wondering, could you e-mail Yada Yada and let everybody know they’re invited?”
A birthday party? For Mark? I felt like crying. But I sucked it up and said, “Sure. Be glad to. Anything else you want me to do?” Now you’re getting reckless, Jodi—don’t forget Josh graduates this week!
Nony let me off the hook. “No, no. It will be very simple. The boys want to bring balloons and have a cake and ice cream. It is . . . important. To keep the hope alive.”
Yes. That was it. Keeping the hope alive.
I BRIEFLY ENTERTAINED THE IDEA OF SKIPPING CHURCH at Uptown if I was going to visit the New Morning service in the afternoon, but Denny said he’d been thinking of visiting their service that afternoon too—and he got ready for church at Uptown as usual. Ah well. Playing hooky had always been more of a fantasy in my lifetime than something I actually did. Good ol’ responsible Jodi Baxter.
I was glad I didn’t skip.
Stu called on her cell about nine o’clock and said she wasn’t going to make it back in time; could we give Becky a ride to church? Ten minutes into the praise and worship part of the service while everyone was standing and singing (and sweating), I saw Stu out of the corner of my eye scooting into the row behind us. She leaned forward and tapped Becky on the shoulder. “Psst. Becky. You’ve got a visitor.”
Becky turned; I turned. Half our row turned. Three-year-old Andy, his soft, rusty brown curls bouncing, beamed up at his mother, giggling. “Surprise!” he shouted, his voice carrying right over the words of the Tommy Dorsey hymn we were singing.
Precious Lord, take my hand, lead me on, help me stand . . .
Becky, speechless, reached for her son, hauled Andy right over the back of her metal folding chair, and wrapped him in a bear hug. The child snuggled into her neck as she rocked back and forth.
. . . Thru’ the storm, thru’ the night, lead me on to the li-ight . . .
I shook my head at Stu, even though I was smiling. Why didn’t she just tell Becky she was going to bring Andy instead of making it a surprise? Sometimes I just couldn’t figure out Leslie Stuart.
But as we sang, Stu leaned over the pew and whispered in my ear, “His caseworker arranged an all-day visit for Andy and Becky for today, but I had no guarantee the grandmother would have Andy ready in time to get him here for church. Didn’t want Becky to be disappointed.”
Becky definitely was not disappointed. She was so excited to have Andy with her in church that she didn’t want to let him go for children’s ministry, so she tagged along with him when the young children went downstairs to the classrooms. I smiled to myself. Becky knew so little about the Bible, maybe she’d learn something right along with the kids.
When the children returned at the end of the service, lots of people crowded around Becky and Andy. Several children—including Carla Hickman—seemed to have fallen in love with the beautiful little boy and kept trying to pick him up or tease him into playing tag around the rows of chairs. I thought Andy might feel clingy and want to stay with his mom, but he seemed delighted with all the attention and let Carla pull him away to go get some punch at the kitchen pass-through window.
“Wish Stu had told us Andy was coming,” I grumbled on the way home. “We aren’t going to see much of him if we go to the New Morning service this afternoon.”
Denny gave me a look. “Andy didn’t come to see us. He came to see his mom. Probably just as well we aren’t going to be around every minute.”
I stuck out my tongue at him. “Well, we could’ve planned lunch together or something.”
Josh looked at me in the rearview mirror from the driver’s seat. “Mom. Andy’s three. If you want to do lunch, just offer to make some peanut butter sandwiches!”
I stuck out my tongue at him too. My menfolk were ganging up on me. What did they know about forty-something women who needed a little-kid fix every now and then? I didn’t actually want to be parenting a preschooler in my forties, but an afternoon with Becky’s little sweetie sure would go a long way to scratching the itch.
As it turned out, our two households—upstairs and down—pooled sandwiches, chips, fruit, veggies, and cookies and ate together on the back porch, while Josh and Amanda rigged up the hose and sprinkler on one side of the yard, much to Andy’s delight. He was much more interested in running in and out of the water than he was in eating carrot sticks. I saw Stu watching him as he squealed with laughter when the water “caught” him, her paper plate of food barely touched . . . and remembered what it must cost her to bring Andy to her home. Andy and Stu’s baby, David, who shared the same birth date—or due date in David’s case. If Stu hadn’t . . .
My own eyes blurred with sudden tears that I blinked hastily away. Becky didn’t know about Stu’s aborted baby. But maybe she should. Maybe that’s what stood between these two women even more than the dirty dishes in the sink and wet towels on the floor.
New Morning’s service started at three o’clock, so Denny and I left the backyard party at two thirty and headed back to Uptown Community. It felt odd to see total strangers piling out of cars and pulling open the doors of Uptown’s two-story storefront; even weirder to be greeted at the top of the stairs by a pleasant couple as if we were the visitors. Which I guess we were, though I had to admit I felt a tad possessive as we sat down in the familiar, awful metal folding chairs. Uncomfortable as they were, they were our chairs and this was, after all, our church.
Good grief, Jodi, listen to yourself! You sound just like those women complaining about New Morning last Sunday at the potluck. True, true. Help me, God.
The still, small Voice that seemed to enjoy dissecting my Old Jodi thoughts jumped in. Your church, Jodi Baxter? Correction. My church. This building is just four walls, some windows, and a door with a mortgage. It’s just a temporary house for part of My church. My church is all these people who have come here to worship, and the ones who were worshiping here this morning, and the ones who are worshiping Me in different buildings all over Chicago today. That’s My church.
Chastened, I glanced around as the chairs filled up. To my surprise, New Morning wasn’t all black. Pastor Cobbs was conferring with a Latino man, who might be a deacon or worship leader or something. A couple other Latino families filed in, and several college-age singles—mostly black, several Asian, and a few who might be Middle Eastern.
Peter Douglass acknowledged us with a wave as he filed into a row on the other side of the room. That didn’t surprise me; he hadn’t been at Uptown the last three Sundays. Then I saw Avis right behind him. When I caught her eye, she looked as surprised as I felt. I hadn’t mentioned Denny and I were going to visit New Morning’s service today; obviously she’d had the same idea. I grinned at her, telepathing my thoughts: We really should talk more!
The Latino guy, who turned out to be the worship leader, gave the worship band a nod, and they lit into the first praise song. Denny grinned at me. He really liked the addition of a saxophone to the usual drums, electric bass, and a keyboard. Everyone stood and I saw Peter really getting into the music—clapping and raising his arms.
For one brief moment, jealousy reared its ugly little head again. Maybe Avis would leave Uptown and start attending New Morning with Peter. I fought down my resentment of this little church that had invaded our lives. OK, Satan, I know your tricks. You’re trying to cause division here. Didn’t God just remind me that we are all His church? You’ve got me figured out. You know I get pr
otective of what’s “mine.” You know I can get distracted when what I should be doing is focusing on why I’m here—to worship God. So beat it!
I was so busy back-talking the devil that I didn’t see Nony and the boys come in until she gave me a wave from the end of our row. And Pastor Clark! When did he get here? Nony was mouthing something at me. “Thank you.”
Thank you? For what? For just being here? I closed my eyes as the haunting notes of the saxophone moved the congregation into the popular worship chorus: “Here I am to worship, Here I am to bow down . . .” I want to thank You, God, for nudging me to come today. This was Nony’s church family. Nony’s and Mark’s. This was probably her first time back since Mark got hurt more than two weeks ago. It was good and right that we should be here this particular Sunday to worship together, to pray together, to celebrate God’s big church, of which we were all a part.
THE SERVICE WOUND DOWN around five o’clock—usually the time the Uptown youth met at the church for youth group, but Rick Reilly had wisely moved the group to his house for the duration. I thought we’d get a chance to hear Pastor Cobbs preach; he was wearing a black robe and looked very dignified in spite of the muggy heat. But it didn’t turn out that way.
“Before the message,” he said, “we want to pray for our brother, Dr. Mark Smith, and his precious family, who are facing the most grievous trial of their lives. Sister Nonyameko?” He motioned her to come forward, then asked his wife, Rose, and Pastor Clark to join him at the front. Spontaneously, several other church members also went forward, surrounding Nony in a circle, laying hands on her. Peter and Avis joined the circle. Was this an open invitation? I wanted to go up, too, but felt too timid, not knowing the protocol of New Morning Church.
But the prayers! No murmurs to be heard by the circle around Nony. Voices boomed out, praising God for His great goodness even in the middle of dire circumstances. Several prayed for miraculous healing. “Even today, Father God! Give our sister a good report! Bring this man back to his wife, to his family, to his students, whole and healthy and on fire for the gospel, Lord God! For which we will give You all the honor and praise and glory!”
The next forty-five minutes turned into a rousing prayer meeting. More and more people joined the prayers at the front. But that didn’t stop the people still sitting or standing in the rows of chairs. Prayers went up all over the room, not only for Mark’s healing and strength for Nony and her children, but for justice and truth, an end to racism and bigotry.
The most moving prayer to me was Pastor Cobbs’s. “Lord God, we would be remiss if we did not also pray for the perpetrators of this serious crime.” He had a surprisingly strong voice without shouting, even though he was probably in his early sixties. “We don’t hate them, Father God, for what they did. There is too much hatred in this world already. We pity them, because they are lost, sick with sin. But we know You died for their sins, too, same as for us. While we were all still sinners, Christ died for us. And Christ said on the cross, ‘Father, forgive them. They don’t know what they’re doing.’ ”
Yes, Lord, my heart whispered. The girl in the sundress. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. Forgive her, Jesus.
“So help us, precious Savior,” New Morning’s pastor went on, “to follow Your example and be willing to forgive, just as You have forgiven us. We don’t want to compound this great sin against our brother by letting Satan get a foothold in our hearts with thoughts of vengeance, or even using this situation to excuse our own hatred for those who misuse or abuse us. Your last prayer on earth, dear Jesus, was for those who believe in You to be one, just as You and the Father are one. For this spirit of unity we pray. We need a breakthrough, God! For a ‘new morning’ in this nation when God’s people would break down the barriers of prejudice and mistrust, and be living witnesses of God’s kingdom! And let it begin with us . . .”
Shouts of “Amen!” and “Hallelujah!” went up all over the room. The praise band began to play, the saxophone echoed, and all around us people began to sing a song new to me.
I need you; you need me
We’re all a part of God’s body . . .
All around the room, men and women and children took the hands of the people beside them, reaching across the aisles and over the backs of their chairs. The prayer circle in the front broke up and joined the larger mazelike circle as the song continued . . .
I won’t harm you with words from my mouth
I love you; I need you to survive.
Beside me, Denny suddenly began to weep. He dropped my hand and fished in his pocket for his handkerchief. Big, gut-wrenching sobs shook his body, and he sank down into his chair. Startled, I touched his arm; I just kept my hand there. Several others around us moved close to him and just touched him lightly on his back, on his head. I was touched by their concern, but for a few moments, I felt confused. Why was Denny crying so hard? Granted, the worship service and prayer time had been spiritually moving, but this—this was something deeper.
Then suddenly I understood. It was grief, finally coming out. Denny had been grieving for Mark, hardly knowing what to do with his feelings. But somehow, here at New Morning Church, something had pulled that grief to the surface.
Pastor Clark was one of the people who came over to Denny. As Denny’s sobs subsided, he stood up and whispered something in Pastor Clark’s ear. Uptown’s pastor nodded and went forward to speak to Pastor Cobbs, then motioned to Denny. Denny moved to the front. The music died away.
Denny cleared his throat a couple of times. “God wants to do something. I feel it deep within my spirit. I don’t know what, for sure, but . . . I don’t believe it’s an accident that God brought our two churches together in this place. Mark Smith was . . . is . . . my friend. But I sense that even what happened to Mark is only part of the puzzle God is putting together.” Denny made a face. “I know, I’m probably not making any sense . . .”
“That’s all right, brother!” Peter Douglass’s voice. “You say it.”
“That’s right. That’s right,” several other voices added.
“I want to make an invitation to the brothers here. Sorry, sisters.” He grinned sheepishly. “Uptown Community has a monthly men’s breakfast on the third Saturday of each month, and I want to invite any of you brothers to join us this coming Saturday, right here at eight o’clock. Can’t promise you a low-carb, low-calorie, low-anything breakfast—we cook it ourselves, you know. Or sneak in Dunkin’ Donuts.”
Laughter sprinkled around the room.
“That’s all. Please come.” Denny struggled with his emotions for a moment. Then he said, “We need each other to survive.”
38
First, the alarm rudely assaulted my sleep. Then, my conscience hit me with a double whammy. Good grief! I forgot to send out that e-mail about Mark’s birthday party at the hospital tomorrow night! I crawled out of bed with a groan. Not even six thirty on Monday morning yet, and already I was behind schedule.
As I booted up the computer to send out Nony’s announcement, still bleary-eyed without my first cup of coffee, the last full week of school stretched out before me like a trek across the Sahara—hot and endless. The birthday party for Mark was a great idea, but when would I find time to fill out all the end-of-year reports for my students? Not to mention the main event of the week: Josh’s high school graduation on Thursday evening. The graduation announcements said it would be held in the Lane Tech Sports Stadium at 7:00 p.m. Outdoors. No air conditioning. Hot . . . endless . . .
I sent up a hasty prayer for an overcast sky, cooling temperatures, and no rain.
The Baxter hurry-scurry kicked in as two more alarm clocks went off. I ducked into the bathroom before the who-gets-the-shower-next dance began, then set out bagels, cream cheese, and OJ for breakfast.
“Kinda wish Grandma and Grandpa Jennings could come for my graduation,” Josh said wistfully as he grabbed a bagel on his way out the door that Monday morning.
“I know. They would if they
could, honey.” I hid a grin. My dad would love to see Josh’s head once again covered with hair, though still army-boot-camp short. But my parents had called last week, saying my mom had been called back to have a retake on a colonoscopy and would not feel up to the long drive. No, no, nothing to worry about, they’d assured me. Another time.
The Baxter GPs had also sent regrets, saying they’d be on a cruise to the Bahamas for eighteen days. They’d enclosed three one-hundred-dollar bills for Josh. “Knowing Josh,” Denny had muttered, “he’ll probably hand it to the first homeless guy who hits him up for a quarter.”
I’d made a face. “Would buy a lot of college textbooks, but, oh yeah, Josh isn’t going to college next year.”
We’d stopped bugging Josh about college—for now—but it was hard to let it go. Josh was such good college material. He’d probably love it! But he seemed determined to wait a year and do some kind of service work or volunteering after graduation.
Graduation . . . I’d hardly had time to think about—much less plan—any celebration for my firstborn’s high school graduation. I mulled over that one all the way to school . . . but didn’t have time to think about it anymore until I was on my way home again. What did parents do for their high school graduates? A BMW was out. So was a trip to Cancun. My parents gave me a set of indestructible luggage to take me off to college. Still had a few pieces of the ugly things. But for Josh? I didn’t have a clue. Or much money.
So pray about it, Jodi. I dumped my school tote bag, stuffed full of reports I needed to complete, on the dining room table. Pray. OK. Seemed kind of a trivial thing to bother God about when we were sending up urgent prayers about healing for Mark Smith, but . . .
“OK, Jesus,” I said aloud as I let out the dog, poured myself a glass of iced tea, and booted up the computer to check e-mail. “I need some help knowing how to honor Josh at this milestone in his life. He’s a good kid. Thank You for the privilege of being his mom . . .” I stopped what I was doing. Have I ever told Josh that? That I’m proud to be his mom? That he is God’s gift to us? What I appreciate about him? I should. I really should tell him how I feel. Not just a schmaltzy graduation card, but a personal letter. It’d be a start at least.