by Neta Jackson
“Because. Like you said, Denny. Ben’s at least sixty. When they got married ten years ago, he made it clear he didn’t want kids. And recently, when he was bugging her about going to the doctor to see why she was throwing up, so fatigued, all that stuff, she made a wisecrack about maybe being pregnant, and he went ballistic. Said that wasn’t funny, and it was a good thing abortion was still legal.”
Denny made a strangled sound. “He didn’t.”
“He did. Ruth’s really scared to tell him. But she’s just so happy! Her dream of having a family has finally come true! You should have heard Yada Yada screech when she told us. Surprised you didn’t hear it over at the Bagel Bakery.” I shook my head. “Makes me mad that Ben threatened abortion if she ever got pregnant.”
We rode silently for the next couple of miles. Then Denny said, “Maybe he’s scared, Jodi. We’re talking a high-risk pregnancy here. Ben . . . you know how he is. Hides his real feelings under that gruff exterior.” He glanced at me from the driver’s seat. “If we were in their shoes, I’d be scared too.”
RUTH HADN’T SAID ANYTHING ABOUT POSSIBLE RISKS. But she’d be fifty by the time the baby was born. Not exactly prime time for childbearing. I meant to call her the next day and ask about what the doctor said. At least e-mail her to ask how Ben was taking the news. But with Tuesday being the last report card pickup day at Bethune Elementary, I was still plowing through end-of-year reports until midnight Monday evening. Ruth slipped my mind entirely.
I walked into school Tuesday morning feeling smug. Done. Fini. I’d survived another year as a third-grade teacher at Mary McLeod Bethune Elementary School. And all my kids were passing on to fourth grade. Even Kaya, who could barely read at the beginning of the year. She still wasn’t reading at grade level, but she’d come so far!
I’d even written a report for Hakim Porter, though he’d left my classroom six weeks ago. I’d mail it and include my phone number. Maybe his mother would call and tell me how he was doing.
Fat chance, Jodi.
OK, I needed to be realistic. But I was still going to mail it. At least Hakim would know I thought about him. Still cared. Still had positive things to say about his time in my classroom.
As it turned out, I didn’t have to mail it.
I almost missed him in the flurry of parents and students who stopped into my classroom to pick up report cards. Some of my kids showed up with little gift bags—a refrigerator magnet boasting “#1 Teacher,” crackers and cheese, even a colorful neck scarf. There wasn’t really time to talk—just handshaking, some hugs from the kids, hunting for the report that wasn’t in alphabetical order.
As the crowd thinned, I saw him. Sitting at his desk I’d left in its place, the one with the jagged lightning scar he’d scratched in frustration. When my mouth dropped open in delight, he grinned, pleased with his little surprise.
“Hakim!” I squatted down to his level. “I’m so glad to see you! I was going to mail your report card, but”—I gave him a hug; to heck with school policy!—“here you are!”
He just nodded, still grinning.
“Um, did you come with someone?” I glanced around the room, where a few parents and kids still lingered. “Is your mom here?”
His smile dimmed slightly. “She’s waitin’ for me out in the car. I’m s’posed to come right back out.”
“Of course. I’ll get your report card.” I returned to my desk, found the manila envelope, and then realized he’d followed me. The room was almost empty now. On a sudden impulse, I sat down in my desk chair and took his hand. “Hakim. I want to tell you something. I know you know it was my car that hit your brother, Jamal. I’m so sorry about what happened.” Tears welled up in my eyes. “I’ve talked to your mom. But I’ve never told you how sorry I am.”
He nodded, the smile gone, his expression sober. “I know. It was an accident, Ms. B. You didn’t mean to.”
“No. I didn’t mean to.” My voice caught. “But I was still wrong. I wish I could make it right, but I can’t. I learned a hard lesson. But there’s one good thing I thank God for.” I beamed at him in spite of my running nose and eyes. “I met you. You are a special boy, Hakim. I’m proud of you. And I’m glad you’re my friend.”
Hakim just looked at me a moment. Suddenly, he threw himself into my arms and gave me a stranglehold hug. Then, clutching his report card, he was gone.
I COULD HAVE SLEPT IN THE NEXT MORNING. No school! No school! But even without the alarm clock, my eyes popped open at six o’clock. The house was quiet. The morning was still cool. The wind chimes my parents had given me danced and sang in a little breeze. The birds were chirping and trilling—
The birds! I sat up. When was the last time I’d filled my new bird feeder?
I practically bounced out of bed, feeling like a kid who didn’t want to waste a minute of summer vacation. Putting the coffee on, I scurried outside to fill the bird feeder, turned on the sprinkler, unloaded the dishwasher while the coffee took its own sweet time, and finally settled on the back porch swing with my Bible and the biggest mug I could find for my caffeine fix.
Wow, Lord. My heart was so full, I couldn’t think of anything else to say. For several minutes I just soaked up the new morning, watching the birds squabble over the birdseed. Hakim showing up yesterday was such a gift. Wise healer. As far as I was concerned, he was already living into his name. He was getting academic help. He offered me forgiveness in that hug. And yet . . . his family still grieved the loss of their older son.
Joy and sorrow.
I’d called Ruth after report card pickup yesterday. Ben answered. “B-Ben!” I stammered. “How are you?”
He’d muttered something unintelligible, then yelled, “Ruth! It’s for you.”
Ruth picked up an extension. “I’m fine, Jodi. Who wouldn’t be, with ten doctors suddenly interested in the pregnant old woman? Next thing I know, I’ll be giving interviews to the National Enquirer.” Ben, she said, told her all the perils of late-in-life pregnancies at least ten times a day. “Suddenly he’s concerned about my health?” She snorted into my ear. “Mishegaas.”
Joy and sorrow.
And last night, all four of us Baxters went up to the hospital to see Mark Smith. I was still amazed to see his one eye open, to see his head turn at the sound of our voices. Yet it seemed to take him several minutes to register who we were. Nony repeated each of our names slowly. Finally he nodded, a smile twitching on his face.
“I’m hoping we can bring him home soon,” Nony had said to us out in the hallway. “But he’ll need a lot of therapy. Even has to relearn simple things, like tying his shoe. He gets easily frustrated now. And”—her chin trembled—“the doctors think he’s suffered irreparable retinal detachment in his left eye.”
Joy and sorrow.
I’d never realized before how often joy and sorrow walked hand in hand.
A familiar trill interrupted my ping-pong musings. I squinted into the trees along the alley but couldn’t see anything at first. Then—a flash of scarlet landed on top of the garage . . . then down to the gutter . . . fluttering to the bird feeder. I smiled. My “cardinal of hope.”
Hope. I was looking forward to Sunday. The joint thanksgiving celebration was a hopeful sign of something good coming out of Mark’s attack. Yet the police still had no suspects in the case. That stuck in my craw. Those White Pride people were basically getting away with attempted murder—
Pray for the girl, Jodi. Pray hard. Fight for her soul.
Suddenly I knew why God got me up early this morning. I was supposed to pray. Supposed to fight a battle I didn’t understand for someone I didn’t even know. God was up to something. But as Florida always said, “God is God all by Himself!”
I didn’t have to know.
But I did have to pray.
THE FIRST FEW DAYS OF SUMMER BREAK always felt like riding the tilt-a-whirl at a carnival. All our schedules were different now that school was out. And we had one car, three drivers, and four sched
ules to juggle. Only Willie Wonka maintained a steady course: eat, sleep, go outside, pee, poop, eat, sleep . . .
Within a few days, things got sorted out. Denny got his usual jobs coaching at park district programs. Josh applied for a job at a summer day camp in one of the parks since Jesus People said they couldn’t talk about a more extended internship until after the Cornerstone Festival was over. The phone rang relentlessly for Amanda as Uptown moms called to book their favorite babysitter for afternoons at the beach or backyard entertaining while they ran errands. One working mom asked her to be a full-time nanny all summer, but Amanda turned it down. “Sheesh, Mom. I’m just a kid myself.”
Right. I’d remind her of that the next time she wailed, “Mo-om! I’m not a kid!”
Since both Denny and I worked during the school year, we’d decided that one parent should be home in the summer when the kids were out of school, so I’d always had summers “off.” I felt vaguely guilty about it, now that the kids were practically grown and had summer jobs themselves. But right this moment, this week, I was glad. Because I felt like I was on assignment.
God wanted me to pray. Pray hard. For that anonymous girl in the White Pride group. And for Mark and Nony. Ruth and Ben. Delores and Ricardo. Florida and Carl and Chris—well, the whole Hickman family . . .
I had what Avis called an “unction.” I had to pray. Had to. Once I started, I hardly knew where to stop. Even with Mark slowly getting better each day, I felt a burden I couldn’t explain. And so I prayed. Called Avis and told her God wanted us to pray for “that girl.” Called Delores and prayed with her on the phone. Ditto Ruth. Prayed for Becky to find a work-at-home job—and not just because she was borrowing the want ads from our paper every day.
I was praying in the back porch swing early Sunday morning, feeling excited about the joint worship service with New Morning Christian Church that day, when Becky Wallace peeked over the second-floor stair railing. “Hey, Jodi. Know it’s early, but can I borrow the Sunday want ads? Wanna check ’em out before little Andy gets here.”
“Sure. Check the front porch. The paper should be here by now.” She disappeared back inside the second-floor apartment, and I tried once again to focus on my prayers. God, I don’t know what You’re doing in some of these situations, but I want to trust You. To give You praise in the middle of difficulties, not just when the answers come. Your ways are not my ways, Your thoughts are not my thoughts . . . but I want to line up with the Word of God. I want to be so full of the Word, like Nony, that it comes pouring out when I—
A human screech from the direction of the front of the house cut off my prayer like a carving knife. Outside, not inside. “Jodi! Stu! Somebody!” I launched myself off the swing and tore through our house to the front. Becky’s voice. From the front porch.
As I unlocked the front door and tore it open, I heard Denny’s bare feet thudding down the hall right behind me. Stu spilled out from her front door in lounging pajamas, long hair askew. Becky Wallace was standing on the front porch, holding the newspaper, eyes popping. She looked up at us and then held out the paper. “Look!”
Denny snatched it. We all crowded around. There on the front page, the headline blared BREAKTHROUGH IN UNIVERSITY ASSAULT. And a subhead: “Hate group member fingers those responsible for attack on NU professor.”
“Let me see that!” I snatched the newspaper from Denny and began reading the story aloud. “ ‘Evanston police say that a female member of the group calling itself White Pride came forward and—’ ”
The printed words sucked the breath right out of me. “The girl! The girl in the sundress! It’s gotta be!”
43
We turned on the TV and radio. It was all over the Chicago area news. Two men, identified only as members of the Coalition for White Pride and Preservation, had been arrested during the night. Names had not yet been released. The informant was in police protective custody.
Our phone started ringing. Had we heard the news? Yes, yes, praise God for His justice! Everyone had questions. Who was the informant? Why did she decide to turn them in? Who got arrested? Was it any of the White Pride people we’d seen at the rally? Or had they just sent a couple of thugs to do their dirty work? Nobody had answers.
Pray for the girl, Jodi. Keep praying! Put a hedge of protection around her!
Somehow, in the midst of all the excitement, we got ourselves into the minivan and drove to the mall on Howard Street. The large, unfinished storefront with its butcher-paper sign declaring FUTURE HOME OF NEW MORNING CHRISTIAN CHURCH was filling with people. We parked in the mall parking lot and joined the stream of people moving slowly through the double-glass doors. I saw what the hangup was: Pastor Clark, Pastor Cobbs, and Mrs. Cobbs all stood just inside, greeting people with handshakes and hugs. Pastor Clark was introducing Uptown folks to the Cobbs, and vice versa. I couldn’t help but smile. Pastor Clark, tall and gangly, and Pastor Cobbs, shorter, dignified, looked a bit like a fudge ripple version of the old comic-strip characters Mutt and Jeff. Bless them, Father. Bless them!
“Yes, yes, we have met the Baxters.” Pastor Cobbs smiled warmly and shook our hands. Rose Cobbs enveloped me in a warm hug. She smelled like lavender. “Bless you, my sister,” she whispered in my ear. For some reason, her greeting brought tears to my eyes.
Denny nudged me playfully as we moved further inside. “We ought to feel right at home. Look. Uptown’s sorry chairs.”
Sure enough, Uptown’s poor excuse for folding chairs were all mixed in with newer-looking chairs that had Ric’s Party Rentals stamped on the back. I rolled my eyes. Stu better get her chair fund kicking—soon.
As people found seats, my heart swelled to see the Hickman family come in—even Chris, though he certainly was playing up the “gangsta” fashion to the max: baggy jeans ten sizes too big barely hanging on his butt, oversize shirt, gold chains, sullen expression. Oh God, protect that boy. Let something be said today that touches his heart. Carl had Carla by the hand, dressed in a summery knit shift and sandals and looking older than her nine years.
Avis waved at us from the coffee table, but Peter was busy greeting everyone who came within hailing distance. Oh God, is Peter’s dream possible? Could these two churches merge and become one? I shook my head. That definitely fell in the category King David must have been talking about in Psalm 131: “I do not concern myself with great matters or things too wonderful for me. But I have stilled and quieted my soul . . .”
Yes. I needed to leave that one in God’s lap. Today, I was just going to enjoy this extraordinary joint thanksgiving service with New Morning.
The praise band and worship team took their places against the unpainted wall facing the chairs, a fruit salad of Uptown and New Morning musicians. Microphone wires snaked to a soundboard off to the side. I wondered if Nony and the boys would come this morning, but I hadn’t seen her yet. Stu, Becky, and Andy came in and found seats just as Pastor Cobbs tapped on the central microphone. “Are we on? . . . Good.”
A black metal music stand substituted for a pulpit. Pastor Cobbs took the mic out of its stand and cried out, “This is the day the Lord has made! Let us rejoice and be glad in it!” The New Morning keyboardist punched a couple of loud chords to accompany the chorus of “amens” and “hallelujahs” around the room.
“Praise God! Praise God!” Pastor Cobbs walked back and forth at the front of the room. “We are delighted today to welcome Pastor Clark and our brothers and sisters from Uptown Community Church, who have been our gracious hosts this past month. And as you can see . . .” He grinned, waving his free hand at all the unfinished walls and heating ducts overhead. “You’ll probably have to put up with us for a while longer until we get some more work done here.” People laughed appreciatively. No mention of merging, I noticed.
Leave it in My lap, Jodi.
Right. Sorry, God, I forgot.
Pastor Cobbs picked up his Bible from the music stand. “Most of you have probably heard the news this morning—”
&n
bsp; Spontaneous clapping and shouting went up all over the room, drowning out whatever he had planned to say next. When it finally died down, Pastor Cobbs said, “But we’re not here to talk about what the newspapers are saying or the sound bites on TV.” He held his Bible aloft. “We’re here to talk about what the Word of God says about all this!”
Drums and electric keyboard joined the clapping and shouting this time. But Pastor Cobbs held up his hand to quiet things down. “Let me read our text for today, second book of Kings, chapter six, talking here about the king of Aram who wanted the head of the prophet Elisha.”
New Morning’s pastor had a surprisingly dramatic voice as he read: “Therefore . . . they came by night and surrounded the city. And when the servant of the man of God arose early and went out, there was an army, surrounding the city with horses and chariots. And his servant said to Elisha, ‘Alas, my master! What shall we do?’ So he answered, ‘Do not fear, for those who are with us are more than those who are with them.’ And Elisha prayed, and said, ‘LORD, I pray, open his eyes that he may see.’ Then the LORD opened the eyes of the young man, and he saw. And behold, the mountain was full of horses and chariots of fire all around Elisha.”
Pastor Cobbs’s eyes sparked with triumph. “Open your eyes, brothers and sisters! Do not fear! For those who are with us are more than those who are with them! I’m not talking about the police. I’m not talking about the U.S. Army. I’m talking about God’s army that is fighting for us! That has been fighting for our brother Mark Smith even as he lay comatose on that hospital bed! That has been battling this hate group! That is fighting for our families! Fighting for our young people! Fighting Satan’s schemes to keep people of faith separated and suspicious of one another!”
Pastor Cobbs once more held his Bible aloft. “And what are the weapons we possess to fight alongside heaven’s armies?”
By this time, most of us were on our feet. “The Word of God!” several shouted. “Prayer and praise!” “The name of Jesus!”