by Neta Jackson
Well, at least that was good news. I hoped. But after I hung up the phone, I just stood in the doorway between the kitchen and dining room. Argh! Still no answers. And Denny was in the living room glued to the TV, avoiding a decision that would impact our family big-time.My gut still wanted to march in there and scream, “Look, Denny Baxter. I’m next in line at Bethune Elementary to get axed by budget cuts. We’re one hiccup away from being a one-income family.Take the darn promotion!”
I pressed my fingertips to my temple. Supper. I’d come in here to make some supper. I gave up on creativity and pulled out a frozen pizza, struggling to come up with a New Jodi response, not give in to Old Jodi fear and frustration. Decided the first step was to look up the scriptures Avis had suggested. While the oven was heating up for the pizza, I took my Bible out to the swing on the back porch and turned to Psalm 138.
My translation was a little different from Avis’s, but the last verse read, “The Lord will fulfill His purpose for me . . .” Wow. God’s purpose. For me.
I could feel my knotted-up spirit easing. I flipped pages to the book of Proverbs. This one was more familiar. “Trust in the Lord with all your heart; do not depend on your own understanding. Seek His will in all you do, and He will direct your paths.”
I shut the Bible. A flock of sparrows and house wrens hopped around on the ground under the birdfeeder out by the garage, snatching up spilled birdseed. The feeder must be empty—
Trust Me, Jodi. The Voice deep in my spirit was so strong, I stopped pushing the swing with my foot to listen. Trust Me. Seek My will . . . and I will direct your paths. I have a purpose for you—for Denny too. And I will fulfill My purpose. Can you trust Me?
My eyes suddenly got wet. I’d been focusing on the problems, when I needed to be focusing on the promises. In fact, I’d been jumping ahead, assuming problems even before they happened. Trust Me, God said. Could I do that?
The back screen door banged. “Is that frozen pizza for dinner? Want me to stick it in the oven? ” Denny lowered himself to the swing eside me. “Game’s over. Did you, uh, want to talk some more about the job offer? ”
Had to give him brownie points for willingness.
Trust Me . . .
“Nope.” I smiled ruefully. “But that frozen pizza is about as appetizing as painted cardboard. Let’s . . .” I felt reckless. If I was going to trust God with our jobs and our money, maybe God could spring for a pizza. “Let’s walk over to Giordano’s and get the real thing. Before the kids show up.”
AT LEAST DENNY CALLED THE HIGH SCHOOl the next day, told them he was giving the job offer serious consideration and would give them a definite answer in one week. Could they wait that long? According to Denny, sure, they were happy to wait—if he said yes. But they let him know if he dragged his feet and then turned it down, it’d be difficult to find another applicant in time to get the athletic program up and running before school started. “We want you, Baxter,” the principal had growled. “Step it up.”
I called Ruth at least twice that week to find out Ben’s reaction to the news that Ruth was carrying a double blessing and to ask when we could leak the news. The first time, Ben answered the phone. He said nothing about twins, just growled that Ruth was on bed rest for a week “. . . where I can keep an eye on her.” The second time Ruth said, “No, no, don’t tell Yada Yada. I—I haven’t told Ben yet.”
“You haven’t told Ben? ” I screeched into the phone.
“I will! I will! Timing is everything.”
News that big wasn’t going to stay a secret for long. Especially when a bunch of Yada Yadas got together at Chanda’s apartment a couple of evenings that week to help her finish packing. But Florida and I were models of restraint and didn’t say anything. Had to admit Chanda’s apartment was twice as clean as my own house. Guess she hadn’t cleaned North Shore homes for years for nothing. Most of her furniture, however, was destined for the Salvation Army or the dumpster. Chanda had already ordered all new furniture for the new house. Must be nice . . .
Nope, nope.Wasn’t going to go there. I wouldn’t trade Denny and my own family for all of Chanda’s “lottery winnin’s,” even if the most you could say about my decorating style was Early Attic.
Florida took Chanda’s three kids home with her Friday night for a sleepover, to get them out of the way when the movers came on Saturday—though where they were going to sleep was a mystery to me. Florida didn’t even have enough room in the Hickman apartment for her own kids. “Jodi,” Florida said when I dropped them off. “Think your Amanda be willin’ to help me ride herd on these rugrats tomorrow? Maybe we can go to the zoo. Run off all that energy.”
“Just call her,” I said sweetly. I hoped Amanda would say yes. That would be my contribution to the zoo trip.
When I walked in the back door twenty minutes later, Amanda was on the kitchen phone with Florida. “Sure,” she was saying. “José is coming over to hang out with me tomorrow. Can he come too? ” I rolled my eyes. For two fifteen-year-olds who, according to Baxter rules, were still too young to date, Amanda and José managed to spend a lot of time together.
With Amanda off to the zoo the next day, Josh still in the bed after coming in who-knows-when, and Denny meeting at the church with volunteers involved in Uptown’s homeless outreach, Willie Wonka and I had Saturday pretty much to ourselves—something I needed after chasing Ruth around the mall last weekend and ending up at the hospital. I could’ve cleaned out closets, hauled junk out of the basement, or tackled the mending basket piling up in our small bedroom. But the thermometer on the back porch crept steadily toward ninety degrees. Wonka had the right idea—he found a shady corner of the yard and zoned out.
I finally settled for making a humongous pasta salad that would feed my own family plus enough to take to the Sisulu-Smiths and drop off at Chanda’s new house.My mother would be proud of me. Taking covered dishes when people were sick or moved or had babies was the backbone of the church I’d grown up in. Had to do something to show for my day’s work.
I was adding chopped red and yellow peppers to the three large bowls of rigatoni pasta I had lined up on the counter when Josh came wandering through the kitchen still with that bed-head look, tank top hanging out over his wrinkled cargo shorts, looking for something to eat. “Don’t wait supper on me, Mom,” he mumbled from inside the refrigerator, his tattooed arm holding the door open. He backed out with the orange juice. “Don’t know when I’ll be back. Edesa’s meeting me at Jesus People; she wants to see the shelters they run for homeless women and children.”
He faded out the back door, disappearing for the rest of the day. Had we spoken more than thirty words to each other per day for the last three weeks? Seemed like I hardly ever saw my son anymore, and he was still living under our roof.Like Denny, he had one more week working with the city summer camps. Then what?
“He should be getting ready to go to college, that’s what,” I muttered, chopping up all the ham and turkey lunchmeat I could find. But that was a moot point, since he hadn’t followed up on U of I’s acceptance. He kept talking about “volunteering at Jesus People” for a year, but what did that mean exactly? And then there was Edesa.Where did she fit into his plans?
I stopped in midchop. Edesa! I’d told Yada Yada we were going to celebrate Edesa’s birthday at the next meeting, which was tomorrow! But what? We were meeting at Avis’s house, but I couldn’t ask her to come up with a cake at the last minute. Yo-Yo could bring one from the Bagel Bakery, but they weren’t cheap. I leaned my forehead against the nearest cupboard.No, no, no, I really didn’t want to make a cake—
“You OK, Jodi? ”
Becky’s voice at the back door startled me. I hadn’t heard her coming down the back stairs. “Um, sure.What’s up? ”
“Just wanted to know if the washing machine is free.” She held up a bundle of laundry in her arms. “I know it’s not my regular time slot, but . . .”
“Sure. No problem. Neither of my kids are here to do the
ir laundry. Guess they’ll be wearing week-old clothes for a while.” Come to think of it, when was the last time Josh had done his laundry?
I suddenly had a brilliant idea. “Becky, would you like to make a cake for Edesa’s birthday? We’re celebrating at Yada Yada tomorrow night.”
Becky just stared through the screen door. “Me? Bake a cake? ” Her face slowly widened into a grin. “Really? ”
Bless her. Becky making the cake would give me time to hunt for the meaning of Edesa’s name on the Internet. Had the dickens of a time finding it, though. Not on any of the traditional baby name Web sites; couldn’t find “Edesa” under Spanish names either. And, OK, by the time Becky got done borrowing ingredients and asking questions about oven temperatures and pans and recipes, I could’ve made that stupid cake myself.
But I’d started the “meaning of the name” tradition at Yada Yada birthdays; I didn’t want to drop the ball with Edesa. I’d missed her birthday altogether last year when I was still laid up after the accident.
I finally Googled her name—and smiled just as Becky hollered from the back porch, “Hey, Jodi. Wanna see my cake? ” The top layer of the chocolate cake looked like it might slide right off to make two zeroes, but, hey. It was her first-ever cake. And I’d finally found a meaning for Edesa. Becky and I slapped each other’s hands in a high five.
Mutual success.
THE LAST SUNDAY IN JULY promised to be another scorcher. New Morning Christian Church provided the setting for our joint worship service—the spacious “store” they’d leased—but Uptown Community provided the time: nine thirty, the time we normally met on Sunday mornings. Josh left early to help with moving and setting up Uptown’s sound system. Had to bite my tongue when he headed out the door “ready for church,” still wearing those jeans that looked like they’d been through a paper shredder.What was it with Josh? ! First a shaved head, then a tattoo, now he looked like he’d just crawled across America.
Teenagers.
But it sure felt good to breeze into a parking space in the shopping center lot instead of driving around and around the narrow streets off Morse Avenue, trying to find enough space to shoehorn our minivan. The butcher-paper sign on the new store still boasted FUTURE HOME OF NEW MORNING CHRISTIAN CHURCH—ALL ARE WELCOME! Denny and I made our way through the doubleglass doors, propped open in lieu of central air-conditioning, which hadn’t been installed yet. A crew of volunteers from both Uptown and New Morning were still setting up chairs. Uptown’s soundboard rested on two sawhorses, wires running every which way like a spilled bowl of spaghetti; Josh was busy testing microphones and wire connections.
“Brother Denny! Sister Jodi,” called a voice that seemed vaguely familiar. Swiveling my head, I saw the New Morning couple who sat with us at the Second Sunday Potluck two weeks ago coming toward us.
“Debra? ” I ventured. “And Sherman . . . Meeks, right? ” Sherman beamed. The men shook hands. Debra gave me a hug. Oh dear. I’d practically promised to come to a New Morning service some Sunday afternoon.
Debra must have read my mind. “We didn’t make it to your service either. Maybe this” —her hand swept around the room— “is even better.”
Wheezing, Sherman sucked on his inhaler. “I’m going to sit down. Let the young ones do the muscle ministry. Care to join me, Brother Denny? ”
“Uh, was just going to help out a while. Save me a seat.” Denny, suddenly animated, grabbed a couple of chairs off the dolly and whipped them into an unfinished row.
Debra and I cut our eyes at each other and grinned. “Guess your Denny isn’t ready to be classified with the geezers who sit and watch,” she chuckled.We chatted a few more minutes, then hustled to our seats as the combined praise teams from both Uptown and New Morning struck up the first song. Instead of a lively gospel song as I expected, the first song started out slow and simple . . .
I love to worship You,
I love to worship You . . .
A lot of Uptown people seemed to be missing. Were they on vacation? Forget we were having a joint service? Florida and Carl came in a few minutes late with kids in tow—no Chris, though. As Florida had predicted, Carl was more likely to show up at our joint service. Across the room, Avis lifted her hands in praise, eyes closed, singing the words from deep inside. Peter Douglass, her more reserved husband, nodded in time to the repeated words. I felt that familiar tug in my gut, realizing that Peter Douglass and Carl Hickman would naturally be more at home in a church where they weren’t the “token black men” ; at the same time, I was afraid Uptown would lose their wives—my Yada Yada sisters, my friends—who’d been brave enough to grace our little church with their presence, nudging us toward becoming a “house of prayer for all nations,” even if we weren’t there yet.
I love to worship You,
I love to worship You . . .
Somehow I missed seeing Nony come in with her two boys. But a flash of a royal blue head wrap caught my eye and there they were, sitting near the front. She, too, seemed to be embracing the words of the song with her whole self, oblivious to those around her. I didn’t see Mark or Hoshi. The Japanese student must have stayed behind so Nony could make it to church. Bless her, Jesus. She had such a servant heart.
I love to worship You,
I love to worship You . . .
I squeezed my eyes shut. Stop it, Jodi Baxter. Think about the words. Are you here to count noses or worship? I kept my eyes shut and just soaked up the voices all around me, singing from their hearts. “I love to worship You . . .”
Yes, yes. I do love to worship You, Jesus. I lifted my own arms, and found myself reaching up, up. Yes, yes, I love to worship You . . .
But when the joint service was over a couple of hours later, I realized the missing Uptown people never did show up.
13
The missing Uptown people bothered me all afternoon. It was just a “brotherly” worship service with the church that was using our building, for Pete’s sake! And yet, maybe the idea of a “church merger,” though only mentioned at the men’s breakfast, had gotten around. Denny told me not to make too much of the absentees—after all, it was midsummer. Sunday attendance was often down this time of year.
They’d missed some great worship, though. The joint service lasted a good two and a half hours, but that still got us out around noon. Theoretically, anyway. “Hug somebody! Hug somebody!” Pastor Cobbs encouraged after the last prayer. He and Pastor Clark had shared the service, focusing on how worship itself can bring people together across our differences, because the attention is on God, not on ourselves. A good message for two churches sharing the same space, even temporarily. Most people seemed eager to stand around and talk afterward. Some kind soul from New Morning had plugged in a huge coffeepot, and I think we drained the tank, in spite of the muggy heat.
When Denny realized Yada Yada was meeting at the Douglass’s apartment that evening, he called Peter and offered to liberate him, go to the Heartland Café for iced coffee or something. “I’ve got something I’d like to talk to you about, anyway,” I heard him say into the phone.
Denny dropped me off, along with Becky and the lopsided cake, and told us to send Peter down. Stu was driving Little Andy home after his Sunday visit, said she’d meet us there.We had to walk up to the third floor, but at least Avis and Peter’s apartment was air-conditioned. “Thank ya, Jesus!” Florida said when she arrived, plopping into one of Avis’s eige-and-black armchairs. “Hot day like this is a good reminder I don’t wanna go to hell.Mm-mm. Avis, can I sleep on yo’ couch tonight? This cool air sure does feel good.”
Frankly, I was kinda surprised Avis and Peter had decided to stay in her apartment after they got married—the same apartment where Avis and her first husband, Conrad Johnson II, had lived happily with an “empty nest.” But it was a lovely apartment, nestled among the tops of the elms lining the narrow street, with polished wood floors, bookshelves covering whole walls, pictures of her grandkids, and framed artwork. Just being there
made me feel so . . . peaceful, even when it filled up with our motley crew of Yada Yada sisters.
And fill it up we did! Even Nony and Hoshi. A couple from New Morning Church had offered to visit Mark that evening, Nony explained. “Mark would be livid if he suspected he was being babysat,” she added sheepishly. “I convinced him Sister Debra and Brother Sherman had come to play with the boys.”
Debra and Sherman Meeks.Of course. The sweet older couple from New Morning just went up another two notches in my estimation.
A conversation in rapid Spanish floated up the stairwell, then Delores and Edesa burst into the apartment. Edesa immediately kicked off her sandals and padded across Avis’s wood floor in her bare feet. “Edesa’s birthday? ” Delores Enriques mouthed at me, her back to the younger woman.
“Sí,” I whispered, using up half of my Spanish vocabulary.
The black Honduran college student spun around on her bare feet, arms wide as she gazed admiringly at the spacious front room. “Ah. Someday I will have an apartment like this, so mi familia can come to visit. My apartment is—how do you say? Pequeño, like a dollhouse.”
“You are so tiny, mi hermana, a dollhouse is all you need.” Delores gave me a wink. One birthday celebration, coming up.
I was surprised to see Ruth, though.Wasn’t she supposed to be on bed rest? She arrived muttering and out of breath. “Would an elevator be asking too much? ” She collapsed into another overstuffed armchair. “Next time, Yada Yada better be ground level, or Ruth and her cargo stay home.”
Yo-Yo, bringing up the rear, hooted. “Yo, Ruth. Cussing out each stair in Yiddish didn’t help any.”
Ruth sniffed. “I wasn’t cussing.”
“Ha. I know cussing when I hear it. No matter what language. ” Yo-Yo plopped on the floor beside Ruth.