by Neta Jackson
Pick me up? That must mean . . .
Sure enough. There she sat in the school parking lot behind the wheel of a sleek, brand-new, slate gray Lexus. “Wow!” I said, sliding into the front seat. That new car smell—part leather, part ocean breeze, part excitement—kissed the interior. “You did it! You got your license, you got your car . . . Congratulations, girl!” I leaned over and gave Chanda a hug, then double-checked my seat belt,wondering if I was a guinea pig for Chanda’s maiden voyage as a driver.
“Surprise!” I jumped—well, jerked is more like it, given how tight I’d pulled the seat belt—as Thomas, Cheree, and Dia all screeched from the backseat, where they must have scrunched down, hiding from their prey. “Do you like it? ” “Isn’t it fancy? ” “We got the bestest car on our whole block!”
I needn’t have worried about Chanda’s driving. She crept along at twenty-five miles an hour, the kids chattering the whole way, until she reached Evanston Hospital and pulled into the small parking lot next to the Kellogg Center. The cancer unit. She didn’t say much to me, but while we sat in the waiting room, she pulled out snacks, activity books with mazes and puzzles, even Dia’s favorite stuffed animal, a snuggly black and white dog. “To-mas! ” she ordered when a nurse called her name. “You kids be quiet here, now. Mama in no mood to give you t’ree a whippin’, but mi will, from bigg’un to little’un if you don’ behave. Sista Jodee going wit mi.” All three kids meekly nodded.
In the consultation room, the nurse gave Chanda one of those ugly hospital gowns—the kind that make you feel sick just putting it on—and she hugged it around herself as she sat shivering on the paper-covered examining table. I took her hand, trying to reassure her. It was icy cold.When the doctor came in, I faded into a corner with a pen and notebook. As scared as Chanda was, I was pretty sure she wouldn’t remember a thing the doctor said afterward. He seemed like a kind man, even gentle as he examined Chanda’s breast. Her eyes were squeezed shut. “I’d like to do another needle biopsy,” he said. “This lump is very suspicious, and I don’t want to take any chances.” He smiled warmly at Chanda. “And neither do you, Ms. George.”
While the doctor did the biopsy, I took the elevator to check on Chanda’s kids. I peeked into the waiting room. All three were immersed in the books their mother had brought. I left without disturbing them, anxious to get back to Chanda. “Like they say,” I murmured, punching the elevator button, “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”
We waited a long time for the doctor to come back after the biopsy. We even started singing, Hold to His hand, God’s unchanging hand!” to pass the time, giggling as we tried to sing a beltitout gospel song in quiet hospital tones. At which point the doctor came back in, catching us in the middle of “If by earthly friends forsaken—”
The doctor said the biopsy was still inconclusive but troubling. “The best thing to do is schedule a lumpectomy and send it to the lab on the spot. If it’s not cancer, we’re done! Sew you up, you can go home the same day.” He allowed a brief smile. “But if there are cancer cells, we will need to remove the sentinel, or gateway, lymph nodes, and get those analyzed. If the cancer has not spread, again, we’re done.” He cleared his throat, not exactly looking at Chanda. “But if the cancer has spread to the sentinel nodes, we will need to assume the cancer has spread to other lymph nodes, remove them, and, ah, if necessary do a mastectomy. It all depends what we find when we go in there.”
Chanda just stared above the doctor’s head. She seemed to be in shock.
I spoke up. “Do you mean that Chanda won’t know when you put her under whether or not she’ll have a breast when she wakes up? ”
The doctor looked truly regretful. “Well, we could just do the lumpectomy and then do a second surgery if we need to do a mastectomy. But surgery is surgery, Mrs. Baxter. There’s always a risk. You don’t want to do two if you can do it all in one.”
He scheduled surgery for the following week.
Chanda was so shook after we left the Kellogg Center, she handed me the keys to the new Lexus. “You drive, Sista Jodee.” And she climbed into the front passenger seat. The three kids, sensing all was not well, climbed wordlessly into the backseat and put on their seat belts without being reminded. I realized arguing was useless. But now I was the one driving twenty-five miles an hour back to Rogers Park. No way was I going to be the first one to put a scratch on Chanda’s dream car.
But when I pulled up in front of our stone two-flat, I took one look at Chanda and realized there was no way in good conscience I could let her just drive back home. “Chanda? ” I laid a hand on her arm. “You and the kids want to stay for supper? ” I knew I was crawling out on a limb—waaay out—inviting the George family to Josh’s birthday supper unannounced. But I felt the Holy Spirit prodding me, and I figured, Hey! If God’s kicking my rear,He’ll make it all right with Josh too.
But just in case God was busy taking care of Chanda and Josh and didn’t have time for the new Lexus, I parked it in our space in the garage and double-checked the garage doors to make sure they were locked.
32
Ha. Should’ve known God’s plans were bigger than my plans. Cheree and Dia were beside themselves with glee that they were “eating over,” and clamored immediately to run up the back stairs to see Becky the Babysitter. When Chanda and I got in the house, Amanda poked her head into the kitchen. “Mom! You better listen to—oh, hi, Mrs. George. Anyway, there’s a phone message from Josh. Birthday’s off.”
Birthday’s off? What in the world? I punched the blinking button on the answering machine. “Mom? Dad? Anybody? This is Josh. I’m just leaving work—Mr. Douglass let me leave early. Got a call from Manna House. They had a break-in last night; a lot of the women and kids are scared.They’re asking two or three of the male volunteers to sleep over tonight till they get security tightened up. Sorry about your birthday plans. Can I take a rain check tomorrow? If you need to reach me, here’s the number down there . . .”
Chanda’s face puckered into a disapproving frown. “Nah, nah, Sista Jodee. You didna tell mi it was de boy’s birt’day! What busi ness you got inviting we to stay for dinner, an’ he not know? ”
I shrugged, pasting on a nonchalant smile. “Well, see? It all works out. He won’t even be here tonight.” Though I intended to call my son tonight and tomorrow morning to be sure he was safe. Break-in? What kind of break-in? !
WE THREE BAXTERS and Chanda’s crew did a complete number on the szechuan noodle salad I’d made ahead of time—a new recipe I’d wanted to try out on Josh, who loved pasta anything—which was supposed to be our “farewell to summer” birthday feast.Didn’t matter that there were no leftovers. Joshua elected to stay through the weekend at Manna House “. . . just as a precaution. Edesa says to tell you she’ll try to make Yada Yada Sunday night, though.”
Should’ve guessed that Edesa would be there too.
All of which meant that Josh missed the last Sunday worship service at Uptown Community. It would be New Morning’s last Sunday using Uptown’s space as well. The following Sunday, the first Sunday in October, we would meet together as one church for the first time.
Whew. Was this really happening? I plunked into a chair in the third row beside Denny, almost feeling nostalgic about the torture chairs. Had to keep telling myself we’d outgrown the building and would be selling it anyway, even if we weren’t merging with New Morning’s congregation.
We’d been at Uptown Community Church as a family for over two years. Felt like two lifetimes.To the casual observer, the Baxter family probably looked pretty much the same as we did in Downers Grove, with the exception of a few more gray hairs and one garish tattoo. But to me, our whole lives had been turned upside down—or maybe rightside up—in those two years. And it was about ready to go into another dizzy—
“Jodi!” Florida whispered over my shoulder. “What’d the doc say about Chanda’s lump? Didn’t you go with her? ”
“Yeah. She’ll probably tell everybody at Ya
da Yada tonight,” I whispered back.
“Tell me now!”
But just then Avis’s voice rang out from the front. “Good morning, church!”
Little Andy Wallace yelled, “Good morning, Miss Avis!” from somewhere behind me, outdoing all the other “Good mornings” put together and winning chuckles.
“No wonder Jesus said, ‘Become like little children,’ ” Avis teased. “For our call to worship this morning, I’m taking a few liberties with Psalm 118, adapting the psalmist’s praise to this time and this place and this people—and, church, I want you to imitate Little Andy’s gusto with your part of the litany.” She smiled and began: “Oh, give thanks to the LORD, for He is good!”
“For His mercy endures forever!” we all responded.
“Let Uptown Community Church now say . . .”
“His mercy endures forever!”
“Let Pastor Clark now say . . .”
Pastor Clark’s large Adam’s apple bobbed as he called out: “His mercy endures forever!”
“Let the Uptown teens now say . . .”
The teens yelled: “His mercy endures forever!”
“Let the Hickman household now say . . .”
“His mercy endures forever!” Florida shouted. Carl and Cedric ducked as if embarrassed.
Avis continued naming different families and singles for whom “His mercy endures forever,” and a wonderful thing happened:The rest of us grew quiet and only family or solitary voices responded: “His mercy endures forever!”
“Let the Baxter family now say . . .”
Denny squeezed my hand, and we spoke together: “His mercy endures forever!” Yes, it was true. So true.
Finally Avis said: “Let all those who fear the Lord now say . . .”
“His mercy endures forever!”
“Oh give thanks, Uptown Community Church, for He is good . . .”
And we all joined in: “His mercy endures forever.”
It was inevitable that we would sing, “The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases, His mercies never come to an end . . .” I turned slightly and tried to make eye contact with my Yada Yada sisters—Avis, Stu, Becky, Flo—scattered among the congregation. We’d sung that song at our last prayer meeting. And it hit me: out of thirteen Yada Yadas, there were already five of us at Uptown.When we merged with New Morning next Sunday, there’d be two more, Nonyameko and Hoshi—seven of us, all in the same church! What was God doing?
Pastor Clark preached on the third chapter of Philippians, where the apostle Paul said, “I am still not all I should be, but I am focusing all my energies on this one thing: Forgetting the past and looking forward to what lies ahead, I strain to reach the end of the race and receive the prize for which God, through Christ Jesus, is calling us up to heaven.” In a gentle voice, he recalled many of the good things God had done at Uptown since the beginning twenty years ago. “But if we only look back, and not forward, the row we’re plowing will get crooked and off track.” His craggy Ichabod Crane face smiled. “Forgive the farming metaphor, but I grew up on a farm, unlike most of you . . .”
Our pastor didn’t speak long. Instead, he said he wanted to allow time for others to share their thoughts at this important juncture in the life of our church, one that had few precedents in our modern time. “That’s all right, Pastor.” Florida waved her hand in the air. “Jus’ means we gotta trust God all the more.”
The room stilled, with only the creaking of plastic-and-metal chairs as people tried to relieve their backs. Then Bob Whittaker stood up. “Well, might as well get this over with. Me and Ann” — he indicated his wife— “we’ve been talking and praying, and want you all to know this is our last Sunday with you all.” Dismay murmured across the room. “This church votes by majority, and the majority decided to merge with New Morning.We don’t feel bitter about that; it was a fair vote. But we voted no with the minority, and we still do not feel called to make this move. We’re disappointed, because we’ve been here at Uptown for almost ten years. I just ask one thing: don’t judge us; don’t make us wrong because we’re going a different way. We bless you; we wish you all the best. We ask the same from you.”
Before Pastor Clark could respond, Brenda Gage stood up, jiggling her baby,who was drooling all over her arm. “Uh, that goes for the Gages too.This is our last Sunday.We stayed out the month, but we won’t be going with you all to New Morning. It’s . . .” She searched for words. “Well, just not the right fit for us. But we want you to know we love you all.” She sat down and burst into tears.
To my shock, two other families and three singles got up and announced they were leaving as well. This was good-bye.
I was floored. Eleven people, good-bye, just like that? I felt upset, but wasn’t sure at whom. How could I have been so oblivious? I knew it was a stretch for some folks—for all of us in one way or another—but I’d presumed folks who intended to leave would have drifted away before now.My upset was a little mad too. How many got the courage to bail out just now when they realized a few other folks weren’t going along?
Pastor Clark beckoned to Avis, as worship leader, to join him, then called those who had just spoken to join them at the front. “You have each been an important part of our body here at Uptown Community, and we thank God for you. But we release you with our blessing. Come on, church. Let’s gather around our brothers and sisters and thank God for their faithful service here, and send them out with our blessing.”
OK, I needed that.My mad melted, and I joined the circle at the front as hands were laid on bent heads and shoulders. I heard tears along with the prayers. For some reason, I thought of the tears the prostitute cried over Jesus’ feet: No words were adequate really, just washing away the dust of our road together, aware of our own fallenness. At the same time, tears of gratitude—gratitude for all God had done already and was going to do.
I WAS STILL TRYING TO SORT OUT MY MIXED FEELINGS about the members who’d parted ways with Uptown as I headed up to Stu’s apartment later that day for Yada Yada—and ran into Josh and Edesa dragging up the front steps from their long weekend at Manna House. Josh looked like he’d hardly slept the last two nights. “Hi,Mom,” he mumbled. He gave Edesa a tired hug. “Bye, Desa.” And he disappeared into the house.
Great timing.He’d be zonked by the time I got home from Yada Yada, and we still hadn’t celebrated his birthday yet. I peered at Edesa closely. “Josh looks like he just crawled off the Sahara.What about you? Should you even be here tonight”
She smiled briefly, but the usual sparkle was missing. “Sí. I’m all right. I got more sleep than Josh did. But . . .” Edesa shrugged, slim hands thrust into the pockets of her jeans, overnight backpack slung over one shoulder of her jean jacket. “Two nights at the shelter was difficult, with the niños crying at night. But I have an apartment waiting for me. I used to think it was small, but I won’t complain again. I heard many sad stories. Some of those women . . .” She bit her lip. “They have no casa, no place to go.”
I gave her a hug and opened Stu’s screen door to get us inside. The temperature, which had only hit fifty that day, was starting to fall and I didn’t have a jacket on; I thought I was just going to bop out my front door and up to Stu’s apartment. But just then a North Surburban YelloTaxi pulled up and Chanda climbed out. “You go on,” I said to Edesa and waited for Chanda.
“Where’s the Lexus? ” I teased as I followed her up the stairs. Chanda didn’t answer. “Chanda? You OK? ”
She threw me an irritated glance over her shoulder. “Why should mi be OK, Sista Jodee? Dey going to carve mi up like de pumpkin heads at Halloween, dat’s all!” And she stalked into Stu’s living room, plopping herself down on Stu’s futon couch.
I followed. “Chanda,” I whispered. “You need prayer, and that’s why we’re here—to pray.” She nodded, puddles in her eyes, and helped herself to some apple slices and caramel dip on the coffee table.
By the time we’d cleaned off Stu’s plate of apple slices
and caramel dip, almost everyone had arrived—even Nonyameko and Hoshi this time. Good. I wanted to ask Nony about the mood at New Morning.Were people there leaving too?
Yo-Yo was the last to arrive. “Ruth says Happy New Year to y’all,” she said, flopping on a floor cushion. “Beth Yehudah is celebrating Rosh Hashanah, ya know.”
Becky snorted. “Never heard of Rosh Hashanah till I started workin’ at the Bagel Bakery. Still don’t get why Jews got their own new year.”
Yo-Yo made a face. “Ask Ruth next time. She’ll talk your ear off.”
Everybody was there who was going to be there, but Avis made no move to start us off. In fact, she seemed off in the ozone some-where. Finally Delores said, “Avis, if it is all right with you, I will begin with prayer, sí ? ”
And she did. I loved to hear Delores pray, peppered with Spanish words and phrases, as if she was most comfortable praying in her primary language. “. . . and we invite Your presence tonight, Espirito Santo. Lace our hearts together and make us one people. Gracias, Jesús. Amen. ”
That prayer was right on the money, I thought.
Somebody started “Blessed be the name of the Lord!” which we sang with gusto: “The name of the Lord is . . . a strong tower! ” Afterward Nony opened her Bible and read the verse in Proverbs 18 it was based on: “The name of the Lord is a strong tower; the righteous run to it and are safe.” So we sang it again: “The righteous run into it . . . and they are saved!” Even Chanda.
The song died away.We all looked at Avis. Finally Adele harrumphed. “Sister Avis. You got something we need to pray about? ”
Avis looked so surprised it was almost comical. “I’m sorry. I . . .” She shook her head, then allowed a big sigh. “I’m sorry. I just—”
“Girl! Quit apologizin’!” Florida cut her off. “You see anybody in this room ain’t got problems? Just spit it out. We’re listenin’.”