by Neta Jackson
“I . . . I was just thinking about God’s mercy.”
We just looked at each other for a long moment. And then we were in each other’s arms, crying and holding and praying and thanking Jesus for all that mercy, all that grace God willingly squandered on us.
Never did find where to put the frying pan. I left it on the counter.
NO ARGUMENT WITH THE WEATHER THAT WEEKEND: temperatures securely in the sixties, October skies beaming with sunshine, and playful winds rattling elm trees until the leaves fell in little golden showers. The ushers propped open the double doors of our shopping center sanctuary on Sunday, letting the last of the good weather in—not to mention letting some of our good, rollicking praise music out.
I was so glad to see Florida on Sunday morning. Gave her a big hug, but she didn’t seem her usual self.Tired, she said. I wanted to ask if Chanda had called about paying the bill from the city, but knew I’d be sticking my big foot in it if she hadn’t. “Just pray for us, Jodi,” she said. “Know what I’m sayin’? ”
Oh God, so many things to pray for! I felt like I was falling down on the job. Should be praying for our church, which didn’t even have a proper name yet. (Couldn’t call it Uptown–New Morning forever.) Should be praying for Mark Smith’s full healing, sitting over there beside his beautiful Nony, his wings clipped, the first quarter of Northwestern University’s academic year in full swing without him. There was Becky with Little Andy on her lap, but at the end of the day Andy had to go back to his grandmother. Should be praying for something to move, the earth to shake, walls to come down so Little Andy could come home to his mother. And Stu, her heart enlarged with concern for others—but still estranged from her own parents. Avis and Peter, looking perfect and calm and compatible up there on the first row, but a wound in their blended family tore at Avis’s heart. Oh God, don’t let it tear them apart!
And it’s been a while since you’ve prayed for “that girl,” Jodi, nudged the still, small Voice in my spirit. Pray, Jodi, pray!
I felt so pressed in my spirit—not depressed, just urgent—that I went outside to sit on the porch swing later that afternoon just to pray. Intercessory prayer, Avis called it. Praying for others. Had a few thanksgivings too. Top of the list was the Enriques family. Still could hardly believe how God had put a hedge of protection around Ricardo yesterday!—for Delores’s sake, I was sure. And I sure was thankful that Pastor Cobb had announced a church business meeting that morning for the second Sunday in November, encouraging all the members to be praying for God’s wisdom how best to merge the leadership, activities, and ministries of both churches. Thank You, Lord! Knowing there would be a time to raise concerns and seek solutions would go a long way to calming fears and gossip. Get it all out on the table— “Hey, Jodi. You busy? ”
My eyes flew open. Becky Wallace was peering down at me over the railing of the outside stairs. “Not really. I mean, I was just praying. But that’s OK.What’s up? ”
Becky scurried down the stairs and plopped herself on the bottom step, dressed in her favorite getup: skinny jeans, tank top, and jean jacket. “Talked ta my parole officer yesterday. Monitor comes off first week in November.” She stuck out her left leg, the ankle monitor wedged between her gym shoes and the hem of her jeans.
“Oh! My goodness, Becky! That’s wonderful!” Had it been six months already? !
“Yeah. Thought I’d go crazy sometimes, but the job really helps.” She frowned. “Thing is, I been thinkin’—I want ta get a place of my own so I can work at makin’ a home for Andy. Talked ta Flo ’bout renting that little apartment on their second floor. ’Bout all I can afford on part-time pay. She an’ Carl real excited ’bout it, though. They didn’t want just anybody livin’ there, bein’ so close to the boys’ bedrooms an’ stuff.”
I kept a straight face. But an ex-heroin addict and convicted felon of an armed robbery would be all right, as long as she’s a Yada Yada sister. You’ve got a strange sense of humor, God!
“But I’m kinda nervous ’ bout tellin’ Stu, after all she’s done for me. Don’t want her ta think I’m ungrateful. It’s just . . .” Becky wasn’t even looking at me, just leaning on her elbows and staring at the warped floorboards of the old, weathered porch.
I leaned forward too. “You can’t worry about that, Becky. Living with Stu was just the first step. Of course you need to get your own place.” Might even be a relief to Stu, I thought. But I didn’t say it.
“So could you help me pray about it, Jodi? I’m still not so good at talkin’ ta God. I just know I wanna get Andy back real soon. But . . .” Worry lines between her eyebrows puckered. “I wanna be strong, not get tempted ta slip back into the old ways. Know what I mean? ”
Oh wow. That was a biggie. Living on her own, no supervision, no roommate, maybe months still to go before she got through all the red tape of getting Andy back. She’d only been clean one year, counting her time in prison.
I left the swing and joined her on the bottom step, taking her hands in mine. Long, thin fingers, nails cut short, skin rough from digging in our flowerbeds. Could use some hand cream. “You pray just fine, Becky. But thanks for asking me. I feel honored to pray with you about this.”
I did too. Honored to be part of the miracle that was Becky Wallace.
TEMPERATURES ZOOMED INTO THE EIGHTIES the third week of October before nose-living into the forties on the last Sunday.A nippy reminder that summer was over and winter was just around the corner. The time changed, too, from daylight savings to central standard. “Spring forward, fall back” —gotta turn all the clocks back one hour.
At least this year I remembered. Last year we did the Baxter hurry-scurry to get to church on time—and the door was locked, the street empty. Thought my kids might disown me forever for getting them up an hour early, but as it turned out, the Hickmans forgot, too, so we all went out for breakfast. All the Baxter and Hickman kids had so much fun, they said we should “forget” next year too.
Well, here it was next year.Why not? I called Florida and asked if they wanted to meet somewhere for breakfast on Sunday to celebrate the time change. “Nah, don’t think so, Jodi. Thanks for thinking of us, though.”
Nah, don’t think so? That’s it? “Oh, come on, Flo! We had fun last year, and you could use a little fun.”
“Could use a little more sleep is more like it. Look, Jodi, I ’preciate the thought, but that was a whole year ago.Things was different. Now I’m doin’ good to get Carl an’ me an’ the kids to church period . But I’ll try to make it to Yada Yada this time. Where we meetin’? ”
So we didn’t have breakfast out—couldn’t talk my kids into it, either, especially if no one else was coming—but we did have a good turnout at Yada Yada later that day. Chanda begged us to meet at her new house, now that she had a nanny-housekeeper to finally get the house in shape, to have a “house blessing” like we did at the Hickmans.
Florida sounded a lot spunkier when she showed up at Chanda’s than she had yesterday on the phone. “Girl,” she said, looking Chanda up and down, “you lookin’ good for somebody who’s gettin’ all them radiation treatments. How often ya have to do that thang? Ain’t your hair s’posed to fall out or somethin’? ”
Chanda was making the most of being queen bee, seated in her plush recliner, feet up, while the rest of us milled around, admiring the new house and sampling the dry roasted peanuts, chocolate candies, and dried fruit from little bowls placed around the room. “Sundays are mi best days. Two days rest since mi last treatment!
But Monday tru’ Friday? Ever day, go to de hospital, ever day after feel lak de truck run mi over. An’ t’ree weeks to go!” She shook her head and waved a grateful hand in the air. “But praise Jesus! Still got mi hair! It’s dat chemo make de hair fall out.T’ank You, Jesus!”
As long as Chanda was praising, we decided to go ahead and do the house blessing while we waited for the last few Yadas to arrive—Ruth and Yo-Yo, specifically. “Sí, might as well.” Delores agreed
wryly. “There’s no way Ruth is going up those stairs anyway.”
We clumped up to the second floor, sounding like a herd of heffalumps. The house was a four bedroom, two and a half bath. Cheree and Dia each had a separate room, as well as Thomas and Chanda. No guestroom. The housekeeper—Chanda introduced her as Yohanna Popescu—must not live in. But all the rooms were spotless. A sense of order pervaded the house.
“Lord, thank You for Yohanna!” I prayed as we came out of Chanda’s bedroom with its new bedroom suite, all scrolls and flourishes. (Nony had prayed for the Holy Spirit to speak to Chanda in the midnight hour; Delores had prayed for sweet rest. I wasn’t sure if those prayers negated each other or not! Well, let God sort it out.) “Thank You for the gift Yohanna is to this family, especially as Chanda goes through radiation treatment and regains her strength. Bless Yohanna and the Popescu household as well.”
The Romanian housekeeper must have heard her name, because she stood at the bottom of the stairs as we came down. “Thank you,” she said to me in a heavy accent. “She appreciate it very much,” pointing to herself and giving me a shy smile.
I wanted to hug her but decided not to push my cultural ignorance.
Ruth finally made it, huffing and waving off our chorus of “How are you? ” “What, you want details? I’m here, that’s as good as it gets,” she said, taking over the queen bee’s recliner. Chanda lifted an eyebrow when she came into the room but said not a word, taking up residence on the cushy couch.
Avis kept the rest of the meeting fairly short, given the thorough “house blessing” we’d done. (We’d even prayed over the garage and the Lexus.) We made a lot of noise rejoicing over Delores’s answered prayer for her husband and God’s mighty intervention last weekend. Also did some whooping and praising when Becky, hardly able to contain herself, said that next time Yada Yada met, she’d finally be a free woman.
“Oh, my sister!” Nony bestowed one of her megawatt smiles on BW. “Yes, God wants you free. But write this scripture on your heart.” She flipped open her heavily underlined Bible. “This is what Jesus said about freedom: ‘If you abide in My Word, you are My disciples indeed. And you shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free!’”
“That’s in the Bible? ” Yo-Yo blurted. “Man, I hear that all the time. ‘The truth will make you free, dude.’ But if ya ask me, everybody has their own idea what truth is.”
“Exactly,” Nony said gently. “We pick and choose pieces of God’s Word, and it sounds good even to the world.” She held up her Bible. “But Jesus said, ‘If you abide in My Word,’ that’s the truth that will make you free.”
There was suddenly a lot of page turning as we all looked up what Jesus said in John 8, in our various translations.
“Speaking of someone who needs to be free . . .” Hoshi’s careful Japanese accent stilled the page turning. “I would like to invite my friend Sara to visit Yada Yada, the girl I met in my history class. She—I do not know how to say this exactly—needs friends so much, but she doesn’t let anyone close to her. More than that, she needs Jesus. But . . .” She shrugged. “Since we are meeting at our house next time” —she pointed to herself and Nony— “it’s close to campus, and I thought maybe she would come.”
We looked at each other. A few gave a shrug. For myself, I thought thirteen Yada Yadas was plenty! Could hardly keep up with each other as it was. But how did we say no to someone who needed Jesus?
We didn’t.We all said, well, OK. Next time.
39
November blew in cold and nasty—and so did Stu, showing up at our kitchen door one evening while I was writing reports for parent-teacher conferences. I took one look at her scowl and put on the tea water. “You need chamomile—or valerian,” I said, taking two hot mugs out of the dishwasher, which was on the Dry cycle.
Stu plopped herself on the kitchen stool and glared at me. “Not valerian. Hate that stuff. So, did you know that Becky’s been talking to Florida about renting their apartment? ”
I could pretend innocence. Or I could ’fess up. Better get it over with. “Um, yeah. She asked me to pray about it with her.” I found the box of assorted herbal teas; no chamomile. “Peppermint? Out of chamomile.”
“Oh, great. So I’m the last to know, is that it? ” She ignored the box of tea bags I was holding out to her. “How ungrateful can that sorry excuse for a druggie mother be? And what a dumb idea! Does she have any concept of how hard it’s going to be to get Andy back? She couldn’t even keep her nose clean living here! Should’ve reported her that night we caught her smoking weed on the front porch—”
The teakettle screeched. I poured hot water over two peppermint tea bags.
Stu got off the stool and began to pace up and down our boxcar kitchen. “What’s going to happen when all the restraints are taken off, huh? Tell me that.When her old druggie friends start coming around again, like the loud-mouthed jerk I found in my living room that night, eating all my food. When she’s free to go wherever. When no one’s looking over her shoulder. She’s going to mess up her chances to get Andy back big-time.”
“Here. Drink your tea.” I held out a mug of peppermint tea laced with honey. The minty aroma spiked the air.
Stu stopped pacing. “Did I say I wanted some tea? That’s the trouble with you, Jodi Baxter; you think everything in the world can be fixed with a pasta dish or a mug of hot tea! Why didn’t you tell me about Becky planning to move out? Don’t you think I had a right to know? Some Yada Yada friend you are.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Was I shouting? I took a big breath and dialed it down, then put the mugs of tea back on the counter with a thump, sloshing tea everywhere. “Look here, Leslie Stuart. Don’t make this personal between us. I didn’t think it was my place to be telling you what Becky was thinking. She needed time to think. She asked me to pray with her about it. And just because she wants her own place doesn’t mean she’s ungrateful. Good grief! She told me she appreciated everything you’ve done for her. But that ankle monitor came off this past week.Off! Can you imagine the freedom she feels? Probably so giddy she feels like she could fly—could do anything.”
Stu just looked at me. I took a chance and laid a hand on her arm. “Believe me, Stu, I know this affects you too. I don’t know anyone who would’ve done what you did, taking Becky in.But honestly, I thought this might be good news. You’ve been taking care of Becky’s mess in one way or another for a whole year.Maybe it’s time to get your own life back—your apartment, anyway. And it’s her decision.” I grinned. “At least you’re not having to kick her out.”
Stu absently grabbed a dishrag, mopped up the spilled tea, and picked up a mug. She blew on the tea and took a sip. I let out my breath slowly. Guess she wasn’t going to go off on me. “Yeah,” she mumbled. “But we’d worked out most of the kinks. And I’d kinda gotten used to having someone around. Especially Little Andy on Sunday.”
A renegade tear slid down her cheek. “Guess she won’t need me to pick him up any more. And he—he started calling me Auntie Stu. But now . . .” Her eyes met mine, stricken. “Oh, Jodi.”
I plucked the shaking mug of tea out of her hand and wrapped Stu into my arms. “Oh, Stu, I know, I know . . .” I should have known, anyway. Should have known that Andy had wiggled his hot-chocolate-with-whipped-cream self right into the empty, aching spot left behind by Stu’s own missing child. Heaven’s angel named David.
WHILE I WAS BAGGING UP THE INGREDIENTS for a taco salad the next Sunday before church, I saw Becky and Stu heading for the garage. Probably going to pick up Andy. Huh. We’d have a woman president in the White House before Becky Wallace got a car. I had an idea she’d welcome “Auntie Stu” still doing pick-ups for the weekly visits.
The church business meeting that had been announced for that Sunday had somehow morphed into a potluck meal. Somebody was smart. People would probably be more mellow and friendly after eating together. The fact that it was falling on the second Sunday might also ease some of the grumb
ling from Uptown folks, who’d felt overlooked last month.Today, at least,we’d have a chance to make a decision together about stuff like a monthly potluck.
Or not. It got put on the agenda, along with “New chairs! ” — Stu’s impassioned plea—but it became apparent others had more critical things to talk about. Like what, exactly, was our leadership structure? Would former elders and deacons from both churches simply double up, or would new ones be chosen? Who had input into our music and worship style? Would we have agegraded Sunday school classes for the kids, or a children’s ministry with the kids younger than teens all together?
The discussion got pretty intense, in spite of tons of cold fried chicken (we didn’t yet have a functioning kitchen), potato salad, lukewarm baked beans, taco salad, chips and more chips, fruit platters, and veggie trays. One grievance that got a lot of “amens” was that some of these things should have been decided before we actually merged—leadership structure, for one.
Pastor Cobbs, who was moderating the meeting, leaned aside and conferred with Pastor Clark who sat nearby. Mutt and Jeff, bless ’em. Pastor Clark hunched over, all arms and legs in that wobbly chair, nodded, made some murmured comments, and then sat back. Pastor Cobbs took the mike again. “As your pastors, Pastor Clark and I agree that in many ways the ‘urgent’ has crowded out the ‘important.’We apologize for failure on our part to chart a systematic path toward merging Uptown and New Morning.”
I poked Denny. Pastors who could apologize were a good sign.
Pastor Cobbs cleared his throat. “Admittedly, we are sailing in uncharted waters.We have no maps.That’s why the list of concerns raised today is vital, and we thank everyone for your input. But one thing is clear: there is no way we can reach agreement today on all the issues we’ve put on our agenda.We need to prioritize, and we need to be patient—”
“Pastor? ” Sherman Meeks raised his hand, then stood stiffly to his feet. Beside him, his wife tugged on his jacket sleeve, but he ignored her. “I move that the two pastors and the present elders and deacons of both churches function as a Merger Committee, do the prioritizing, and bring the rest of us some proposals. It’s more important for this here church to get things movin’ than it is for all of us to have a say.”