The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Caught

by Neta Jackson

  “I second that motion!” someone called out.

  The two pastors exchanged glances. “All right. We have a motion and a second. Everyone in favor—”

  There was a chorus of “ayes” all over the room.

  “Opposed? ” There were a few “nays” as well.

  Pastor Cobbs looked pleased. “Well, then, maybe we should adjourn—”

  “Pastor? ” This time it was Debra Meeks who raised her hand. “I know things like the potluck we enjoyed today aren’t exactly at the top of that priority list. But fellowship should e. We are two churches who’ve jumped into the same pot, and we need to get to know each other while all the structures and programs are getting hammered out. What better way to fellowship than around the table? So I move that we continue Uptown’s tradition of Second Sunday Potluck. Make it temporary if you’d like.”

  “I second that motion!” Florida called out.

  “I third it!” Becky Wallace said.

  Laughter and a groundswell of clapping broke out around the room. Pastor Cobbs smiled and raised both hands. “I take it that’s an ‘aye’? ”

  Well, well. Bully good for Sherman and Debra Meeks. I caught Debra’s eye and gave her a thumbs-up and my biggest grin.

  “Pastors? ” Avis Johnson-Douglass stood to her feet. Her hair was swept into a French twist in back, with soft tendrils falling on one side. She wore an elegant shawl with rosy flowers on a dusky background. I felt a pang. Avis’s loveliness always shone from the inside out, almost breathtaking.Did she know how beautiful she was?

  “—our first priority should be prayer,” she was saying. Obviously, she wasn’t thinking about her loveliness. “Prayer for our pastors, prayer for the current leaders as they tackle the things on that agenda. Prayer for the Holy Spirit to make this merger a light and a witness to the world. Not programs and structures first. Prayer first.” She sat down.

  “I second that too!” Florida sang out.

  By the time the first business meeting of Uptown-New Morning broke up, it was three o’clock in the afternoon, the sun was already sinking westward, and we had four “temporary” decisions: an acting leadership group, two fellowship times (the men’s breakfast got thrown in as a rider), and a weekly prayer meeting.

  We’d done some good praying too. Now I couldn’t wait to get home, get out of my nylons and heels, maybe soak in the tub, and get in my jammies early.

  That little bubble burst when I saw Florida, Stu, Becky, and Avis clustered around Nony by the front door, talking, shaking heads. All Yada Yada sisters. I smacked my forehead. “Oh, no,” I groaned.

  “What? ” Denny was collecting our salad bowl and tongs.

  “Yada Yada is supposed to meet at Nony’s house tonight! But maybe Nony’s canceling,” I added hastily and headed in that direction. Who could blame her? It’d already been a long day. I’d go over and cast my vote for calling it off.

  “YOU’RE STILL GOING TO YADA YADA TONIGHT? ” Denny looked at me as if I’d just announced a trip to the moon.

  “Not if it was up to me,” I grumbled. “I think everybody wanted to cancel, even Nony, but Hoshi invited somebody from school and I guess she’s coming. Nony didn’t want to disappoint Hoshi or her guest.” I sighed. “And then there’s Delores and Edesa and Ruth and Yo-Yo and Adele and Chanda. It was Adele’s birthday last week too. If we skip tonight, that means a whole month not seeing half the group or praying together.”

  Denny frowned. “Where was Hoshi? I saw her earlier, but not during the business meeting.”

  “She took Nony’s boys home. Nony said she was preparing a special treat to have tonight since we were having a guest.”

  “Yeah,well . . .” Denny sighed. “Guess I see why you can’t cancel. But something’s gotta budge, Jodi. You can’t do church, potluck, business meeting, and Yada Yada all on the same Sunday.”

  I rolled my eyes and booted up the computer. “Tell me about it.”

  “What are you doing now? ”

  “Making a birthday card for Adele. ‘Noble, kind’—remember? ”

  A wry smile slipped on his face. “Oh, right.Last year.When she wasn’t speaking to anybody. Especially me.”

  I winced. “Oh, Denny. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring that up.”

  He waved me off. “Nah, it’s OK. That was then. This is now.” He left me to the computer. A moment later, he was back. “What’s Mark going to do while you women ‘yada yada’? Maybe I’ll go along. It’s been a while since we got to just hang out.”

  “WHAT? JUST ONE CARD? NO MONEY? ” Adele’s hoop earrings jangled as she shook the card several of us had managed to sign right under her nose that evening. “Last year y’all sent me a whole bunch of cards.”

  “Yeah,well,we were trying to kill you with kindness back then,” I tossed back. “This year, one card, but you get twelve hugs. Well, maybe ten. Or eight.” Not everyone had shown up. And those of us who had were stalling until Hoshi arrived with her guest.

  Nonyameko swept in with Hoshi’s special treat and set it on the coffee table of the family room as Adele read the inside of her card aloud: “‘Adele. From the German Adelheid’ . . . Adelheid!” she snorted. “Lord, have mercy . MaDear had no idea!”

  I snatched the card. “Here, I’ll read the rest. ‘A combination of athala, meaning ‘nobility,’ and heid, ‘quality,’ meaning ‘from noble ways.’” I simpered at her, and continued reading. “‘Adele, you reign like a queen, lofty and serene, your words are few, but they always ring true. Happy birthday, our Noble Adele, from all the Yada Yadas!’”

  Yo-Yo, Stu, and Becky clapped and whistled. Delores and Edesa laughed. “Feliz cumpleaños, Adele!”

  But Adele just lifted an eyebrow at me. “Don’t quit your day job, Jodi.”

  Yo-Yo eyed the little squares of flat cake. “Hey, Nony. Can we eat? What is it? ”

  “Hoshi said sweet rice-flour and coconut cake, or something like that,” Nony said absently. “I wonder where she is? It’s starting to get dark out there.” She headed for the front door, her at-home caftan flowing with her.

  I zipped after her. “Feel free to send Denny to pick them up if you want. He won’t mind.” By this time Nony had the door open. “Oh,” I said. “Then again, maybe not.”

  Denny and Mark were standing in front of the Sisulu-Smiths’ Audi sedan out by the curb, their heads under the hood with a trouble light.

  Nony stood at the top of the stoop and peered down the street. The sun was gone, but streaks of pink and gold tipped the tops of the almost bare trees along the parkway, creating a blue and lavender twilight. “Oh, there they are.” Relief almost giggled in her voice. She waved. “Hello Hoshi! Hello, Sara! Welcome!”

  The two men pulled their heads out from under the car hood in casual curiosity as Hoshi and her friend approached the house.My insides smiled. Definitely a study in contrasts. Hoshi’s willowy height and dark, swinging ponytail flowed along the sidewalk like a gentle stream. Her friend—shorter, pale eyes, yellowy hair—scurried alongside with nervous rabbit steps. And somehow . . . familiar.

  Suddenly the young woman with Hoshi stopped dead in her tracks. She stared at the two men, her pale eyes rounding in fright. Her head jerked and she looked toward us on the steps—but not at us. Looking at the house. But I had a full view of her face.

  My heart tightened in my chest. I could hardly breathe.

  “What is it, Sara? ” Hoshi asked kindly, taking her arm.

  The young woman’s eyes locked on mine for half a second; then she took another frightened glance toward Mark and Denny. She jerked her arm out of Hoshi’s grasp. “You—you tricked me! You brought me here? ” Her voice was almost a screech. “How could you, Hoshi? !” And the pale young woman spun around and ran—fled! —back the way they had come.

  Hoshi’s hands flew to her mouth in total bewilderment as she watched her new friend disappear.

  “Lord Jesus, have mercy on us! What was that about? ” Nony hurried down the short walk to Hosh
i’s side. “Hoshi, are you all right? ” Her arm encircled Hoshi’s shoulders, pulling her close.

  I looked at Denny. I looked at Mark. Neither man had said a word. Both men seemed in shock. They knew. I knew.

  The young woman fleeing down the street had been to this house before. Had been at the racist rally with the White Pride people. Had probably been the one who’d bravely tipped off the police, leading to the arrests of the monsters who had beaten up Mark Smith and left him for dead.

  The girl with no name I’d been praying for, for months.

  “That girl.”

  Sara.

  40

  M ark Smith muttered something sharp under his breath, shattering the frozen tableau. Throwing down the greasy rag he’d been holding, he strode quickly toward the house, stumbling on the bottom step. “Mark! ” Nony ran after him. “Mark, be careful! What’s wrong? Denny, come, please!”

  My husband ran to Mark’s side. Mark brushed off Nony’s and Denny’s help and stumbled inside on his own steam; the three disappeared inside.

  Hoshi’s eyes were wide with confusion. “Jodi? What is happening? I do not understand.”

  I took her hand. “Come on. Let’s get inside out of this damp air.” How did I tell her about this? She couldn’t have known. She hadn’t been to the rally. Had no reason to make a connection. Nony, either, for that matter.

  In the family room, the waiting Yada Yadas started to babble welcomes as Hoshi entered, then faded when they saw she was alone. “Where’s your friend? ” Yo-Yo asked bluntly. “Thought she was comin’ tonight.”

  I glared them all into silence with a shake of my head. I wished Nony would come back in. But minutes passed, and she didn’t return. Avis hadn’t made it tonight; too tired after the church marathon that day. Neither had Flo. So I held Hoshi’s hand and told them that this girl, Sara, had been at the rally last spring with the White Pride people, that Mark had recognized her then as one of the pair passing out hate literature in this neighborhood. “And when she saw Mark outside this house tonight . . .”

  Hoshi began to weep. “Oh. I have hurt Dr. Smith and Nonyameko. I have brought their enemy to this beloved house.They have given me a family, trusted me with their children—and look what I have done!” She buried her face in her hands, her dark hair spilling over her shoulder.

  “Hoshi, baby.” Adele’s strong voice and massive presence moved to Hoshi’s side. “Why you makin’ this your fault? You didn’t know who she was. Mark and Nony aren’t going to blame you. They’re bigger than that. Fact is, God is bigger. God knew who she was. God sent you to reach out to her, baby, to be her friend—”

  “Yeah.” Becky butted in. “An’ ain’t she the one who ratted on the guys who beat up Nony’s husband? Doesn’t that make her one of the good guys? ”

  “Well, we think she is. The papers never named her,” I said.

  Hoshi slowly raised her head and looked at Adele. “God sent me? ”

  “God sent you, honey.” Adele laid a hand on Hoshi’s silky head and began to pray. We all gathered around Hoshi, touching her, holding her hands, giving her tissues, praying words of comfort and hope and blessing for listening to God, for reaching out to that hurting girl in her class, for making her a friend. We prayed for Mark, who’d been through so much, who’d had a shock tonight. We prayed for Nony, who only tonight had learned the identity of Hoshi’s friend.

  And we prayed for Sara. I prayed for her. Prayed that she would know that Hoshi only wanted to be her friend, that what happened tonight wasn’t a trick or a conspiracy. Just a holy coincidence. Prayed that she would be free of her connections to that hate group. Free to discover her real identity. And I thanked God—oh, how I thanked Him, hallelujah! And glory to Jesus!—that He had put a burden on my heart to pray for “that girl,” and now God had given her a name: Sara.

  “PRINCESS.”

  “What? ” Denny was already in the bed, weary after sitting with Mark Smith for over an hour, listening to the feelings, the anger, the fear that seeing “that White Pride girl” had pulled from the deep place they’d been buried during his convalescence.

  “That’s what Sara means: ‘Princess.’” I’d looked it up in my name book as soon as we got home.

  Denny groaned. “Give it a rest, Jodi. Not everybody lives up to the meaning of their name. I’d say this one is a stretch.” He buried his head under his pillow and groaned. “Turn off that light, will ya? ”

  BUT IT STUCK IN MY MIND all that week. Sara. “Princess.”

  It was a strange week, schoolwise. Veterans Day was a Monday holiday. (No school for the kids; slaving on midterm student reports for me.) Then two and a half days of school (mostly useless). Then a day and a half of parent-teacher conferences.Why the powers that be planned it that way, I’ll never know. They never ask me, anyway.

  Oh God! I prayed, as I trudged to school Tuesday morning, lugging my tote bag full of student reports, hunkering inside my fall jacket against the early morning nip. Adele said none of this was an accident. You must have a plan for Sara! Is that how You see her? As a princess? Royalty. Beautiful. Graceful . . .

  It was a little hard to do—see her as a princess, that is. She was so plain! So pale. Even for a white girl. No healthy color. Huh. I’d love to see what miracles Adele could do with her. Not likely to happen, though. She wasn’t likely to trust any of Hoshi’s friends at this point.

  I stopped in the school office to see Avis before heading to my classroom, but her office door was closed. Avis had missed out on the whole Hoshi-Sara fiasco Sunday night, and I hadn’t talked to her since. Well, somebody else would have to fill her in; I had my hands full with thirty-one miscreants. Even my “good” kids were pushing on my last nerve. I did everything but bang on my desk with my shoe, trying to keep order.

  Good grief, I thought, using the time-out chair for the third time that day. How did the school district expect us to teach anything with so many days out in one week? Another day like this, and I’d end up snarling at all the parents during conferences too.

  But I kept sending up prayers—the old “Help, Lord!” kind. Help came when I remembered Amanda’s flip advice last year: “They’re third graders, Mom. Play games.They all like to play games.” So I came to school on Wednesday with a large bag of assorted candies, a yardstick, and a book of Aesop’s fables. We did fractions with the different colored candies and gobbled up the results. Measured their height in inches on a long sheet of butcher paper I’d taped to the door; then they had to figure out how tall they were in feet and inches. We ended the day acting out two of Aesop’s fables in the Reading Corner. Carla Hickman’s interpretation of the squeaky Mouse in “The Lion and the Mouse” had us all giggling.

  They were squirrelly and loud all day—but fun squirrelly. Fun loud.

  I felt good. I felt ready for parent-teacher conferences.

  BUT I WAS DRAGGING by late Friday afternoon. I looked at my list of conferences still to go. Parents had signed up using the student’s name: 5:30 Caleb Levy . . . 5:45 Mercedes LaLuz . . . 6:00 Carla Hickman . . . 6:15 Adam Turner.

  The end. Home.Dinner. Long bubble bath. Could hardly wait.

  Couldn’t blame Carl and Florida for signing up late in the day, if Carl was going to come after work.Well, good for him. He was working hard to be the provider and father, making up for lost time. Just hoped I was still coherent by the time they got here. I really did want to talk about Carla’s progress and behavior issues in a professional situation.Teacher to parent. Hear their concerns too. I could tell them about her starring role in “The Lion and the Mouse,” start off on a good foot, go over some of her reading progress, then discuss her short attention span and quick temper. Maybe come up with a school-and-home plan. Parents and teacher hand in hand, so to speak.

  So to speak. Six o’clock came and went. Neither Florida nor Carl showed. I would have called in the next set of parents, but Adam Turner’s mother arrived promptly at six fifteen, not a minute before. A gushy woman. Pro
bably sold real estate. Bragged about Adam for ten minutes, how bright he was, maybe they should put him in a class for advanced students, didn’t I agree? I let her gush. When she finally took a breath, I agreed Adam was bright. But he was also lazy. Did as little as possible to get by. He often lost his homework papers or didn’t even take them home. Maybe we could work on that before we pushed him into a class for advanced students, didn’t she agree?

  OK, so I was a little snippy.Ms. Real Estate got off easy, because, truth be told, I was mad. Mad at Carl and Florida. The nerve! They stuck their daughter in my class and then didn’t show for the first parent-teacher conference? I’d tried my best to limit discussions at church or Yada Yada of how Carla was doing in school, because I knew—yeah, right—I knew we’d have a chance to discuss stuff at the appropriate time.

  Didn’t figure on them just blowing off conference time. They’d signed up, hadn’t they? How could I expect a third grader to follow through on tasks and be responsible if her parents didn’t even show up for appointments? So what was that about?

  I gathered up my things and headed toward the office to leave the conference sign-up list.Well, the Hickmans were going to get a call from me tonight. No ncey-nice teacher-talk either. I was going to give Florida a piece of my mind.

  Avis’s office door opened just as I came into the school office. She looked flustered. “Oh! Jodi. Just the person I want to see. I need—” She stopped, as if changing her mind. “Come in my office a minute, can you? ”

  I dropped my conference list in the tray and followed Avis into the door marked Principal. As she shut the door behind me, I was startled to see Rochelle slumped in a chair, arms wrapped protectively around Conny, who was playing with some sticky notes. She turned her face away, but I could see her eyes were puffy, red with crying.