2-in-1 Yada Yada

by Neta Jackson

I shrugged . . . just as Florida wandered through the French doors in her big T-shirt. She stopped, seeing us both just standing on either side of the king-size bed. “It’s not time to get up yet, is it?” She yawned. “Bathroom free?”

  “Sure,” I said automatically. But I’d been up long enough now that the urge to pee was growing stronger. “On second thought, just let me go and it’s yours.” I dashed into the bathroom. From the relative anonymity behind the almost-closed bathroom door—like a pink-tiled confessional—I called out, “I was worried about you when I found you missing in the middle of the night. What happened?”

  Florida laughed from the other side of the door. “You snore, girl! Had to find me another bed if I was going to get any sleep.”

  I was so startled I stopped peeing in midstream. “Oh, gosh, Flo. I’m sorry!” I didn’t know I snored. Denny never complained. I emerged a moment later feeling both embarrassed and contrite. “It’s terrible to pay all this money for a hotel room and end up on the floor. I’ll trade tonight, okay?”

  “Hey, don’t you worry about me. I’m a light sleeper—anything wakes me up.” Florida disappeared into the bathroom. “Besides,” she called back, “those long cushions from the sofa made a great bed—better than the one I’ve got at home. Turned on a little white noise, and I slept like a baby.”

  She poked her head back out of the bathroom door. “You guys going to that prayer thang at seven? Don’t wait for me. I’ll meet you at breakfast.”

  SOMEHOW AVIS AND I BOTH GOT SHOWERED and dressed and down the elevator just as the lobby clocks ticked past seven. I had even managed to pour three Styrofoam cups of coffee made in the tiny coffeemaker perched on top of the in-room “mini-bar.” Avis shook her head, which I translated as No-thanks-I-don’t-drink-coffee, but Florida, seizing the moment, simply took a cup in each hand.

  Strike one against spontaneous deep sharing with Avis. What did one do with a girlfriend if you couldn’t go out and bare your heart over bottomless cups of coffee? Or celebrate with an occasional double mocha latte at Starbucks?

  Nony Sisulu-Smith was the only other person from last night’s group when we made our appearance in Meeting Room 7. She was on her knees already praying out loud, so we just sat down in nearby chairs and joined her. At least I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate on Nony’s prayer. Her cultured voice rose and fell like a piece of classical music. But as I listened, her prayer sure did seem full of a lot of clichés.

  “ . . .You are the root and the offspring of David, the bright and morning star. The Spirit and the bride say, Come. And let him that heareth say, Come. Let him that is thirsty, come. Thank You, Father! Thank You that You have said, Whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely . . .”

  On and on she went, her voice growing stronger. “I will bless the Lord at all times. Your praise shall continually be in my mouth. My soul shall make her boast in the Lord; the humble shall hear and be glad. O magnify the Lord with me! Let us exalt his name together! . . .”

  I opened my eyes and peeked. Nony’s cheeks glistened with moisture. Avis was on her feet, murmuring, “Yes! Thank You, Father! . . . Thank You, Jesus! . . .” as Nony prayed. I closed my eyes again. Looked like Nony was going for the long haul.

  “O God, we know that young lions do lack, and suffer hunger. But if we seek the Lord we shall not want any good thing . . .”

  Speaking of hunger, wasn’t breakfast at eight o’clock? I took a peek at my watch. Only 7:22. Just then I was aware of a presence behind me, and Avis whispered in my ear. “Psalm thirty-four.”

  Psalm thirty-four? Did she want me to look it up? I reached in my bag and pulled out my small travel Bible. Psalm thirty-three . . . thirty-four . . . My eyes skimmed over the verses. Duh. Of course! Nony was praying Psalm thirty-four. Had probably been “praying Scripture” all along. And Avis, no doubt, knew right where each Scripture verse came from. Double duh.

  I squeezed my eyes shut. Okay, God, I feel like a dork. I’m sorry for thinking Nony’s prayer was just a bunch of clichés. You gotta help me here. Everything’s just so . . . different. But I want to learn whatever You want me to learn this weekend . . . I think.

  5

  The line for the breakfast buffet wound clear out of the hotel café when we arrived at eight, but Avis, Nony, and I managed to get a table for four by the time we got through the line about eight-thirty. The line had thinned, and a few minutes later Florida hustled over with a cup of coffee and a sweet roll. I waved her into the fourth chair beside Nony. “Someone offered us a hundred bucks for this seat, but . . . we saved it for you.”

  Florida chuckled. “You did right.” She tore her sweet roll in half. “So . . . was the prayer group good?”

  “You’re looking at it,” I said.

  For a blink Florida stopped chewing. “Well, thank God! At least I wasn’t the only delinquent.” She waved her sweet roll at the rest of us. “Though I’m sure God was pleased that a few of you showed up to get your praise on.”

  I stifled a grin. Florida talked about “getting your praise on” like it was a blouse or a pair of shoes. Then her forehead wrinkled up. “It was optional, right? I mean, they’ll probably have the prayer groups get together again during the conference, don’t you think?”

  “I’m sure they will.” Nony slipped cream into her tea. “But I was just as glad there were only a few this morning. The prayer time was precious.”

  I studied the beautiful woman across from me. I’d never met anyone who seemed so totally unself-conscious when she was praying. Besides Avis, I mean. I thought maybe Avis had some special connection to God that was on “high” all the time. But Nony slipped Scripture in and out of her prayers so easily, it was like a second language.

  With time slipping away and the first session of the day starting at nine o’clock, we mostly paid attention to our bagels, plastic cups of yogurt, and fruit juice amid small talk. I gave a quick glance around the room to see if I recognized anyone else from the night before. But mostly I saw women in a variety of “casual dress” with an occasional color-coordinated jogging suit. Guessed I was dressed okay in my beige slacks and off-white cotton sweater. Nony was wearing another African-print tunic over black pants, but she’d left off the headgear. Instead, a head full of tiny cornrows met at the top of her head and cascaded in a ponytail of coppery braids down to her shoulders. Gosh, it was gorgeous. I felt slightly cheated. My thin wash-and-wear hair would never do something like that.

  “Hellooo, Jodi. I said, do you want to go back to the room with me?”With a start I realized Avis had stood up and was waiting for me. “I want to . . .” She pantomimed brushing her teeth. “ . . . Before the session starts.”

  “If you get on up in there before me, save me a seat!” Florida called after us, still intent on her coffee.

  Teeth brushed, a fresh application of lipstick, and Avis and I made our way to the ballroom. Once again the worship band and singers were up and running already by nine o’clock, even though women were still finding their seats. Once more we ended up in row five from the front with Avis next to an aisle. I piled my purse and Bible on the chair beside me to save a seat for Florida. Unless Adele comes and dumps them back into my lap, I thought ruefully. But that would mean she’d be choosing to sit beside me in a room with hundreds of chairs, and I was sure that wasn’t going to happen.

  Soon the lady in the red suit—except it was a creamy tan today that complemented her skin to a golden glow—was back on stage with the hand-held mike, song lyrics were up on the screen, and the place was rocking.

  We’re blessed in the city! We’re blessed in the field!

  We’re blessed when we come and when we go!

  After six or seven repeats of the same song—verses, chorus, and vamp (“Blessed! Blessed! Blessed! Blessed!”)—the ballroom was filled with shouts of “Hallelujah!” and “Praise the Lord!” as the worship band quickly slid into another song. The ballroom doors stood open, and I saw some of the hotel staff peek in from
time to time to see what all the ruckus was about. Even a housemaid or two. Later when I looked again, the doors were closed. Guess they didn’t want us disturbing the other guests.

  Avis was totally focused on worshiping. I tried. I really did. But my mind kept wandering, kept looking over the crowd to see if I recognized any of the other women in Group Twenty-Six. But we were pretty close to the front, so I couldn’t really turn around and stare. I tried to clap and step to the music, but it was like patting my head and rubbing my stomach at the same time—I couldn’t get coordinated. So I just sang along to the unfamiliar songs as best I could.

  But after about an hour of chandelier-shaking music, I needed a break. I caught Avis’s eye and mouthed that I was going to the bathroom. At least everyone was standing and moving and shouting, so it was pretty easy to slip out of the crowd unnoticed.

  In the ladies restroom, I headed for the third stall. Funny. I always picked a stall in a public restroom and kept using that same one (unless it was already in use). Did other people do that? Or was I hopelessly in a rut even about bathroom stalls?

  The noisy worship from the ballroom still throbbed in the background, but the peaceful ladies’ room was like sitting by Walden Pond with a superhighway somewhere beyond the trees. However, my little oasis of quiet was broken by someone else coming in to use the facilities. While that woman was washing her hands—I heard water running—another person came in.

  “Sister Monica!” gushed the newcomer. “I didn’t know you were at the conference! How ya doin’, girl?”

  “All right. All right. I’m blessed. Highly favored by the Lord and coming into my prosperity. You?”

  “Saved, sanctified, and satisfied. Can’t complain.”

  The two women burbled on, but I closed my eyes and leaned against the industrial-size toilet paper dispenser. What was I doing here? These women talked a whole new language! I’d been a baptized Christian for thirty-plus years—forty-two, if I included my childhood years when “Jesus Loves Me” was my favorite goodnight song—but when someone asked how I was doing, I usually said, “Great,” or “Fair” or “Not so good,” depending on how I felt at the moment.

  Either these women had cliché buttons that played on automatic, or they had an inside track on God’s blessings.

  I stayed in my stall until the other women left, then washed my hands with the perfumed hotel soap and hit the button on the hot-air dryer. So, what is it, God? Am I blessed? Is that the same as being thankful for my blessings?

  I GOT BACK TO THE BALLROOM in time to hear another dynamo speaker who barely needed a microphone, then we were instructed to return to our prayer groups and pray for each other, that God would reveal the obstacles keeping us from living out our destiny.

  Here we go again, I thought as the flood of estrogen energy flowed through the doors and into our respective meeting rooms. My “destiny”? I didn’t have a clue. And I wasn’t sure I felt that comfortable with the jargon. I mean, we’re supposed to do God’s will as revealed in the Bible—obeying the commandments and stuff like that. And “bloom where we’re planted,” to borrow a worn-out cliché. As in, be faithful where God puts you. But living into our destiny? What did that mean?

  Florida plopped down in a chair beside me in Group Twenty-Six. “Where were you?” I asked. “I saved you a seat.”

  “Oh, girl, I got there late and didn’t want to walk all the way up to the fifth row.” She leaned toward me with a conspiratorial whisper. “We gotta deprogram Avis, you know. The fifth row isn’t any more spiritual than the fifteenth.”

  I chuckled. My sentiments exactly.

  To my surprise, everyone from last night’s circle showed up for this prayer time. Even Adele. Even Yo-Yo. Maybe Ruth dragged her since they came to the conference together. Again there was a bit of awkward looking at our shoes, wondering who would start this thing. I sure wasn’t going to jump in again.

  Finally Delores Enriques spoke up. “Why don’t you get us started, Avis? You’re the senior señora here, I think.” She looked around the circle. “Si?”

  There were murmurs of assent from several in the group. I was sure Avis felt put on the spot. But Delores was right. Avis was the natural spiritual leader in the group as far as I knew.

  But the woman with all the earrings—Leslie Stuart—spoke up. “Why do we need a leader?” she said. “Let’s just start, whoever wants to.”

  I wasn’t the only one who glared at the woman with the long blonde hair who wanted to be called “Stu.” She had a right to her viewpoint, but it felt like a put-down after Delores had suggested Avis.

  Avis got off the hot seat. “Well, Stu is right. We can just go right to prayer. We don’t need to know specifics in order to pray for each other. We can pray in the Spirit, mention each person by name. God knows better than we do what our destiny is, or the obstacles in our lives.”

  True, I thought, but I felt disappointed. I liked being able to pray specifically for a person—and sharing was a way to get to know each other.

  But Stu wasn’t finished. “I didn’t mean that. I think whoever wants to should share what they’d like prayer for, and then we can pray for that person. I just don’t see that that needs a ‘leader.’ ”

  Now I was really irritated—especially since I half-agreed with her about the sharing part and praying specifically. But I felt defensive for Avis.

  Adele, on the other side of the circle, was sitting with her arms folded and foot tapping. “Leslie, is it?” she said in a voice that made me think of a teacher with a ruler. “I think I heard most of this group agreeing that we’d like to appoint a leader, and Avis is it. Let’s not waste a lot of time here. I think you’ll agree.” The woman who operated Adele’s Hair and Nails nodded at Avis. “Go ahead.”

  Zingo! Good for Adele, I thought. She had just redeemed herself in my eyes—for the moment anyway. But I sure wouldn’t have wanted to be in Stu’s shoes.

  I felt a poke in my side. “Adele knows how to kick a little butt, don’t she?” Florida whispered. Again I wanted to laugh.

  “Well, I don’t know that we really need a leader either,” said Avis graciously. “But why don’t we quiet ourselves and get in an attitude of prayer. Then if anyone has something to share that needs prayer, just speak out. No one has to share if they don’t want to, but let’s try to pray for each person during this time. Let the Holy Spirit be our guide.”

  She closed her eyes, lifted up her face, and began to murmur, “Thank You, Jesus. Thank You for who You are . . .”

  Others around me began to pray in a similar way, all at the same time. Beside me, Florida rocked side to side, her eyes squeezed shut. “Thank ya, Jesus!” she said. No murmuring there. “Thank ya!”

  My heart felt stretched. What had just happened here? I couldn’t close my eyes. I just wanted to memorize the faces in this group. Even Stu seemed pacified. For a reason I couldn’t fathom, I felt teary. I thought I had just seen spiritual leadership at work— though I’d be hard-pressed to explain it.

  As I soaked in the murmured prayers and gazed around the group, I suddenly noticed something.

  Nails. Lots of painted fingernails, no two shades of red alike. Not only that, but every dark hand, whether African or Caribbean or American, had painted nails. I glanced on either side of me. Even Avis and Florida. But most of the pale hands—Yo-Yo, for sure, but also Ruth and me and Hoshi—had bald nails, though Hoshi’s looked carefully manicured with very white moon-slivers at the tips.

  Stu was the exception. Her nails were long, blue, and glittery.

  Good grief, Jodi! Stop it! I squeezed my eyes shut. Dear God, I’m sorry for getting distracted. Help me to stay focused . . . focused on You.

  6

  By the time we stopped for lunch, we’d only prayed for half the group. Edesa asked us to pray for her family back in Honduras. (Honduras! Of course. No wonder she attended a Spanish-speaking church. I wondered what percentage of blacks lived in Honduras. That would be interesting for my third-
graders to study.) Edesa’s parents were believers, she said, but their town had been devastated by Hurricane Mitch in 1998. She felt guilty being away from home and experiencing so much plenty in the States, when her extended family was still struggling with grinding poverty.

  Encouraged by Edesa, who mentioned families, Hoshi spoke up. Her parents were coming to Chicago to visit this summer and would be extremely displeased that she had forsaken the Shinto religion for Christianity. She wanted prayer to be strong to share her new faith.

  “As long as we’re praying for parents, y’all can pray for my mother. And me. I take care of her. And—you know—it’s like having another kid.” Adele spoke into the circle then retreated behind arms folded across her ample bosom.

  Adele took care of her mother? I knew firsthand that was no picnic. Grandmother Jennings had lived with us for a time when I was a teenager. She had dementia (my brothers called it “demented”— but not in front of my parents, of course), and nothing my mom or dad did for her was right. As the only girl, I had to share my room with Grandma. One time I caught her going through my drawers and throwing out birthday cards and notes I’d saved under my sweaters and underwear. Boy, did I yell! When she died and I got my room back, I felt relieved and guilty at the same time.

  I corralled my thoughts and tried to focus on Chanda, the Jamaican woman who said she cleaned houses on the North Shore. Had been doing it for ten years, had a good clientele. But the focus on “living into your destiny” had stirred up feelings of dissatisfaction. “I wan’ to be doin’ someting else, but I don’ know what,” she said. “Got tree kids, no mon. It’s hard to jump the train.”

  Whew. I was glad people were opening up. Chanda was somebody you didn’t really notice just sitting there. Average height, dowdy skirt and blouse, short black hair, cut but not styled, nothing that stood out. But the idea that God had created plain Chanda to be a “woman of destiny” tickled my fancy. Wished I had the gift of prophecy and could zap her with a “word.” Well, not really. People who tried that at Uptown Community made me feel uncomfortable, even though I knew some people must have that gift because it was in the Bible.