by Neta Jackson
Noting the time, Avis moved us into praying for Edesa, Hoshi, Adele, and Chanda, even though we hadn’t gotten around the circle. Well, there was always the next time.
AT LUNCHTIME, the lines for the pay phones just off the lobby were three and four women deep. Lines probably would have been longer, but I saw a lot of women standing in the line for the lunch buffet holding one hand to their ear talking on their cell phones. I did a double take when one woman came marching through the lobby talking loudly to herself and making emphatic gestures— then I realized she had one of those handsfree cords hanging from her ear.
As I waited for a phone, bits of one-sided conversations merged in space above the pay phones, like little cartoon balloons.
“What color is it? . . . Orange? Sure it wasn’t just a hairball? . . . Okay, okay, I know it’s yucky . . . No, you can’t leave it for me to clean up! . . . Just do it, Morris.”
“I want to cancel my Saturday three o’clock . . . Do you have a two o’clock on Monday? . . . Friday? I’ll look like my mother by Friday!”
“Of course I miss you, honey . . . You broke what? . . . No, no, Mommy’s not mad . . . Why were you using my good— . . . Put Daddy on the phone. Now.”
Phones got hung up, and the lines inched forward. A new voice ahead of me sounded familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. “Tomas? . . . Did ya check me lottery numbers on this morning? . . . On the refrigerator door, where they always put! . . . Gwan do it . . . Yes, I wait.”
Dying of curiosity, I shifted my position, trying to identify the woman whose back was to me. Then the woman turned, caught my eye, and we both gave a slight nod of recognition. Chanda George.
Good grief! Chanda played the lottery? On a cleaning woman’s pay? It might be legal, but surely it was unbiblical, or . . . or at least irresponsible. Didn’t she have three kids? I strained my ears as she turned back to the phone. “Ya sure? . . . Ya double-check? . . . I was sartin I gwan be a winna . . . ’cause I been prayin’ ’bout it all weekend.”
Oh, brother. The prayers God had to sort through. I was afraid Chanda would speak to me when she hung up, and she’d know I was rolling my eyes. But just then one of the pay phones got free, so I dropped in thirty-five cents and punched in my home number.
The phone picked up. “Yeah?”
“Josh! Don’t answer the phone like that!”
A pause on the other end. “Hi, Mom. Whassup?”
“Just calling to see how everybody’s doing.”
“Fine.”
I leaned my forehead against the phone box. Why did talking with my seventeen-year-old always feel like Chinese water torture? “Where’s Amanda and Dad?”
“Out somewhere.” I ground my teeth, but Josh added, “I think they went out for brunch—you know, one of those dad-daughter things.”
“Thank you, Josh,” I said, my irritation somewhat pacified by this information. That was Denny, Mr. Spontaneous. A dad-daughter brunch—that was nice.
“Well, I’ll be home tomorrow afternoon. Maybe we can go out for pizza tomorrow night. We’ll do Gullivers—make it special.”
“I think Dad said we’re gonna order pizza tonight. Besides, the youth group is having a planning meeting for our summer trip tomorrow night.”
“Oh.” Might as well stay another night, I grumbled to myself. Baxter household’s not planning a big Mom homecoming. “Well, tell Dad I called, okay? Love you.”
“Sure, Mom.” Click.
Right. I had as much confidence that Denny would get that message as I did that the phone was going to give me my money back. I checked the little slot. Nope.
I went through the lunch line by myself, but the buffet was good: a salad bar with lots of different pasta salads, spinach, and arugula greens (usually $4.99 for eight ounces at Whole Foods), lots of fresh fruit, and crusty bread. The hotel had a women’s conference pegged right down to the menu.
“Darn,” said a familiar voice behind me at the condiment bar. “Where’s the mac ’n’ cheese? I need me some greens.”
I looked up and grinned. “Hi, Florida.” (Well, maybe the hotel didn’t have this women’s conference pegged.) “You eaten already?”
She picked up a grape. “If you call this eating? Think they got a Popeye’s nearby?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Girl, no! I’m hungry. Wish I had some crispy fried chicken right about now. Anyway, gotta run. What time’s the next session?”
“Uh . . . two o’clock, I think, followed by the prayer group. Then I think we break to get ready for the banquet tonight.”
“Oh, yeah! The banquet.” Florida perked up. “Maybe they’ll have chicken. We gotta get sharp tonight, right?”
Right. I’d almost forgotten dressing up. Had seemed kind of silly to me at first, but maybe it would be fun after all.
I TURNED ON THE HOTEL SHOWER as hot as I could stand it and let the pulsing jetspray massage my head. Ahhhh. Now this was luxury. At home we barely got the “hot” water temperature in our old frame house past lukewarm. Not to mention that when the family on the second floor of our two-flat was doing laundry in the basement, the water pressure in our shower slowed to a trickle. But I’d paid for two nights in this hotel room, all utilities included, and I intended to get my money’s worth.
I soaped up, lathered my hair with the hotel’s silky shampoo, then just stood under the stinging hot water letting my mind and body relax. The afternoon main session had been again a boisterous burst of praise, but by now some of the songs had begun to feel familiar. After a verse or two of “Lift Him Up!” the cream-suited worship leader had stopped the musicians (except for the key-boardist, who kept up a running background) and talked about a verse in Hebrews 13, about offering a “sacrifice of praise” to God.
“Have you ever stopped to think what a sacrifice of praise is?” she’d asked, striding across the portable platform and back again. “If it comes easy, if it doesn’t cost you anything . . . it’s not a sacrifice! Now I know some of you would rather be upstairs on those king-size beds, taking a nap.” General laughter. “Good for you. At least you’re here. That’s a sacrifice. Some of you other folks see women dancing and shouting and weeping, and you’re thinking, Uh-uh. No way am I going to make a fool of myself.”
I squirmed a little. Now she was stepping on my toes.
The worship leader stopped at the podium, leaned across it, and lowered her voice—but it still carried loud and clear. “I want you to close your eyes and start thinking about what Jesus has done for YOU. Some of you were on drugs, your mind so muddled you had no idea what day it was, much less how many kids you had.”
Shouts of “Glory!” and “Thank You, Jesus!” erupted from the crowd.
“Some of you have thought of suicide . . . maybe even tried it, but God stopped you. Some of you have been so broke you were digging through dumpsters, just to find something to eat.”
The place was losing it now. But the worship leader just lifted the mike and raised her voice over it. “And some of you thought you were pretty good. You kept all the major commandments and managed to avoid the big mistakes. But let me tell you—you were still going to hell until Jesus saved you!”
I felt like she was talking right at me. But so must all five hundred other women, because all I could hear now were thunderous shouts of “Thank You! Thank You, Jesus!” On one side of me, Florida was jumping up and down and clapping her hands; on the other, Avis’s eyes were closed and tears were flowing down her cheeks. I closed my own eyes and tried to focus on what I’d been saved from. It was hard, because by most anyone’s standards, including my own, I’d had a good life. Intact family, not rich but not poor either, no major tragedies. Theologically, I knew I’d been “saved,” but it wasn’t something I felt very much.
The worship leader was hollering now. “Maybe you don’t feel like praising today. Praise anyway. Give God a sacrifice! Maybe you don’t feel like dancing. Dance anyway! Give God a sacrifice!”
That
must have been a cue, because the worship band and singers lit into the perfect song: “When I think about Jesus, and what He’s done for me . . . I could dance, dance, dance, dance, dance, dance, dance all night!”Women exploded into the aisles in every version of “sanctified dancing” one could imagine. I couldn’t help but grin. Josh and Amanda would be horrified at all the middle-aged mamas, some seriously overweight, “gettin’ their groove on.” But why should they? Teenagers had Cornerstone; the “middle-aged mamas” had the Chicago Women’s Conference.
Later, during the message, I looked up the passage in Hebrews 13 that the worship leader had mentioned. Sure enough, verse 15 talked about offering God a “sacrifice of praise.” But the next verse went right on to say, “And do not forget to do good and to share with others, for with such sacrifices God is pleased.” That was a version of Christianity I was more comfortable with—doing good and sharing with others. But the writer called both praise and doing good a sacrifice—
“Jodi?” A muffled voice on the other side of the bathroom door broke into my thoughts. “You going to be long?”
Oh, help. How long had I been hogging the bathroom? “Be right out, Avis!” I yelled back, shutting off the shower and grabbing a fresh towel so big and thick it felt like a bathrobe. Darn. I’d intended to shave my legs and pits, but . . . oh, well. Pantyhose and sleeves would cover the damage.
I came out toweled like a toga and grinned sheepishly at Avis, who had shed her clothes and thrown on her caftan. “Sorry I steamed it up in there,” I said sheepishly. “I’m a sucker for a hot shower.”
“Don’t worry.” She breezed past with mock unconcern. “I’ll just get you later if I get a cold shower.”
The hot water must have held out because the shower started up again. By the time Avis came out, I had dried my hair and was trying not to mess it up as I slid into my borrowed dress—a black slinky thing that would have made Denny’s eyes bug out. “Mm, nice,” she commented, moving into the sitting room to dress. “What did you think of the prayer meeting?” she called back.
“Great. I’m kind of surprised everyone has hung in there. Even Yo-Yo.” I took a slim tube of mascara out my makeup kit and unscrewed the lid. “Can you believe she’s taking care of her teenage stepbrothers all by herself?”
“Not that strange. Grandparents raise their grandkids, siblings raise siblings—happens all the time.”
“Oh. Well, it kinda amazed me.” I dabbed at my eyelashes with the mascara, trying to make them look thicker and longer.
“What’s amazing,” said Avis from the other room, “is that she asked us to pray for them. Kind of a breakthrough, don’t you think? Considering what she said last night about not being into the ‘Jesus thing.’ ”
“Uh-huh. Great.” I started in on blush and lipstick. “Nony is kind of a mystery. She asked for prayer about whether to go back to South Africa, whether that’s her destiny to help her people there. But it sounded like her husband—Mark, isn’t it?—is American and wants to raise their kids here.”
“Yes, well . . . that’s a huge decision. Don’t know that I’d want to raise my kids there.”
“Mm-mm.” I mashed my lips together to blot the lipstick. Kids? Probably grown though, since she had grandkids. “Let’s see, who else shared . . . oh, Stu.” I rolled my eyes at the closet door mirror. “She’s a case.”
Avis chuckled on the other side of the French doors. “Is that a pun?”
“Pun? . . . Oh.” I laughed. “You mean ’cause she wants to quit real estate and get back into social work? Guess she was a caseworker for DCFS right out of college.” The caseload for the Department of Child and Family Services was so huge, a lot of young idealistic social workers crashed and burned.
“Sounded like it from her prayer request—that newspaper story about the little girl who’d been left alone in her apartment for two days? Lord, have mercy!”
The French doors opened, and Avis came into the bedroom. “Wow!” I said. “You look stunning.” She did, too. For someone her age—I guessed fifty-four, maybe fifty-five—the principal of Bethune Elementary always looked so elegant and smart. Tonight she was wearing black silky harem pants and a loose silky tunic with wide rag sleeves in a bright rose color, belted with a sequined belt.
She looked me up and down. “You look pretty good yourself, girl. Don’t show up at church in that outfit, or Pastor Clark might preach a sermon on being a temptation and a snare.”
I gawked at her, then giggled and checked myself in the mirror once more. I did look nice . . . even kind of sexy—which I considered a big waste at a women’s convention. Still, it felt good to go toe to toe with the fancy dressers I’d seen. Hair tucked behind my ears, silver earrings, silver necklace, slinky black dress . . . mmm, I felt luscious.
“Mm-hm. You two all that an’ a bag o’ chips.”
Neither Avis nor I had heard Florida come in.
“But, um . . . something has come up. The rest of the group thought it was a good plan, and I was sure you two would be will-in’ to make the sacrifice—”
I broke in. “Florida! What are you talking about?”
“Yo-Yo. She doesn’t have a dress. Only those bib overall thangs she wears. She didn’t realize there was a dress-up dinner—don’t think she has a dress, even if she did. So she wasn’t goin’ to go tonight. But we thought—”
“We who, Florida?” Avis asked suspiciously.
“You know, Ruth and Stu and Delores and Edesa—the prayer group!”
“Thought what?”
“That we could all wear our jeans or slacks or sweats to the banquet tonight to support our sister. You know, all for one and one for all.”
I could not believe my ears. I’d just spent an hour getting myself ready for the banquet. I might even be able to hold my head up among the “glitterati” I was sure would appear tonight. Now Florida was asking us—me—to wear my jeans?
I almost couldn’t trust myself to speak. But I managed a weak “I need a little time to think about this.”
“Sure. Banquet doesn’t start for another half-hour. Besides, I gotta go check with a couple more folks in the group.” And as quickly as she had come, Florida bopped back out the door, leaving Avis and me staring at each other.
7
Think about it? I was mad! What I really needed was time to cool down before I said something I regretted. Excusing myself from Avis, I shut myself in the bathroom and plopped on the stool. The nerve of Florida . . . or whoever thought of this crazy idea. Committing the whole prayer group—still practically a group of strangers—to something so outrageous as showing up at a fancy banquet in our jeans and sweats. The very thought was ludicrous. Or embarrassing.
That’s it, isn’t it, Jodi? You don’t want to look like a fool.
I wanted to hit something or scream. But given the fact that Avis was just outside the door somewhere, I stuck a washcloth in my mouth and shook it with clenched teeth, like Willie Wonka, our chocolate Lab, playing with one of Denny’s socks. Then I caught sight of myself in the big bathroom vanity mirror. I looked so silly I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Taking the washcloth out of my mouth, I let out a big sigh. I felt trapped. Damned if I did, damned if I didn’t. I could either go with Florida’s bright idea and look like a fool in a context where I didn’t feel on solid ground to begin with, or I could stay dressed up and be unsympathetic to Yo-Yo’s plight.
Why didn’t she just go in her overalls, and we’d all sit with her and show her we loved her anyway?
Would I do that if I were Yo-Yo?
No-o.
I sighed again. You’re a big hypocrite, Jodi Baxter. Not twenty-four hours ago you were thinking the idea of five hundred women dressing up like Oscar night was pretty silly. You were pining for the small, casual women’s retreats up at Camp Timberlee. Now you have a chance to loosen up at this big women’s conference—with a dozen other women willing to be just as casual—and you’re having a fit.
B
ut I realized I didn’t want to be casual tonight. I looked good. I looked as close to gorgeous as I’ve ever looked—recently, anyway.
Sacrifice.
The word popped into my head so strongly I looked around, thinking I’d heard a voice. Sacrifice . . . a sacrifice of praise. I frowned. What did that have to do with anything? A sacrifice for Yo-Yo. She’s not sure about “this Jesus thing,” but she’s here. She’s in your prayer group. What a little thing to sacrifice to show you care about her.
The tension slowly drained out of my body. But tears welled up in my eyes, and I swiped at them with the washcloth. The washcloth now had black streaks. Oh, great, there goes my mascara. But as I thought about what Florida wanted to do, I began to feel amazed . . . and humbled. Here was a black woman, a former drug addict by her own admission, a Christian only five years . . . willing to put aside people’s expectations and do something humbling to show the love of Jesus to a white ex-con who landed in her prayer group.
Sacrifice. Sisterhood.
I felt like someone pulled a cord and opened the blinds on my eyes. Why should I care about impressing or fitting in with four hundred and eighty-some women I didn’t even know . . . when I had a chance to be “one in spirit” with a group of twelve women who had been thrown into my life, even if just for this one weekend? We were a drawer of mismatched socks if there ever was one—I wasn’t sure we even liked each other. But we were Prayer Group Twenty-Six. And we had the chance—I, Jodi Baxter, had the chance—to give God a sacrifice of praise and love a young woman who was fresh out of prison.
What was that scripture in Hebrews? “With such sacrifices God is pleased.”
I stood up, glancing in the mirror at the black smudges under my eyes. So much for “all decked out.”
I’d almost traded a chance to please God for a black silky dress.
AS IT TURNED OUT, not everyone in the prayer group had brought a pair of jeans, but I did, so I teamed it with my cream-colored cotton sweater and a pair of clogs. Sure enough, Yo-Yo showed up at the banquet in her bib overalls and worn athletic shoes. She would have kept right on going when she saw half the prayer group wearing jeans, too—even Adele—but Florida snagged her, and we pushed amoeba-like through the double doors into the ballroom. Avis, who had no jeans, just wore the harem pants outfit she already had on, and Nony topped off her jeans with the African print tunic she’d been wearing all day, but added a matching headscarf wound turban-like around her head.