by Neta Jackson
But to tell the truth, it was fall-down funny. Before Florida came up with her bright idea, I don’t think anyone had planned to go to the banquet “as a group.” But there we were, all twelve of us squeezing into the ballroom-cum-conference room-cum-banquet hall, asking women to move so we could have one of the large tables. It was only set for ten, so we stole a couple of place settings from another table and crowded everybody in.
A chamber ensemble pouring their hearts into Mozart and Bach—hallelujah!—had replaced the worship band for the banquet. I’m not sure I could eat to the high decibels that had carried the worship sessions the last two days. Seemed like a long time before we actually got served, but at least there were carafes of hot coffee and baskets of rolls on the tables to help quell my rumbling stomach.
When the hotel waiters finally brought our plates of food, Florida caught my eye. “Chicken!” she exclaimed with a big grin. It wasn’t deep-fried and crusty—smothered in some kind of creamy sauce, actually—but Florida seemed happy.
Tucked in between Nony and Avis and wondering what to do with my elbows, I picked up Ruth’s voice on the other side of the table. “So I’m heading out the door, and Ben says, ‘Where’s my clean shirts?’ And I said, ‘Who do you think I am? A laundry service?’ ”
Florida’s beads bobbed in agreement. “Uh huh. Housekeeper, fry cook, lover . . . and ATM machine.”
Adele rolled her eyes. “Ain’t that the truth.”
Chanda snorted. “The mon only say they got no money. Last week? Took the kids to the library, who there but my baby’s daddy. Cooin’ and cuddlin’ with his new girlfriend while they plannin’ some cruise they takin’. ’Im who always say, ‘I ain’t got no money, honey.’ So I’m ’fraid I lay down my religion for a minit and—”
Florida and Adele started hooting with laughter.
“They off on that cruise now,” Chanda sighed. “I’m praying for a ‘spirit of boredom’ to follow them from stem to stern.” She grinned at the rest of us. “Sorry. Guess that’s not very sanctified.”
By now our laughter was so loud we almost didn’t hear someone at the microphone saying, “—an emergency telephone call. Is there a Delores Enriques in the house? You have an emergency telephone call.”
“Quiet! Quiet!” I waved the others down. “Did you hear that?” I turned to Delores, who was sitting two seats away from me. “Delores, you have an emergency phone call.”
Immediately eleven pairs of eyes turned to the Cook County nurse. Her dark eyes suddenly filled with fear.
“I’ll go with you,” Edesa said, scooting back her chair and helping Delores to her feet. The younger woman escorted her friend toward the ballroom doors.
The rest of us looked at each other, concern passing from face to face. Avis stood up. “I’ll go see what’s happening,” she said quietly, leaving her napkin in her plate. “The rest of you—pray.”
I watched her thread quickly toward the doors. What did Avis mean? Pray silently to ourselves? Obviously not, because at that instant Adele launched into a loud prayer for divine protection, “whatever this emergency is about.”
Nony picked up the prayer.“O God,Your Word says that we who dwell in the secret place of the Most High will abide under the shadow of the Almighty. You are our refuge and our fortress. We trust in You. Spread Your wings over Delores; let her find refuge there.”
The scripture was comforting. Maybe it wasn’t a real emergency. Maybe just a kid with the flu or an injured dog. Didn’t Delores say she had five kids? Could be anything.
Hoshi reached across Avis’s empty seat and grasped my hand, and I reached out to Nony. The prayers passed around the table like a gift—Chanda . . . Florida . . . Ruth—each in turn. I noticed several women at other tables glancing at us from time to time.No wonder. One minute we were laughing uproariously, the next praying out loud.
I don’t know how long our table had been praying—maybe only five minutes—when I felt a touch on my shoulder. I looked up at Avis. She was not smiling.
I cleared my throat. “Everybody? Avis is back.”
All eyes opened. Avis leaned in to close out the hubbub all around us. “Delores’s oldest son, José, was shot tonight. He’s only fourteen. They don’t know how bad—he’s been taken to Cook County.”
Amid a chorus of “Oh, no!”Yo-Yo asked, “Drive-by? Gang hit?”
Avis shook her head. “I don’t know. But I’m going up to Delores’s room to pray with her before she leaves, if anyone else wants to—”
The whole table stood.
AS IT TURNED OUT, someone wisely pointed out that all of us crowding into Delores’s hotel room might be overwhelming. Nony went with Avis, and the rest of us piled into Meeting Room 7 to pray for the Enriques family. Somewhere far away we could still hear the general hubbub from the ballroom, sounding like someone had left the TV on in another room. How ironic. The banquet had shrunk from big deal to background noise.
Delores . . . I could only imagine the terror she must be feeling. José was fourteen? The same age as my Amanda. My heart squeezed as prayers poured out all around me. O God! I’ve only known Delores for twenty-four hours, but . . . she’s a mom, like me. Don’t let her son die! Save him, Lord! Save him!
About ten minutes later, Avis came back. “Sorry to barge in, sisters, but if Delores waits for her husband to pick her up, it might be another hour. A taxi would cost twenty-five, thirty dollars from here. She wouldn’t take it from me. But if we all pitched in a few dollars—”
“Of course!” I said, joining the chorus as several of us fished for our wallets. Something we could do.
Stu stood up. “Never mind. I’ve got my car. I’ll take her.”
We all stopped with our purses hanging open.
“Are you sure, Stu?” said Avis. “You’ll miss out on the last part of the conference.”
Stu shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. This is more important.”
I should have been glad Stu volunteered to drive Delores to the hospital. But I felt cheated—like Miss-Fix-It-All had robbed the rest of us of a chance to help our friend. But . . . how petty was that? Getting Delores there was the important thing.
We all gathered in the hotel foyer to see Delores and Edesa off. Delores clung to each one of us. “Gracias,” she whispered, her dark eyes bright with tears. Beyond the revolving doors a sporty silver Celica pulled up with Stu in the driver’s seat. Figured. Just the kind of car a real estate agent would drive. But she’d better think twice about driving that car into the ’hood if she got back into social work. We watched as Edesa squeezed into the tiny backseat of the two-door and Delores eased into the low-slung bucket seat in the front, while Stu stowed their luggage in the trunk. And then they were gone.
We looked at each other, unsure what to do. “Don’t really feel like going back to the banquet, but . . .” Ruth shrugged. “Maybe we should eat.” Several others nodded and moved halfheartedly toward the ballroom.
“I think I’ll go back to the prayer room,” Avis said. “Maybe some of the rest of you could come later. We could keep up a prayer chain for José tonight, then all meet in the morning at seven.”
Florida jumped on the idea. “I’ll take ten to eleven.”
I opened my mouth to volunteer for eleven o’clock when Adele jumped in. “I’ll cover eleven to midnight.” I wanted to groan. The prayer chain was a good idea, but I sure didn’t want to end up trying to keep awake in the wee hours of the night.
Seeing my mouth close, Ruth said helpfully, “We could always double up.”
I hesitated. I didn’t think I was quite ready to go one on one with Adele. Maybe I’d go with Avis now, or with Florida at ten. “Look,” I said, digging in my tote bag for my notebook, delaying for time, “we can make a list.” I quickly jotted down the hours from now till 7:00 a.m. and filled in the names of Avis, Florida, and Adele. Then I handed it to Ruth. “Just pass it around.”
Florida snorted. “Girl, you are too funny.”
I had no
idea what she meant, but as it turned out, I got to sign up for 6:00 A.M. Not a bad time for me—especially if I could get six or seven hours of sleep first. Nony, Hoshi, Chanda, and Ruth volunteered for the other nighttime hours. But there were still a few gaps. Who hadn’t signed up? I looked down the list, then up at Yo-Yo.
“Hey. Don’t look at me,” she protested. “I don’t do chain prayers or whatever you guys call it.”
8
Avis went to the prayer room while the rest of us returned to the banquet. But I think we’d all lost our momentum and couldn’t get it back. The waiters had already cleared the tables—I couldn’t even remember if I’d finished my food—and the program had started. They were giving out gift bags to the oldest woman present . . . the mom with the most kids (some brave soul had eleven) . . . the most outrageous outfit (the skinny leather skirt with leopard-print silk blouse and leopard-print shoes got it hands-down) . . . the first one to register . . . two somebodies who had birthdays today . . . and a few other things that brought squeals of giddy laughter.
I kept thinking about Delores’s boy. Shot. Maybe dead and Delores didn’t know yet. Was he in a gang? The Latin Kings or one of the other Hispanic gangs? Delores was such a nice lady— a Christian, too. How terrible if her son had ended up in a gang.
Whenever I’d read stories in the Chicago Tribune about another gang shooting, it always seemed so far away, like another universe. I’d look at my Josh, whooping it up with his dad watching the Bulls or the Bears, and feel relief that I didn’t have to worry about gangs. And then I’d close the paper and forget.
But this time I’d met a mother, a mother like me . . . and I couldn’t forget.
I sighed. To tell the truth, I wasn’t enjoying the banquet anymore. Maybe I should go join Avis in the prayer room . . . or just go up to our suite. That appealed to me a lot. I needed some time alone.
Catching Florida’s eye I mouthed, I’m going up to the room, got up, and threaded my jeans between tables of sprayed, gelled, braided, and sequined ladies till I reached the ballroom doors. Behind me, the bold notes of a brass trio—all women—playing “Shout to the Lord” brought the assembly to its feet, clapping and singing along. On the other side of the double doors I hesitated. Should I go pray with Avis? But instead I headed for the elevator.
I AWOKE WITH A START, struggling for breath, sweat soaking my sleep shirt.
The bedside digital said 3:30. The bathroom light I’d left on was off. A dream . . . thank God it was only a dream!
I’d been running, running through the streets of my neighborhood . . . calling for my boy, “Josh! Josh!” . . . but I couldn’t find him! . . . It was night, dark . . . nothing looked the same . . . the shadowy buildings loomed cold, unfriendly . . . streetlights peered like dim eyes through the black, scrawny branches of trees on the parkway . . . parked cars fenced in the sidewalks . . . until I got to Sheridan Road, suddenly bright with winking neon signs and sodium vapor streetlights along the strip of video stores, corner groceries, art galleries, movie theaters . . . Sheridan, as bright as day. I’ll look here, I’d thought in my dream . . . but I still couldn’t find him.
Awake now, I forced my breathing to slow, to picture Josh . . . safe at home in bed, his clothes dumped in blessed piles on the floor, his radio on low just off the dial so that the music scratched like an old record player. Even at seventeen, he had a midnight curfew on weekends. Yes, Josh was safe. It was only a dream.
But José . . . José wasn’t safe at home in bed. Neither was Delores Enriques. Her son had been shot. What was happening at Cook County Hospital right now, at three-thirty in the morning? Was Delores still there, sitting by the hospital bed of her son? Holding his hand? Praying that he would be all right? Weeping for her son?
I rolled out of the king-size bed and got down on my knees in the dark. I couldn’t remember the last time I had prayed on my knees—maybe not since family devotions when I was a child. But prayer for a boy with a bullet in his body—a boy whose mother I knew by name—needed more from me than a quick prayer from beneath warm covers.
God, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t take one of the nighttime hours to pray. I can’t believe how selfish I am—worried about my sleep and signing up on the prayer chain only at a convenient time. Did You wake me up to pray? I’m here now . . . but I don’t know how to pray for José! I don’t know what happened, or how he is, or even if he’s alive. Oh God, help him . . . he’s only fourteen . . . help Delores . . .
“Jodi? Are you okay?”
I looked up with a start. Avis was dimly silhouetted in the open French doors between the bedroom and sitting room of the suite, her voice a stage whisper.
“Yeah . . . yeah. I was just . . . you know, praying for José.”
“Oh. I heard a moan and just wanted to be sure you’re all right.”
“Yeah, I’m okay. Just, you know, worried . . .”
Avis came over to my side of the bed and sat down. I was still on my knees. “We don’t have to worry,” she said quietly. “God is in control. He’s bigger than this. He’s bigger than the enemy. He’s already won this battle.”
I frowned in the dark. How could she say that? What if José died—or was already dead? I mean, sure, God was “in control”— but bad things still happened.
I felt Avis’s hand close on top of mine. “Jesus! Thank You for what You’re going to do in this situation. We know the battle is already won, no matter what the enemy tries to throw at us. Don’t let us sink into worry and despair. Satan wants us to cower and whimper. But we’re thanking You, Lord. We don’t know what happened, or why. But we’re thanking You!”
She was using “we,” so I whispered, “Yes, please, God.” But I didn’t know if my faith was that strong. My prayer had been more of the begging variety: “Please, Lord, don’t let him die. Please, Lord, help . . .”
After praying awhile Avis left me, still on my knees, used the bathroom, and tiptoed back to bed. I could tell the other side of the king-size bed had not been slept in, though the pillows were gone. “Is Florida in there?” I whispered loudly into the other room.
“Yes,” came the reply. “On the floor with the sofa cushions. Go figure.”
MY TRAVEL ALARM WENT OFF under my pillow. 5:50 a.m. Parting the blackout curtains, I could tell the sun was already up. Trying to be as quiet as possible, I pulled on my jeans and sweater from last night, splashed water on my face—a shower would have to wait—and slipped out the door of our suite.
Meeting Room 7—an interior room created with expandable walls—was dark when I pulled open the door. I’d forgotten the list and couldn’t remember if anyone had signed up for the five-to-six time slot. Guess not. I felt around until I found a light switch, but the light was so bright with only me in the room, I felt like a captured spy about to be interrogated. I turned it off and propped the door open.
Part of me wasn’t sure I knew how to pray for a whole hour— especially without my morning cup of coffee. But maybe this was a chance to practice praying like some of the other women in the prayer group. For a while I walked around the circle of chairs in the dim room, silently praising God. Florida or Nony or Avis would’ve been saying, “Praise You, Jesus!” or “You are God Almighty from whom all blessings flow!” out loud, but I was chicken. Some hotel employee going past might hear me and think I was weird.
Remembering how Nony “prayed Scripture,” though, gave me another idea—but I hadn’t brought my Bible downstairs. I checked out the room by the light from the hallway and spied a Bible someone had left in one of the other prayer circles, a Contemporary English Version—I hadn’t seen that one before. Dragging a chair near the open door—I still wasn’t ready to “pray big” in a lighted room all by myself—I turned to the Psalms and began reading out loud. “The wicked try to trap and kill good people, but the Lord is on their side, and he will defend them when they are on trial.” Oh, that was a good verse. Right on the money. I skimmed the psalm. “The Lord protects his people, and t
hey can come to him in times of trouble.”
What if I turned Psalm 37 into a prayer for Delores and her family? I tried it out loud.“Oh God, the wicked are trying to trap and kill Delores’s son, but I know You are on their side, and You’re going to defend them during this trial . . . You protect Your people, Lord, and Delores can come to You in this time of trouble.” Goosebumps tickled the back of my neck. The words rang in my ear in a new way. Not third person but first person. I know You are on their side . . . You protect Your people . . . Did I know this—really? Could I declare it in faith?
I tried out several other psalms this way—and nearly jumped out of my skin when the lights suddenly flooded the room.
“Jodi! What are you doing in the dark?” Nony and Hoshi had come into the room. Both had sweats on.
“Uh, I was praying for Delores and her son . . . what time is it?”
“Seven. We came for the group prayer.”
Seven already? I could hardly believe it. An hour ago I wasn’t sure how I was going to fill up the time.
Within a few minutes, nearly the whole group showed up in various stages of morning dress—minus Delores, Edesa, and Stu, of course. Even Yo-Yo, though she sat off to the side, arms folded like a principal doing classroom observations. Yesterday morning, no one had shown up except Nony and Avis—plus me, tagging after Avis. But this morning, it was full house.
I’d always thought of “group prayer” as taking turns praying. But I was about to be introduced to no-holds-barred, every-woman-for-herself prayer. Avis, Adele, and Chanda moved around, praying out loud, all at the same time. Florida and Nony held forth on their knees. Ruth and Hoshi anchored their chairs, but I could tell they were praying.