2-in-1 Yada Yada

by Neta Jackson

  “Yes! Found it with no problem.” She grinned at me. “Guess you have to live a long way away to arrive early.”

  I opened my mouth and shut it again. Great. She just couldn’t help commenting about me squeaking in at the last minute, could she?

  Stu waggled her carnation. “This is nice. Everybody gets to celebrate Mother’s Day.”

  Avis’s voice filled the room from the microphone. “Praise the Lord, church! If you have your Bibles, please turn with me to Isaiah Fifty-Two.” Hiding the flush that had crept into my face, I dug into my tote bag and got out my Bible. Avis’s voice rang free and joyous, so different from her contained demeanor at school, like she’d just kicked off shoes that pinched after a long day at the office. “How beautiful on the mountains are the feet of those who bring good news, who proclaim peace, who bring good tidings, who proclaim salvation, who say to Zion, ‘Your God reigns!’ ” she read. “Listen! Your watchmen lift up their voices; together they shout for joy. . . .”

  Denny’s familiar bulk sat down in the chair beside me. Parking place at last. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Stu turn slightly our way, waiting. “Oh,” I whispered, trying not to interrupt Avis’s Scripture reading. “Denny, this is Stu . . . Stu, my husband, Denny.”

  Denny reached a hand across my lap and shook Stu’s warmly. “Yada Yada, right?” he whispered.

  “Right,” she murmured, giving him a bright smile. Too bright, if you asked me.

  “. . . The ends of the earth will see the salvation of our God,”Avis finished, closing her Bible. “Let’s stand and worship God this morning as men and women who have received good news! Salvation is ours because of Jesus Christ. Peace is ours because of Jesus. Like the watchmen on the walls, we can shout and sing a joyful song!”

  The guitarists strummed an introduction as the words to a song based on Isaiah 52 appeared on the portable screen behind them. I found it hard to concentrate with Stu standing beside me but dutifully sang the words: “ . . .How lovely on the mountains are the feet of him . . . who brings good news . . . good news . . .”We came to the end of the song, and immediately the music group launched into another. Uptown prided itself on providing “contemporary worship,” but the quick way we hustled from song to song was certainly different from the worship at the women’s conference last week, when one song seemed to last anywhere from ten to fifteen minutes. We had lingered over the words, singing them again and again till they worked themselves deep into the soul.

  I watched Avis. As worship leader, she was mostly in charge of setting a theme, reading Scripture, maintaining the flow. As the music group galloped from song to song, she gradually seemed to tune them out, lost in her own worship of the Savior. Her eyes were closed—were those tears?—her hands raised, and I could see her lips moving—not to the song, but just saying, “Glory! Praise You, Jesus! I love You, Lord!”

  How did she do that? It wasn’t like anything profound had happened today to kindle such deep worship. Last week, with five hundred other women worshiping over the top, sure, I could let go, too. Well, at least what passed for “letting go” for Jodi Baxter. But here at Uptown? Would I dare be the only one to shout out, “Thank You, Jesus!”

  Probably not.

  But with Avis . . . it didn’t seem to matter. She worshiped the same here at Uptown as she did at the Chicago Women’s Conference, regardless. How did she do that?

  Because she is thankful. She loves the Lord with all her heart.

  The words were so clear, it was like someone spoke inside my head. I squeezed my eyes shut. Lord, I know I said I want to learn more about worship. But it’s so hard. I get distracted . . . by people around me . . . by things I have to do . . . by my runaway thoughts.

  During the next song, I kept my eyes closed, shutting out everything around me. When the familiar words ran out, I just did what Avis did, filling in with “Glory!” and “Thank You, Jesus!” and “I love You, Lord!” More like a murmur than a shout, but my heart began to fill. God had been pretty good to me. I needed to be more thankful—and tell Him so.

  THE SERVICE WAS OVER, and I was introducing Stu to the people around us when I saw several folks head for the kitchen. I stopped in midsentence: the potluck! And my casserole was still sitting on top of the stove, stone cold.

  “Jodi? Are you okay?” Stu looked at me quizzically.

  “No . . . yes! Yes, I’m fine. Denny?” I plucked on my husband’s sleeve. “Could you introduce Stu to some folks? I’ve . . . I’ll be back in a minute.”

  I didn’t head for the kitchen. I headed for the women’s bathroom, a two-stall affair with plastic flowers in a vase on the counter between the two sinks in an attempt to dress up the drab little room. Except it wasn’t drab today. The small room had a fresh coat of sunny yellow paint. Well, good for the work crew.

  The bathroom was usually pretty busy right after the morning service, and today was no exception. When a stall became free, I locked the door and sank down on the toilet seat. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. Why did I forget today of all days? With Miss-Do-Everything-Right visiting. Why did I always end up feeling a day late and a dollar short when Stu was around?

  On the other hand, Jodi, you forgot because your focus was on worshiping today. For a change.

  I blinked back the tears that had started to pool. Okaaay. The bad news was that I’d blown it as far as the potluck went. How bad was that? There would probably still be plenty of food—or at least “enough.” The good news was that I’d given God more of my attention than I usually did on a Sunday morning. I could live with that, couldn’t I?

  When I came back into the large room, Stu was talking to Pastor Clark, who had given a pretty good sermon that morning (I’d even taken notes). While she was busy, I slipped into the kitchen where half a dozen helpful people were putting out all the dishes on the counter that opened into the big room. Even my uncooked casserole sat among the others, still in its aluminum foil cover. Hoo boy, folks would get a surprise biting into that raw rice. With an apologetic smile, I whisked it away and stuck it in the refrigerator.

  Denny and I sat with Avis and Stu at one of the many long tables that had been set up around the big room. To quell my guilty conscience, I didn’t fill my plate very full, though I did make a point to take some of Stu’s pasta salad. Okay, so I was wrong about the flaming cherries jubilee. “Where’s your chicken-and-rice?” Denny asked, his mouth full of Avis’s super cornbread. “I wanted some but didn’t see it.”

  “Um, sorry. It met with a little accident. The pasta salad is good, Stu.” Actually it was only so-so, but who was I to find fault? At least it was edible.

  Denny stopped midbite and looked at me. “Accident? Ha. You forgot to put it in the oven, didn’t you!” He thought that was very funny. “Oh, you should have seen us this morning, throwing that thing together. And then she forgets to put it in the oven! Ha ha ha ha ha!”

  Thanks, Denny. Thanks a lot.

  Stu grinned. “Well, at least we know what you’re going to get for supper, Denny.”

  I decided to take it on the chin. “Yep. And Monday night, and Tuesday night . . .”

  Everybody laughed.

  “I enjoyed the service today.” Stu pushed back her empty paper plate. “The teen mission trip sounds great. And the carnations were a nice touch—a nice way to include everybody on Mother’s Day. I’d like to come back.”

  Oh, great, I thought. “Sure,” I said.

  “Watch out,” Denny teased. “That commute from the ’burbs is why we ended up moving to Rogers Park.”

  “Actually,” Stu continued, “I’ve been thinking about visiting all the different churches Yada Yada folks attend. If we really want to keep this prayer group going, I’d like to see each woman in her own context.”

  Hmm. Kinda liked that idea. Wished I’d thought of it.

  “Even better—what if all the women in Yada Yada visited each other’s churches? But we all came on the same Sunday?—say the last Sunday of the mont
h till we’ve visited everybody. Shouldn’t be too hard to organize through the e-loop . . .”

  I figured “I’ll be glad to set it up” would be her next words.

  “I’ll be glad to set it up,” Stu finished.

  Avis frowned thoughtfully. “But that could be five or six churches—a lot of Sundays to miss being at one’s own church.”

  “Well, spread it out—maybe every two months.”

  Okay. So what if it was Stu’s idea. I actually liked it, though spreading out those church visits over a year might be most realistic. But as long as we were talking about getting Yada Yada together, I decided this was a good time to float the idea about a five-year sobriety party for Florida.

  “It’s actually Yo-Yo’s idea,” I said modestly. “Last night Denny and I went to the Bagel Bakery where she works, got to see Ruth Garfield and meet her husband, Ben, too.” Sorry, God, couldn’t help dropping that in. “It would primarily be a celebration for Florida, but we could also make time to share and pray for each other— like we did at the conference.”

  I would have checked with Denny, but he had disappeared across the room to talk to some of the street people. “We could host it at my house,” I added.

  Avis nodded thoughtfully. “Sounds good.”

  Stu nodded. “What about Memorial Day weekend? That’d give us two weeks to plan it.”

  “Can’t be a Saturday,” I said. “Yo-Yo works Saturday night— big night at the Bagel Bakery. And it was her idea.”

  “If we did it Sunday afternoon, we could invite the sisters to come to Uptown in the morning—the first ‘church visit’—and then go over to your place.” Avis seemed to be warming up to the idea.

  “Do you want me to send out invitations, Jodi?”

  “But speaking of Ruth . . .” said Avis, suddenly backing up.

  Ah. The elephant in the middle of the room.

  “Yes!” Stu immediately turned from invitations to indignant. “Why in the world did she send that e-mail? Implying that Florida wanting her daughter back might not be ‘in the best interest of the child’! Sheesh.”

  “It was more generic than that,” I defended. “Sometimes returning foster kids to the natural parent isn’t in the best interest of a child.”

  “Yes, but why bring it up in Florida’s case?” Stu shook her head. “What does she know?”

  Good point. I’d wondered, too. “I wanted to ask Ruth about it when I saw her last night. But our husbands were with us and, you know . . .”

  Avis’s lips twitched in a small smile. “Right. Husbands. Women talk better when they’re not around.”

  My ears pricked up. She said husbands. Was she talking about her own? Was she still married? Divorced? Avis was an extremely attractive woman, even in her mid-fifties—but as far as I knew she’d never mentioned a husband before. Why— But the conversation had turned back to Ruth.

  “Can’t blame Florida for reacting the way she did,” Stu was saying. “With friends like that, who needs enemies?”

  Avis leveled a gaze at Stu that would stop most students at Bethune Elementary in their tracks. “I certainly hope you didn’t say that to Florida. At worst, the comment was thoughtless. At best, Ruth may . . .” She didn’t finish her sentence.

  “May what?” I prompted.

  Avis shook her head. “Never mind. We’re all speculating anyway. We don’t know. But . . . after the reactions she got, do you think Ruth will come to Florida’s sobriety party?”

  Good question. But at least we were finally talking about the elephant.

  21

  We had the cooked chicken-and-rice for supper, at which Denny and the kids had surprised me with a raspberry pie from Baker’s Square and three flats of alyssum, petunias, and impatiens to plant in the backyard as my Mother’s Day gift. I felt overwhelmed by the flowers, afraid they’d die in their little plastic pots before I had time to get them in the ground.

  “So whaddya think?” I asked Denny, flopping down on the couch after finagling a promise from Josh and Amanda that they’d help me dig up the flowerbeds. “Should we make this party for Florida a surprise or tell her about it?”

  “Huh?” Denny half-turned toward me, his eyes still glued to a documentary on public television about avalanches.

  “Never mind.” I got up.

  “No, no, that’s okay.” He hit the mute on the remote. “What’s up?”

  I reminded Denny what Yo-Yo had said last night about a five-year sobriety party for Florida and said both Avis and Stu liked the idea. “Should we make it a surprise or tell her about it?”

  “Tell her.You want to make sure she’ll come.” He hit the sound back on.

  “Uh, can we have it here?”

  “What? Sure.” On screen, the film crew was skiing for their lives, trying to outrace the avalanche. If I wanted a fur coat or a trip to Ireland, now would be the time to ask.

  I called Florida. “Really?” she said. “Yo-Yo said that? That girl’s all right.”

  She said Sunday on Memorial Day weekend would work for her. “Can I bring my kids? They’re a huge part of what I got to celebrate.”

  Kids? I hadn’t counted on kids when I offered to have it at my house. What would we do with kids? “Uh, sure. We’ll think of something to keep them entertained.” Something like Josh and Amanda. My name was going to be mud.

  “You gonna invite the whole Yada Yada group?”

  “Uh, sure. That’s the idea. To celebrate with you.”

  A silence thick as wall putty seemed to clog up the line. Then, “Well okay. Can’t nobody rob me of my joy, right?”

  “Right,” I said softly.

  Everybody would be invited, but would “everybody” come?

  I stood by the kitchen phone after we hung up. This whole thing didn’t make sense. I liked Florida—really liked her. And I liked Ruth, too. What a stitch she was! I was sure they could be friends, if anybody could be in Yada Yada. What had happened?

  “Hey, Josh,” I said, stopping by the desk in the dining room, where he was pecking away at his history paper. “Let me know when you take a break. I gotta send out an invitation tonight.”

  BY THE TIME MEMORIAL DAY WEEKEND LOOMED on the calendar, I had gotten responses back from almost everybody saying, Great, let’s do it, don’t know about church but I’ll see, what can we bring? Yo-Yo didn’t have e-mail so I called her. Turned out she worked on Sunday, too, but was going to try to get off. Chanda didn’t have e-mail, either, so I’d tried her number and left a message, but she hadn’t called back. So that was everybody so far . . .

  Everybody except Adele and Ruth.

  Ruth . . . guess I wasn’t surprised. She might need a little coaxing. Needed to call her, too. But what was Adele’s excuse? It had been almost two weeks! How long did a simple yes or no take to send by e-mail?

  Prayer requests from Yada Yada had been piling up, too. The most urgent was from Delores. On top of José’s medical bills and slow recovery, her husband, Ricardo, had lost his job! “Without Ricardo’s paycheck, I need to go back to work,” she wrote. “Probably a good thing. Having both José and Ricardo underfoot all day is driving me loco!”

  Hoshi had gotten a letter from her parents about their visit to Chicago this summer, but she still hadn’t had the courage to tell them she’d become a Christian. “Pray for me I won’t be afraid.”

  Nony wrote a long epistle detailing the growing famine in Zimbabwe, Mozambique, Botswana, and other countries surrounding South Africa, and once again asked prayer about returning to Africa to work for the good of her people. “P.S. Mark and I would like to send Marcus and Michael to a Christian summer camp. Any suggestions?”

  Hmm, I thought. I could pass on the camp brochures we get every summer, since Josh and Amanda are going on the mission trip instead.

  And of course there was the ongoing prayer that Florida’s little girl would be found. No word on whether Stu’s efforts were turning up anything new.

  I meant to pray every day for all
these things; I really did. But school had been a zoo the last couple of weeks. End-of-year fever made nearly all the kids infected with can’t-sit-still-itis until I was about ready to declare an epidemic and stay home. And Parents Day was coming up the week after Memorial Day, meaning that I’d probably spend most of the Monday holiday decorating my classroom. Bummer.

  Chicago’s lakefront officially opened on Memorial Day, and Chicagoans flocked to the parks and beaches like Ulysses clones drawn by the Sirens’ song. Even a crowd-hater like me. For one thing, the mosquitoes and bees had not yet begun to recruit troops and draw up battle plans for Labor Day, pretty much leaving the parks bug-free. For another, people-watching was at its greatest as bikers, joggers, dog-walkers, and baby strollers were practically bumper to bumper, and everybody and his Uncle Jimmy hauled their Weber grills to the lakefront for a family reunion. It was as if Chicago itself shook off the winter doldrums to celebrate the beginning of summer.

  Which made going back to school the next day—for three more weeks!—grounds for mutiny in the hearts of students and teachers alike.

  But now that Saturday was here, I might as well suck it up and make the most of the three-day weekend. Like groceries. I hadn’t done a serious shop since before the women’s conference, just darting into the store to pick up milk or bread or hamburger on our way somewhere else. But, as Denny subtly pointed out, the vittles situation was starting to get serious when the only cans on the pantry shelf were dog food.

  Besides, I had to shop for Florida’s party. Which meant chicken. Lots of chicken. I hoped “Baxter grilled” instead of Kentucky Fried would be okay.

  After reminding Amanda that Edesa was coming at four o’clock for tutoring and laying down the law to both kids that their rooms had to be clean—not just kicking stuff under the bed—before they could do anything with friends, I set out armed with my list of errands. I’d dropped off the dry cleaning and stood in line at the post office—both near each other on Devon—and was heading back up Clark Street toward the fruit market and new Dominick’s grocery store when I saw the red-and-blue sign: