by Neta Jackson
“Well . . . sure. Help yourself. Tools are in the garage—I’ll unlock the door.”
Armed with a long shovel, Becky tackled the weed-choked flowerbeds with the determination of a prisoner-of-war digging an escape tunnel.Willie Wonka seemed fascinated by all the activity and settled on his haunches nearby like a sidewalk supervisor. It took a gulp of faith for me to go about my business inside the house and leave my dog outside with the same woman who’d threatened to “cut him” during the robbery.
Okay, Jesus, I know I’m a little anxious, and I’m probably being silly. I chopped vegetables for a pot of soup with unnecessary vigor. But we could use a few guardian angels on the job, if You don’t mind. One for Willie Wonka too. I stepped over to the back door and watched Becky work-ing up a good sweat with the shovel. Only God knew what was going on in her mind and her spirit these days. Maybe she was anxious about us.
And a guardian angel for Becky too, I added.
The phone rang again . . . and continued all week as calls flew back and forth between Yada Yadas about the big weekend coming up. Avis’s wedding and Yo-Yo’s baptism were briefly overshadowed when the president held a press conference on May first and announced that the fighting in Iraq was over. “Now it is time to rebuild!” I wanted to rejoice, I really did; but something deep in my spirit said it wasn’t time to stop praying. I even sent an e-mail to Yada Yada early Saturday morning saying, “Sisters! Keep praying for true peace in Iraq and in the Middle East. Prayer is our battleground, and the battle is far from over.”
I studied the e-mail a few moments before I hit send. That was certainly a New Jodi prayer focus—if I practiced what I preached. Already I was tempted to skip my prayer time that morning because of the busy day ahead. Josh had to take his SATs today, Amanda and I both had hair appointments at Adele’s Hair and Nails, and Ben Garfield wanted to deliver something to Uptown Community for Avis’s wedding—the “surprise.” But I managed to squeeze fifteen minutes for prayer between Willie Wonka’s first trip to the yard and the first phone call.
It was Yo-Yo. “Hey, Jodi. You said my name meant ‘lavender flower,’ right?”
“That’s right, Yo-Yo.What’s up?”
“Oh, nothin’. I was just thinkin’ about what to wear tomorrow.”
I nearly dropped the phone.Yo-Yo was thinking about what to wear?Was it possible she might even show up in a lavender dress?
“Mom?” Josh grabbed a banana as he headed out the door to catch the eight o’clock start time for the SAT. “A couple of friends of mine at Jesus People want to visit Uptown Community sometime. Think tomorrow would be okay?”
“Uh, it might be kind of packed tomorrow with Avis getting married, but . . .” I couldn’t bring myself to say no to any young person wanting to come to church. “You guys might have to stand.”
“No sweat. Oh. Not guys. Girls.” And he was out the door.
Girls?
I thought he was gone, but sixty seconds later Josh stuck his head back inside the kitchen door. “Hey, Mom. We usually get you some flowers to plant for Mother’s Day, right? Would you mind if we got them early so Becky could get them in the ground rather than make her wait a whole week?”
What could I say? I loved flowers in the yard! I loved the idea of planting them myself. Yet the kids knew me too well. Last year half the sets they bought me for Mother’s Day died before their little roots ever touched the flowerbeds.
EXCITEMENT WOKE ME THAT first Sunday of May even before Willie Wonka’s bladder did. I lay in the semi-darkness, enjoying the stillness of the morning before the day’s events took over. A year ago this very weekend, I’d been sharing a king-size bed with Florida Hickman at the Embassy Suites Hotel, where we’d met for the first time at the Chicago Women’s Conference. Actually, not for the first time, but neither one of us had known it then. The same weekend God assigned me to Prayer Group 26, which we laughingly called Yada Yada, and changed my life forever.
Oh God, You’ve truly brought us a mighty long way—
I sat up suddenly. What was that noise? I listened carefully then quietly raised the window blind. Rain! I sank back onto my pillow in disappointment.
There was nothing to do but get ready for church anyhow. Rain wouldn’t stop Avis’s wedding—though what was going to happen about the baptism? I put on the coffee and looked out the window into the backyard. At least the Johnny jump-ups, petunias, and zinnias that Becky Wallace had planted yesterday—my Mother’s Day gift from Josh and Amanda one week early—were enjoying the good soak.
The clouds still hung low over the city as we headed out the door to church, but at least the rain had stopped. Maybe . . . just maybe . . .
We waved at Stu and Becky as they took off in the Celica, having gotten permission from her parole agent to attend church and the baptism—especially when assured that she would be in the company of other members of the household. By the time we parked and got upstairs—twenty minutes early for a change—we barely found two seats together.
Uptown’s sanctuary was packed.
To the casual eye, it wasn’t apparent that a wedding would be taking place that day. No flowers, no candles—no “surprise” from Ben and Ruth? Just bunches of grinning people in their own version of wedding finery. Avis, introducing her daughters and grandbabies to various folks, was dressed in a creamy suit with a feminine cut that made her look like a double latte, her hair done in braided extensions that swept upward and twisted into an elegant knot on the top of her head. The Sisulu-Smiths were dressed in the exotic matching outfits they’d brought home from South Africa. Chanda and her three kids arrived, dressed like an Easter parade. Except Chanda’s face was the inverse of her sunshine yellow suit.
“You okay, Chanda?” I asked.
“T’ree days!” she grumbled. “Dat mon, ’e be gone t’ree days wit’out telling me where ’e go or calling home or anyting. I’m fin’ his suitcase on de sidewalk in one more minnit—Dia! Quit dat runnin’! Dis be a church, even it don’ look like it.” And she stalked off.
About time she tossed him out the door. But I felt badly for Dia and Chanda’s other kids. If only DeShawn—
I was distracted by a female voice calling, “Hey, Josh! We made it!” Must be the girls from Jesus People. Had to admit the green and pink spiky hair, nose rings, and tattoos curling around their necks took me aback. Same with the big hugs they gave Josh.
Oh Lord.
All the Yada Yada families were present in full force—even Ricardo Enriquez and José, dressed in the embroidered short jackets and large silver belt buckles they’d worn for Amanda’s quinceañera. Amanda made a beeline to sit with José, and I let her go. We were just one big family this morning, anyway.
I was worried that Yo-Yo would chicken out because of the rain, but as Pastor Clark announced the opening scripture from Proverbs 18, the Garfields arrived with Yo-Yo and her two brothers trailing behind them . . . and I wanted to burst out laughing.
Yo-Yo was wearing a brand-new pair of lavender overalls.
“The name of the Lord is a strong tower,” Pastor Clark boomed, covering my giggle that escaped. “The righteous run into it and are safe.” Then the praise team launched into the Don Moen worship song based on that same verse: “The name of the Lord is . . . a strong tower!”
The name of the Lord is a strong tower! What a wonderful theme for Avis’s wedding and Yo-Yo’s baptism. I’d been thinking of the meaning of Avis’s name—“refuge in battle”—as who she was to me and to Yada Yada. But a deeper meaning probably went right along with this proverb: Avis herself took refuge in “the name of the Lord,” which probably accounted for her peaceful heart and spirit of praise.
Pastor Clark served Communion as usual on the first Sunday of the month, but as we all settled back in our seats, he still held up a cup and a hunk of bread. “As you all know, we share the sacrament of Communion each month to remember the broken body and spilled blood of Christ as atonement for our sins. There are other sacraments with gre
at meaning for the church—and one of these is marriage, a picture of the relationship between Christ and His bride, the church.” In spite of himself, Pastor Clark betrayed the seriousness of his words with a wide grin. “Avis Johnson and Peter Douglass have asked us all to participate with them as they join their lives together in the sacrament of marriage. So if the guest musicians can give us some music, we need a few minutes to get ready.”
Avis’s and Peter’s self-conscious smiles turned to puzzled glances. Obviously, they thought they were just going to stand up, say their vows, and sit down. Ha! Think again, Avis. Florida caught my eye across the room and gave me a thumbs-up as Ricardo and José Enriquez stood in the back of the room and began picking the tune, “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring,” on their acoustic guitars. As the music played, Ben Garfield, Ruth, and Delores disappeared into a side room and came out carrying a traditional Jewish huppah, which looked very much like a squared-off garden trellis decorated with silk ivy. A collective “Ooooh” from the congregation greeted them as they set it in place and then covered the top and sides with a colorful quilt . . . the friendship quilt.
Avis’s mouth dropped open, but she obediently stood up as Pastor Clark motioned her and Peter forward. One of her grandbabies—Conrad’s namesake—ran up and gave her a small bouquet of white roses to hold, and he got a big kiss, which he wiped off immediately as he ran back to his mother. Avis and Peter stood under the huppah as Pastor Clark gave a short wedding homily based on several “joy” verses, then asked Avis and Peter for their vows. I don’t think there was a dry Yada Yada eye as Avis spoke her own words to Peter: “Peter, first of all you are my friend . . .” Tissues came out and noses blew all over the room.
Pastor Clark also asked them to repeat the traditional vows “to love and cherish till death do us part.” As Avis and Peter exchanged rings, Ricardo and José came forward with their guitars and serenaded the startled couple with a traditional Latino love song. Another Yada Yada surprise.
Grinning from ear to ear, Pastor Clark finally pronounced them husband and wife. “You may kiss your bride!”
Okay, what happened next wasn’t exactly Sunday morning decorum—more like pumped-up fans at a foot-ball stadium—and the cheering and clapping and whistles went on for a good five minutes. Peter took advantage of the pandemonium and got in two or three extra kisses.
“Jump de broom!” Chanda cried, conscripting Uptown’s janitorial push broom into service. Others took up the chant: “Jump the broom! Jump the broom!” And to my dying day, I’ll never forget the poised principal of Mary McLeod Bethune Elementary sailing over that broom on the arm of her new husband as Avis Johnson Douglass.
Pastor Clark finally called for a semblance of order long enough to say, “Well, that’s half our worship service today. But I’ve just been told that the sun is out—for the next five minutes anyway.” General laughter. “I’d like to suggest we go immediately to the lake for the second half of our celebration—the baptism of Yolanda Spencer.”
Yo-Yo ducked as all eyes turned toward her.
“What? Now?” Ruth spluttered. “But what about the wedding cake?” She bustled over to the pass-through window and slid it open. “See? Made special for Avis and Peter. Not so cheap either!”
45
Ruth was only slightly pacified when assured that we’d all come back to the church for cake. “Just pour some water on Yo-Yo’s head,” she muttered, “and let’s eat.” Still, Ben dragged her down the stairs along with the rest of the congregation to pile into cars parked along Morse Avenue and on the side streets. Most of the teenagers elected to walk to the lake since it was only a few blocks to Loyola Beach.
I thought Avis and Peter might sneak away in his black Lexus, but no, there it was in the beach parking lot when we pulled in. Avis had actually done a quick change back in the women’s restroom and was wearing a gold and black tunic with harem pants and a black shawl—one of her favorite casual outfits. Peter still kept looking at her as if he wanted to eat her up.
It took thirty minutes for everyone to gather on the beach, but the weather was still holding. Billowy thunder-heads piled up on the horizon, yet there was no wind, the clouds overhead had broken, and the noonday sun brightened the water to a turquoise green. Seagulls screeched and swooped over the water, then did two-point landings on the sand, probably figuring that “people” equaled “food.”
Denny strolled over to talk to Mark and Nony, and Mark seemed easy in his manner. Guessed he wasn’t too annoyed at Denny for the “sabbatical” suggestion. But I doubted that he’d told Nony what Denny had said.
Carla ran past me just then, chasing the seagulls, her beaded braids bouncing, making the birds fly up a short distance before they landed again. Carl Hickman squatted down on his haunches, grabbed his daughter as she flew by, and tickled her till she cried, “Stop, Daddy!”
Florida hovered beside me. “See that? I been thinkin’ maybe I died and gone to heaven. That man came home every night last week wearin’ self-respect like a new suit of clothes. Even Carla feel the difference in our house. Didn’t throw a single tantrum all week.Well, okay, one.” She pulled on my sleeve. “Hey, they gettin’ ready to start.”
We all gathered around Pastor Clark and Yo-Yo in her lavender overalls, standing with their backs to the water. Uptown’s pastor explained that Yo-Yo was not a member of our church but participated in a prayer group that involved several Uptown members. “Not that it matters,” he said. “We don’t baptize people into a particular church. We baptize them into the family of God, the universal church of Christ that proclaims Jesus is Lord.” He turned to Yo-Yo. “Would you like to say something before we proceed?”
Yo-Yo, shoulders hunched, hands in pockets, stared at her toes as if hoping a pocket of quicksand might swallow her. But she finally lifted her spiky blonde head and man-aged a quirky grin. “Hey, everybody. Yeah, I wanna thank Ruth and Ben Garfield, you know, for bein’ the parents I never really had. Took Pete an’ Jerry under their wings ’fore they got too big for their britches.”
Yo-Yo’s teenage brothers, wearing baggy pants and oversize athletic shirts, got slapped upside the head by a few snickering teenagers nearby.
“An’ I wanna thank Yada Yada, all of ’em, for lettin’me ride along with this crazy prayer group all year.Today’s our anniversary, ya know . . .” Whatever she said next was drowned out by whoops and hallelujahs and “praise Jesus” from all the Yada Yadas scattered among the crowd at the edge of the water, and our friends and families laughed. But Yo-Yo seemed unfazed and just repeated herself when the noise died down. “An’ I ’specially wanna thank Becky Wallace over there . . .” She jerked a thumb toward where Stu stood with Becky, clad in one of Stu’s bulky sweaters and a pair of slacks that covered her ankle monitor. “ ’Cause she ain’t patient like these other nice Christian ladies. She tol’ me to make up my mind an’ get off the fence—either be a Christian or be a pagan like she is.”
No! Yo-Yo didn’t say that! I shot a glance at Becky, sure she’d be mortified being identified as a pagan in front of a bunch of church folks, even if those were her own words. But a grin—the first one I’d seen since the DOC guys dropped her off a week ago; maybe the first one I’d ever seen—spread out under the shapeless brown hair. Close behind me I heard Adele mutter: “Get that girl into my shop. That hair needs help—bad.”
I strained my ears. Yo-Yo was still talking, her voice almost swallowed by the great outdoors. “Also, Becky’s one person who knows what it’s like to sit in jail and be free again. An’ I guess that’s why I want to be baptized today, ’cause we both know being a pagan ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. I’m tired of my insides bein’ in jail, an’ I want Jesus to make me free.”
“Thank ya, Jesus!” Florida shouted, and for half a minute even the teenagers joined the clapping and amens.
Denny slid an arm around me and gave me a slight squeeze. “That girl just preached,” he murmured, his voice full of admiration.
; Pastor Clark then asked Yo-Yo the baptism questions about confessing her sins and believing that Jesus is the Son of God and accepting His forgiveness because of what He did on the cross. Yo-Yo, never one to follow protocol, blurted, “Yeah, I got it. If not, Avis over there will explain it to me.”
It was time to go into the water. Pastor Clark beckoned to Denny, and the two men took off their shoes and rolled up their pant legs. Yo-Yo did the same. Clinging to each other, the trio started into the water. “Aaaiiiieeee!” Yo-Yo screeched, hopping up and down. “It’s freezing!”
Laughter spread through the crowd, comfortably warm on the shore in our light jackets and sweatshirts. Some of the teenagers and children took off their shoes and waded a few feet into the water, just to prove it wasn’t too cold for them. But the trio in the water kept walking—up to their knees . . . up to their thighs . . . almost up to Yo-Yo’s waist. They finally stopped, turned around, and the two men held Yo-Yo’s arms and shoulders in a good grip. Even from the shore we could see Yo-Yo rolling her eyes and making faces at the frigid lake water, though it was hard to hear what Pastor Clark was saying to her. But I caught “. . . in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit”—and then Pastor Clark and Denny quickly lowered Yo-Yo backward into Lake Michigan and brought her up again, dripping wet.
“Thank ya, Jesus!” Florida shouted again, and someone started the group on shore singing, “Tell me, how does it feel to come out the wilderness?” as the trio headed back toward shore.
“Wait!” someone shouted. I was startled to see Becky Wallace pull away from Stu’s side and head for the water. At the water’s edge, she kicked off her shoes and waded in, heading toward the shivering Yo-Yo. The singing died away as everyone gaped. What in the world?