Who Do I Lean On?

by Neta Jackson

  Estelle chortled right out loud. Taking my cue, I grinned too, and pretty soon everyone was chuckling. “Yep,” I teased. “I just forgot my clown suit. Sorry.”

  The twins’ eyes got big—but just then an older man with silvery hair and a rather bulbous nose scurried into the room, scooped up a twin under each arm, and hustled out again. Their father? If so, the twins must have been “late-in-life blessings.”

  I didn’t have time to figure out the family dynamics, because Avis Douglass was saying, “All right, sisters, we need to get started. It’s already five thirty. We want to have enough time to hear praise reports and prayer requests—but first let’s worship our awesome Savior, just for Who He is . . . Oh, Jesus, You are wonderful! We’re so glad to just sit at Your feet and be in Your presence . . .”

  And just like that, Avis slid into talking to God as though He’d come walking through the door. Others joined in, sometimes several at once, murmuring prayers of thanks and praise. I closed my eyes and drank in the atmosphere of these women worshiping together, not asking God for anything, just focusing on being grateful for His love and faithfulness.

  Someone started singing, “O come let us adore Him . . .” —which surprised me, because I’d only thought of that song as a Christmas carol—but I loved the fact that the chorus was so simple, I didn’t need to look at any words, I could just let my heart sing. Then people added other phrases: “For You alone are worthy” . . . “We give You love and honor” . . . and back to “O come let us adore Him . . .”

  The song died away and Avis finally opened the conversation for praise reports and prayer requests. Edesa was the first. “Oh, mi amigas, I am so excited. God has answered your prayers for me and Josh and Gracie in a mighty way! Not just for a bigger place to live, but—” She suddenly turned to me. “Sister Gabby, you tell them. Because God answered both our prayers!”

  All eyes turned to me. I shrank slightly into my chair. I’d wanted to come tonight to share the good things God had been doing in my life with these sisters, but I’d hoped to listen to others first. “Uh, that’s okay, Edesa. Go ahead.”

  To my relief, Edesa burbled on, telling the Yada sisters how the new House of Hope needed a property manager on site and how I’d offered the job to Josh, and what a wonderful answer to prayer it was since it meant living on the premises.

  “What’s dis ‘House of Hope’?” the Jamaican woman named Chanda demanded. “How come all you talking tings mi not hear about?”

  “Humph,” Yo-Yo snorted. “If you’d stay put ’stead of flyin’ to Jamaica or Waikiki to lie in the sun, you woulda heard about it too.”

  Realizing some of the women hadn’t heard the whole story, I started at the beginning and told how the idea for the House of Hope had come to be, with Jodi and Edesa jumping in from time to time to fill in details. “But I’ve got more good news!” I said, grinning with excitement. “I met with the Manna House board on Saturday, supposedly to bring a proposal about an expanded afterschool program, and—”

  “Wait a minute,” Florida Hickman interrupted, frowning. “You met with the Manna House board on Saturday? At Manna House?” She glanced anxiously at Jodi and Jodi returned a slight shrug and shake of her head.

  “Well, no . . . not at Manna House. Some kind of construction was going on, so we met at a coffee shop nearby. Why?”

  A grin replaced Florida’s frown. “Oh . . . no reason. Now what was you sayin’?”

  What was that all about? Weird. But I went on, telling how the board casually let slip that the city of Chicago had approved the House of Hope as part of their Supportive Housing Program, with the HUD Trust Fund subsidizing rent monies and Manna House providing the needed social services. “The House of Hope is now official! Well, as soon as we close on the building this Thursday,” I added. “Which I’d like prayer about, that we wouldn’t run into any hitches. If all goes well, Edesa and Josh and the first two moms from Manna House can move in this coming weekend.”

  The room erupted into a joyous cacophony of clapping, “hallelujahs,” and laughter. After a few minutes of congratulations and happy tears from Edesa, Jodi piped up, “And that’s not all the good news! As some of you know already, this morning our sister Gabby, here, became a member of SouledOut Community Church!”

  “And Harry too!” Estelle said. “An’ I’m not talkin’ ’bout no ‘transfer of membership’ neither. For both Harry and Gabby, we’re talkin’ ’bout two people comin’ back to God after a long time out in the cold. Am I right, Gabby girl?”

  By this time, I was all choked up and couldn’t speak, but I nodded . . . and Florida just started thanking God for “our new sister in Christ” while Jodi pressed a tissue into my hand to take care of the tears and my runny nose.

  After the prayer, Chanda crossed her arms across her chest, looking puzzled. “Mi know mi been gone a few weeks, but, Sister Gabby, you keep saying ‘we’ when you talking ’bout closing on dat building. Is ‘we’ you an’ dat husband of yours? You two back together again?”

  The room went silent and some of the Yadas looked at one another as if embarrassed by her question.

  “Uh, well, I guess I said we because my friend, Lee Boyer—my lawyer, I mean—has been helping me with this whole process. He’s really been there for me.” I could feel myself blushing, remembering that kiss . . .

  “Uh-huh.” Chanda looked at me critically. “So what happened wit de husband? You still married?”

  “Good grief. Shut up, Chanda,” Yo-Yo muttered from her spot on the floor. “So what if she is? The jerk kicked her out, left her high and dry. Ain’t like she’s really got a husband anymore. Heck, if this Lee guy wants to be her friend or her boyfriend or whatever, I say more power to him!”

  “Mi just asking,” Chanda protested. “You all be on mi case when mi be wit a man mi not married to. Mi jus’ trying to figure it out, what be okay walking de Jesus walk and not just de Jesus talk.”

  I squirmed helplessly. Fortunately, Avis spoke up, her voice calm but authoritative. “That’s a good thing to think about, Chanda. Our actions should line up with the Word of God—walk the talk, as you say. But Gabby’s situation might be better shared with some of the sisters she knows personally. However, we can certainly pray . . . Gabby, are there some things you’d like us to specifically pray about?”

  I nodded, grateful to be off the hot seat. “Uh, well, just what I already mentioned, the closing on the six-flat this coming week. That’s the last step to making the House of Hope a reality. And”—I decided to claim some high ground—“I do want prayer for my, um, husband, Philip. He’s gotten himself into a lot of debt gambling at the Horseshoe, and I’m afraid he’s trying to fix it in ways that only make the situation worse. To be honest, I’m really concerned about him. In spite of everything, he is my kids’ dad and I don’t want him to get in trouble.”

  Avis nodded, and even though there were others who still needed to share, she suggested they pray right then about the closing on the six-flat, and then she prayed for Philip. “Lord Jesus, You know everything about this man—his past, his present, his future. From our point of view, it’s easy to be angry at what he’s done, kicking Gabby out of her home and basically abandoning her. But You died for all our sins, including Philip’s. You know his heart, his hurts, his weaknesses—and right now, we’re praying that You will touch his heart and bring him to his knees. Help him to realize that what he needs is You. Protect him from the evil one, who is using him not only to hurt Gabby and his family but himself . . .”

  I could hardly believe Avis’s prayer. It seemed so . . . right. She admitted being angry at what Philip had done, as if God really understood, and still prayed that God would “touch his heart” and “protect him from the evil one.”

  When others had had a chance to share and pray—Estelle did a short update on her son, Leroy, who was still in the burn unit at the county hospital, and asked the sisters to keep praying that she’d know what to do with him once he got released—Ru
th bustled into the room with a pineapple upside-down cake and a tray of hot tea and lemonade while everyone sang “Happy Birthday” to Jodi. When Estelle gave Jodi the crocheted hat she made, I rescued my flowers from the umbrella stand and gave them to her.

  “Oh, Gabby. They’re perfect!” Jodi grabbed me in a hug. “I’m so glad you came tonight. The things you shared, your membership at SouledOut this morning—those are the real things to celebrate. But . . .” She pulled me away from the others into the front hallway, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Do you want to talk about Lee sometime? I’m sure it can be confusing where another guy fits when you’re separated but still married. I promise I’ll listen and not jump in with instant answers. But I am your prayer partner, remember?” She smiled. “It might help to pray together.”

  I nodded and gave her a wordless hug. Yes, yes, yes, I needed to talk about Lee. And pray. About Lee and me. About how to “walk the talk” when things felt so mixed up right now.

  Sunday had been such an amazing day, I was still grinning when I pulled open the big oak doors of Manna House the next morning and walked into the cool foyer, with the stained glass reflections falling on the floor in sparkling colors. “Hi, Angela!” I beamed at the young Asian receptionist as I signed in. “Good morning, Mabel!” I called into the director’s office, whose door stood open. “Great day, isn’t it?”

  I barely noticed when Angela came out of her cubby and Mabel stood up from her desk to follow me as I pushed open the double swinging doors into the next room, and I was halfway across the room before I saw it . . .

  A large, colorful mural had been painted on the wall directly across from the doors. The figure of Jesus the Good Shepherd was surrounded by a flock of sheep that He was bringing into a sturdy enclosure, a long staff in one hand and a tiny lamb tucked into the crook of His other arm. Over the top of the mural flew a long open scroll with bright blue script lettering that said, “Shepherd’s Fold.”

  I felt as if the breath had been knocked out of me. Slowly I walked closer to the mural, hardly aware that many of the residents were standing around the room in little clusters, because no one was talking. As I stood looking up at the mural, I noticed that the sheep weren’t the fat, wooly kind populating most biblical pictures, but they were all different colors and shades of white, brown, and tan, some with scraggly, dirty wool, some thin and starved looking, some with bleeding or bandaged wounds. But the look on the Shepherd’s face was pure love.

  “Who did this?” I croaked.

  Mabel came up alongside me. “Florida Hickman’s son, Chris— he’s an art major over at Columbia University. Got his ‘training’ tagging walls and underpasses around the city before the law caught up with him. Now . . . well, you can see for yourself.”

  I smiled. So this was the “work” being done over the weekend behind the yellow construction-taped doors. No wonder Florida had almost freaked out last night when she thought I’d met with the board here over the weekend.

  Only then did I see a little brass plaque over to one side. I bent closer to read it:

  In memory of Martha Shepherd, fondly known as “Gramma Shep.” A resident of Manna House from June 19—July 10, 2006.

  Tears streamed down my face. “Lucy should see this,” was all I could say.

  chapter 38

  Speaking of Lucy, she showed up during lunch and it wasn’t even raining.

  “Wonkers!” she said, appearing in the dining room on the lower level with Dandy in tow. “Now that’s more like it.” Her gray eyes glittered as she jerked her thumb upward toward Shepherd’s Fold.

  The tables erupted in clapping and whistles. “Ya shoulda seen Miss Gabby’s face when she came in this mornin’!” Hannah laughed. I had to smile. I rarely thought of the young woman as Hannah the Bored any more, because Adele’s Hair and Nails had increased her afternoon hours to four days a week, Wednesday through Saturday.

  Lucy loaded up a plate with Caribbean rice and beans and Mexican sausage at the lunch counter and sat down with an “Oomph!” at the table where Mabel, Estelle, and I were sitting. “So who done it?” She grabbed the bottle of hot sauce on the table and liberally sprinkled her rice and beans. “That wall thing, I mean.”

  Mabel told her about Florida Hickman overhearing her complaint after Sunday Evening Praise a week ago—

  “I seen the lady. Who is she?”

  “One of my Yada Yada prayer sisters,” Estelle put in. “Her family’s been renting half their second floor to Josh and Edesa, place no bigger’n a shoebox. Guess Flo was here when SouledOut came to Sunday Evening Praise last week.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yada, yada . . . whatever. Go on.” Lucy poured on more hot sauce.

  Mabel picked up the story. “So that’s when Florida got the idea to ask her son, Chris, about doing a mural for Shepherd’s Fold. The young man is in a special art program for talented teens at Columbia College and he jumped at the chance.”

  Lucy guffawed when she heard the boy had first used his artistic talent “tagging” the walls of buildings and elevated train underpasses . . . but Estelle jumped in with even more juicy details. Even Mabel hadn’t heard the story of Jodi Baxter volunteering to be a drama coach at the Juvenile Detention Center when the regular JDC English teacher got sick, which is where she saw Chris’s talent come alive painting the large backdrop for a dramatic piece the kids wrote themselves and acted for staff and parents.

  That was the first time the Hickmans realized their son had real talent, since up to that point all it had gotten him was doing time at the JDC.

  “That’s a fantastic story,” I murmured when Mabel and Estelle were done. “I hope we get a chance to thank this young man in person one of these days.”

  Lucy shoveled more rice and beans into her mouth. “Well, maybe we oughta have some kinda dedication or some-thin’ for Shepherd’s Fold, now that ya got a decent plaque an’ ever’thing.”

  “Good idea, Lucy. A really good idea.” I slipped my last bite of sausage under the table to Dandy, who was parked by my knees, collected my empty dishes, and started to get up. “Well, time to get back to work.”

  “Hey, don’t run off, Fuzz Top. You the one me an’ Dandy come here to see. Just got sidetracked by that mural thing upstairs.” The old woman pointed her fork at me. “You an’ me gotta talk. But somewhere private like.”

  I raised an eyebrow at her. What in the world was this about? “Well, okay. When you’re done, just come into my office.” But by the time I’d scraped my dirty dishes and sorted them into the heavy plastic dishwasher bins, Lucy and Dandy were already parked in my office.

  I closed the door and sat down at my desk. “So what’s up?”

  Lucy narrowed her eyes. “Your boys okay? I didn’t see ’em up at Richmond Towers all weekend. Not their dad, neither.”

  Now I raised both eyebrows. “You are spying on them!”

  Lucy pulled herself up indignantly. “So? Just makin’ sure they all right when they not with you. Can’t seem to forget how I found you that night when that mister of yours kicked you out, cryin’ your eyes out on that park bench . . . an’ don’t forget who found Dandy here, wanderin’ ’round the park after bein’ lost all night an’ all day. So you got a problem with me keepin’ an eye on your boys? Huh?”

  I shook my head with a rueful smile. “No . . . no, I’m grateful, Lucy, really I am. But I think it freaked Paul out a little. He doesn’t know why you’re ‘spying’ on them.”

  Lucy leaned forward. “Well . . . I ain’t tellin’ you the whole truth, neither. Fact is, I been seein’ some strange characters hangin’ around Richmond Towers, overheerd ’em askin’ ’bout the mister, where he lives an’ stuff.”

  My breath caught. “What kind of strange characters?”

  She shrugged. “Don’t belong there is all. One was an undercover cop, ’nother was a man in a suit . . .”

  I blew out my breath. Why would a cop and a man in a suit be asking around about Philip? Had he done something illegal? “Ho
w do you know it was an undercover cop? I thought the whole point was not to look like a cop.”

  Lucy snorted. “Huh. When you live on the street long as I have, you can smell an undercover a block away.”

  I frowned. “Are you sure they were looking for Philip? Though I suppose it could be one of Philip’s creditors trying to find him. He’s, uh, run up some big debts. But I appreciate you keeping an eye on my boys.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” Lucy pushed herself out of the chair. “Mostly wanted to know the boys was okay since I didn’t see ’em this weekend up at the Tower.”

  “That’s because they stayed with me this weekend. They’re okay.” I grabbed a pen and scribbled on a notepad. “But here are my phone numbers—both home and cell phones. Call me if you’re concerned about anything, okay?” I held out the note.

  “Now, Fuzz Top, whatcha think I’m gonna do with that? You know I ain’t got no cell phone.”

  “Just take it, Lucy. If you need to call me, you’ll find a way.”

  When Paul showed up at the shelter after school, I told him he was right after all, Lucy and Dandy were keeping an eye on them when they were staying at Richmond Towers, just wanting to make sure they were okay. When I said Lucy and Dandy were keeping an eye on them, he seemed to feel better about it. But I made a mental note that I should probably talk to Philip about the “strange men” Lucy had seen. Who were they? What did they want? Or was she just imagining things?

  But it seemed as if Thursday showed up on the calendar before I even had time to blink. Closing day! I was so nervous Mabel told me not to bother coming in to work that day until it was over, because I’d be virtually useless. Lee had called me at work several times during the week to let me know what to expect at closing and to make sure I brought the necessary bank draft to cover the down payment, title fee, and other expenses. Whew. Taking out that bank draft sent my savings account plummeting to a low water mark. I’d be barely wading in my inheritance money now instead of swimming.