by Neta Jackson
“More coffee, ma’am?”
Avis’s eyes flew open to see their server poised over her cup with a fresh pot of coffee. She nodded, even as her thoughts tumbled backward. “Only God could take that tragedy and turn it into something good,” she murmured as the server left.
“Tragedy?”
She smiled at her husband’s puzzled look. “Just thinking about Nony and Mark. How Mark’s injury finally opened the door for Nony to follow her dream.” She waved the hand-painted card. “And now look.”
Peter grimaced. “Yeah, well, I hope we don’t have to suffer a tragedy like that to shake us out of our ruts . . . Hey, what’s her letter say? If it’s not private, read it to me.”
Avis unfolded the note. “It’s to both of us. ‘Dear Avis and Peter . . . Many blessings on your anniversary. I wish Mark and I could be with you to celebrate. But maybe we can take a rain check—’ ” Avis glanced up. “Maybe they’re planning to come back for a visit!”
Peter shrugged. “Maybe so. Go on, read.”
She searched for her place. “All right . . . ‘Mark and I would like to talk to the two of you about something. As you can see from the card, we have been able to start a few small businesses with some talented girls—greeting cards, rug and basket weaving—but to be honest, we need advice and practical help from someone more experienced in business than we are. We are wondering if the two of you would consider coming to South Africa for an extended visit. Whatever time you could spend would be a gift—three months? Six months? A year would be even better—’ ”
Avis heard a gasp and looked up. Peter’s eyes had widened, and they seemed to dance in his face. “I can’t believe this!” he said. “That’s it, honey! We were just talking about doing something new, something different. And here’s Nony, out of the blue, dropping an opportunity into our laps.”
“No, you’ve been talking about doing something new and different, not me.”
But his eyes had strayed to the expansive view out the large windows, as if he hadn’t heard, fingers absently drumming on the tablecloth. “I’d love to do something like that—a trip with a purpose. I could help Nony and Mark draw up some basic business plans that could apply to a number of small businesses. Marketing—that’s the key . . .”
Avis felt her head whirling. Peter was jumping on this too fast. Yes, she’d just teased about taking a trip to South Africa—but for three months? Or six? No, no . . . maybe a two-week visit in the summer.
She skimmed the rest of the letter. We could also use your teaching skills, Avis. Many of our girls need help with basic education—math, language, typing, even health and hygiene. We’d love to arrange for some classes but need a teacher. You—
“So what else did she say?” Peter’s attention had turned back to her.
Avis kept her eyes on the sheet of paper, not wanting to look at her husband. She licked her lips and read the last paragraph. “ ‘The boys are growing like weeds and doing well in school. Marcus is trying to decide where to go to university next term. Praise God Michael won’t leave home for a few years yet! Both boys love playing soccer—’ ”
For some reason Avis’s eyes teared up. She didn’t resist when Peter gently took the letter to read the rest for himself. “Hm. See you skipped over the part where you fit into this proposal,” he said. She could feel his eyes on her as she fished in her purse for a tissue and blew her nose. Silence hung between them as she picked up her coffee—now lukewarm—and sipped it.
“Tell me what you’re thinking, honey. To me, this practically feels like a word from the Lord. We were just talking about planning ahead, doing something new—and now this!” Avis could still hear the excitement bubbling in his voice.
She had to slow this train down fast. “Peter, I know. But it’s not that easy to just pick up and go to South Africa for . . . what did she say? An extended visit? It’s . . . it’s not just our jobs, though in this economy you don’t just throw out a good job and think you can get another”—she snapped her fingers—“just like that.”
He said nothing. She played with the cloth napkin in her lap. “It’s . . . it’s also other responsibilities. Family, and . . . and—”
“Family? We’ve got an empty nest, girl!”
Now her eyes did lock on his. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Just because you don’t have any children, Peter Douglass, doesn’t mean we don’t have family responsibilities. I’m . . . worried about Rochelle. And Conny. We haven’t heard from her in over two months. Almost three months! She—”
“Rochelle.” He practically spit out the name. “I knew it. She’s got you just where she wants you, Avis, worried sick. Don’t you get it? She’s just mad because we didn’t bail her out the last time she mismanaged her money, and she’s making us pay. It’s nothing but a tantrum, I guarantee it.”
Avis shook her head. “Maybe. Maybe not. But . . . I can’t just leave the country for months, not knowing if my grandbaby is all right. Or Rochelle either.”
“So.” Peter’s voice was tight. “Just how long are we going to let Rochelle dictate what we do with our lives? Tell me, Avis. How long?”
Chapter 3
The 92 Foster Avenue bus pulled to the curb as the automated female voice chirped to life. “Magnolia. This is Magnolia. Next stop, Broadway. Transfer at Broadway for the Red Line.”
“That’ll be us, guys.” Kat Davies slipped her backpack over one shoulder and stood up, grabbing for the nearest pole as the bus lurched forward once more. Her companions—two other young women and one guy—also vacated their seats and made their way to the back door of the bus as it headed toward the next intersection.
“Twenty-two stops,” muttered one of the girls, bumping up behind Kat. “Can’t believe this bus stopped twenty-two times before we got to our stop. Isn’t there a faster way to get to this church you like so well?”
Kat laughed. “Can’t believe you bothered to count every single stop. It’ll be worth it, I promise.” Pixie-haired Brygitta Walczak was her roommate at Crista University. Both were graduate students, Kat completing her master’s degree in education, Brygitta in Christian ed.
At the next stop the doors wheezed open and Kat and Brygitta hustled down the steps. Behind her Kat heard the other girl ask one of the passengers, “How do we transfer to the El from here?”
“Livie! I know how to get to the El! Come on!” Kat wagged her head as the other two CCU students—Olivia Lindberg, a sociology major, and Nick Taylor, a seminary student—joined her and Brygitta on the sidewalk. It was so tempting to stick Livie into a “dumb blonde” pigeonhole sometimes, the way she kept asking obvious questions. Livie was an undergrad, three years younger than the graduate students, but the four had ended up in CCU’s Urban Experience program and developed a Four Musketeers mentality on their assigned excursions into Chicago. “All for one and one for all!” they joked, though Kat suspected it covered up some mutual insecurity as they navigated unfamiliar “urban experiences,” such as the Manna House Women’s Shelter in Uptown and what was left of the notorious Cabrini Green public housing site. Manna House had been pretty cool—but Cabrini Green . . . Kat shuddered every time she thought about it. She couldn’t imagine living there, ever. Yet at one time fifteen thousand of Chicago’s poor had been crammed into the string of crime-ridden high-rises.
But the Urban Experience advisor had also given participants a list of urban churches to visit, at least three by the end of the school year. Definitely more inspiring. Stuck at the university during spring break, Kat and Nick had visited SouledOut Community Church in Rogers Park, Chicago’s northernmost neighborhood along Lake Michigan, and they’d insisted that Brygitta and Olivia come with them for a second visit. “It’s definitely cool! Like no church you’ve ever attended before,” Kat enthused.
Her roommate had been dubious. “But are they, like, you know, evangelical?”
“They’re Christian, Brygitta. Doesn’t the name ‘SouledOut’ say anything to you? Just
. . . come and see for yourself.”
“Will we be the only white people?” Olivia had wanted to know.
“I told you, Livie. It’s multicultural. Black and white, and a few other somethings too. You’ll be fine.”
At least Kat hoped Livie would be fine. The sociology major was trying hard to adjust to the big city, but it was obvious she hadn’t strayed far from her small-town Minnesota roots before. Kat had to give the girl credit for signing up for the Urban Experience program at CCU. But there were times she wanted to smack her.
Like now. They were halfway across the intersection when Kat realized Olivia was still standing back on the curb. “Livie, come on! We gotta cross here!”
“But the Wait light is blinking!”
Arrgh. Kat ran back, grabbed Olivia’s hand, and pulled her across Foster Avenue just before traffic got the green light, then flounced ahead to walk with Nick.
“Livie’s just nervous in the city,” Nick murmured in Kat’s ear. “Go easy on her . . . Hey, your hair smells nice. What is that—coconut?”
Kat gave him the eye. Nick was a tease—okay, a borderline flirt—but it was just play between friends. She hoped. Nick wanted to be a pastor, of all things. No way did she want to end up a pastor’s wife. But . . . his compliment tipped the corners of her mouth. Her dark curly hair, thick and long, was her best feature. That, and her ice-blue eyes. It was nice of His Maleness to notice.
“Hey, guys, wait a sec!” Brygitta’s voice turned them around. She and Olivia were looking up and down the street they’d just crossed. “Isn’t there a grocery store somewhere near here? I didn’t get any breakfast and I’m going to be famished if I have to wait clear till church is over.”
Kat glanced impatiently at her watch. She’d told her roomie to eat something before they left. They had a whole stash of energy bars in their room. But . . . it was only eight thirty. SouledOut’s service didn’t start until nine thirty. She looked at Nick and he shrugged. “Okay. Guess we have time. I think there’s a Dominick’s a few streets over. Saw it from the El last time. It’s only a few blocks out of our way.”
The foursome changed course and walked east on Foster Avenue. Sure enough, the big chain grocery took up an entire block along Sheridan Road. As they wandered through the produce section, Kat noticed a couple of the employees loading up boxes on a cart with lettuce, broccoli, and other vegetables—taking them out of the cases where they’d been displayed and wheeling them through a pair of swinging doors into the back rooms. Curious, Kat followed, peeking through the plastic windows in the doors and watching as the carts were wheeled through another set of doors leading outside.
Outside? What . . . ?
Goodness. The stuff was being thrown out!
Kat tugged on Nick’s jacket sleeve. “Meet me outside when you guys get done,” she hissed. “Out back.” She pointed in the direction of the swinging doors, then spun around and hurried past the checkout lanes, out the automatic doors, and scurried as fast as she could around to the back of the store.
Sure enough, the two employees were dumping the boxes, produce and all, into a Dumpster.
Kat blinked. A few minutes ago shoppers could have still bought that stuff and taken it home to eat. Now it was . . . what? Out of date? Gotten rid of to make room for fresher stuff? Doomed to go to the garbage dump?
This was outrageous! The stores ought to at least give it to a local homeless shelter or something.
Food. Nothing got Kat’s dander up like the thoughtless way people just bought “whatever” at the store, never thinking about the horrific way chickens were caged to maximize egg production, or the chemicals used to make those tomatoes red. And the waste! All that plastic packaging. And now this! Dumping good food!
As soon as the coast was clear, Kat lifted the lid of the closest Dumpster and peeked inside. At least six or seven boxes of produce were in there!
“Kat! What in the world are you doing?”
Kat jumped at the sound of Brygitta’s voice, banging her head on the Dumpster lid she was holding. Brygitta and Olivia were staring at her openmouthed, and Nick was grinning with amusement.
“Look at this!” She poked her head back into the Dumpster. “Good food. C’mon, help me get this box out of here.”
“Oh, Kat! That’s stealing!” Olivia sounded truly panicked.
“Is not. It’s been thrown away.” Kat tugged at the closest box with her free hand. “Somebody help me here.”
“What do you think you’re going to do with it?” Brygitta demanded.
“I don’t know . . . take it to the church with us. They’ll know what to do with it.”
Nick joined her at the Dumpster, lugging out the box of lettuce and broccoli. “Hold the lid open!” he called to Brygitta and Olivia. “I can reach that other one.”
Five minutes later Nick and Kat were crossing the street at a brisk pace, laughing, each carrying a box, heading for the Red Line El station one block up and one block over. “Ha!” Kat snickered, glancing over her shoulder at Olivia and Brygitta, walking ten paces behind them. “They’re pretending they don’t know us.”
Chapter 4
Avis and Peter rode home in silence, and they might as well have had a bundling board between them in bed that night. She wet her pillow with silent tears in the darkness, knowing the evening had not ended with the hoped-for tenderness and sexual joy of other anniversaries.
Avis slipped out of bed early the next morning, while the sun seemed to be making up its mind whether to come up or not. Stuffing her feet into a pair of cozy slippers and wrapping an afghan around her shoulders, she curled up in a corner of their soft leather couch with her Bible. She needed some quiet time with God—desperately needed some time alone with God!—because she was scheduled to be the worship leader at SouledOut Community Church that morning, and she was no more prepared in her spirit to lead worship than to hand in her resignation at Bethune Elementary Monday morning.
Oh God! she cried out from her heart. I really bungled our anniversary this time—
Avis stopped. What was she doing? Jumping right into her problems, crying on God’s shoulder without even acknowledging His presence. Who was she to barge right into the throne room of God and demand that He fix the mess she’d made of things last night?
Oh God! she started again. But the praise that usually began her prayers just wasn’t there.
She stared at the well-worn Bible in her lap. If Nonyameko were in her shoes—and hadn’t her friend been in shoes much more painful than Avis’s right now?—she’d turn to the Psalms and let the psalmist’s words be her prayer.
Avis opened her Bible to the Psalms. Many verses were already underlined, words of praise or comfort that had spoken to her spirit in times past. She turned to Psalm 8, a favorite, and began to whisper the words aloud, making them personal as Nony so often had done . . .
“ ‘O Lord, my Lord, how majestic is your name in all the earth!’ ” Yes, yes, this is what I need to do. Turn my eyes on almighty God to put my worries in perspective. “ ‘You have set your glory above the heavens. From the lips of children and infants you have ordained praise because of your enemies, to silence the foe and the avenger!’ ”
That verse was already underlined in heavy red. Avis remembered the first time those words had spoken to her, when her first husband had died of cancer, leaving her a widow too soon. If the simple praises of little children could silence the enemy, then her praises were that powerful too. Take that, Satan! No way could the Prince of Darkness—the evil one who wanted to steal her joy, her peace, even her anniversary—do his nasty work in an atmosphere of praise to the Lord God of heaven.
She prayed the rest of the psalm and continued right on into Psalm 9, no longer whispering. “ ‘I will praise you, O Lord, with all my heart. I will tell of all your wonders. I will be glad and rejoice in you. I will sing praise to your name, O Most High!’ ”
Tears of joy spilled down her cheeks as morning sunlight finally peeked into
the windows of their third-floor apartment. This was what she needed to do when they gathered for worship at SouledOut that morning—to praise the Lord with all her heart, to simply rejoice in God. Yes, she could lead worship this morning, because it was about God, not about her. Maybe others were walking in similar shoes, coming to church after a ragged week, things undone, wrongful things said, worries clogging their hearts . . . but the praises of little children—and us big babies too—could silence the lies of the enemy.
Avis was about to close her Bible when her eyes fell on Psalm 5. “ ‘Give ear to my words, O Lord, consider my sighing . . .’ ” Hm. Not exactly a psalm of praise. But it seemed like an invitation to open her heart. Praying again with the psalmist, she murmured the words aloud: “ ‘Listen to my cry for help, my King and my God, for to you I pray. In the morning, O Lord, you hear my voice. In the morning I lay my requests before you and wait in expectation . . .’ ”
She closed the Bible and held it tight to her chest, as if pressing the words into her heart. “Thank You, Lord!” she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut. “I needed this reassurance that I can lay my worries in Your lap—even a silly thing like my lost earrings—and I can wait in expectation, because I know You are working all things together for our good . . .” For the next few minutes she poured out her pain over the situation with Rochelle and Conny, regret over the way their anniversary had ended the night before, and not knowing what to do about Nony’s outrageous request to come to South Africa for an “extended visit.”
“You on the phone, Avis?” Peter’s sleepy voice startled her eyes open as he shuffled into the living room in his robe and slippers. “Oh. Sorry. Didn’t know you were praying. Just heard you talking.” He turned to leave.