by Neta Jackson
Hispanic. Adopted. Kat had presumed the little girl with the loose black curls and latte skin was a mix of black mother, white father. So much for presumptions.
“You said you were in school. What did you study?”
Edesa laughed. “Long story! I changed my major after working at the shelter, decided to get my master’s degree in public health. I did my master’s thesis on ‘A Hierarchy of Food Needs for the Urban Poor.’ ”
“That’s fantastic!” Kat could hardly believe it. A kindred spirit! “I am so psyched about the importance of healthy food. In fact, I am so glad I met you. I mean . . .” Kat’s mind was spinning. “. . . what if we—you and me, I mean—offered a class to neighborhood families about nutrition. Maybe at SouledOut. What do you think?”
“A class?”
“Yes! Maybe four sessions or something. I mean, last week I saw kids on the way to school eating potato chips and candy bars. At seven in the morning! I wanted to snatch it out of their hands. Somebody needs to teach those families about good nutrition!”
Edesa dug her toes into the sand. “Sí. But it’s not that simple. Nutrition is hardly the first priority for poor families. Not even second or third. They—” Her head jerked up.
Someone was banging loudly on a pot up near the picnic shelter. A moment later Edesa’s husband appeared at the top of the steps hollering, “Come and get it!”
“Guess it’s time to eat.” Edesa smiled at Kat, but her smile had lost some of its dazzle. “A conversation for another time.” The young woman swept up little Gracie, collected the pail and shovel, and busied herself brushing sand off the child’s legs.
The volleyball game broke up. Kat followed the herd of hollow-legged teens up the steps to the grassy area and picnic shelter, a bit taken aback. What did Edesa mean that nutrition wasn’t a top priority for poor families? What in the world could be more important?
Well. The woman might have a master’s degree in public health, but Kat could teach her a thing or two about food issues.
Chapter 23
Pastor Cobbs rose from his desk chair as Avis and Peter came into the pastors’ study. “Peter. Avis.” He shook hands with both of them. “Thank you so much for coming in on a holiday. Please . . . sit.”
Avis slipped a tiny bottle of hand sanitizer out of her purse and squeezed a few drops into her hand. She couldn’t afford to catch whatever bug the pastor was fighting—not with only a few weeks left of school. At least he didn’t look as wasted as he did yesterday at the hospital. “How are you feeling, Pastor?” Her concern was genuine.
“Better, better. Fever’s gone. Nausea’s gone. Still some congestion here”—he thumped his chest—“but guess that’s to be expected. You two all right?”
Peter nodded. “Yes, fine. Well . . . given the circumstances.”
Pastor Cobbs sighed heavily. “I know. I’m still in shock. Feeling terrible that I wasn’t at the service yesterday morning, but . . . it couldn’t be helped.” He absently tapped the eraser end of a pencil on the desk, seemingly lost in thought for a few moments. Then he roused himself. “Well. Has everyone been notified of the funeral next Saturday?”
Avis nodded. “I believe so. Sister Jodi and Sister Debra made calls, as well as the two of us. Oh—one of the Crista students helped as well. Kathryn Davies.”
“Kathryn Davies . . . Didn’t someone say she gave CPR to Pastor Clark until the paramedics arrived?”
“That’s right.”
“And then helped make phone calls . . . hm. Interesting.” The pastor tapped the pencil again as seconds ticked by.
Finally Peter cleared his throat. “Pastor, you said you wanted to talk to us.”
Pastor Cobbs tossed the pencil aside. “I’m sorry. I’m not exactly functioning on all cylinders today.” He took several sips from a bottle of water, then eyed them both. “Pastor Clark’s death is a major loss to our congregation—with a lot of implications. We’re suddenly faced with a leadership vacuum. Both of you are professionals in the workaday world, so I know you’re well aware that any change in leadership—especially if unexpected—can easily become a leadership crisis. Even in the best of circumstances, a change in leadership can be a difficult time for a congregation. Bottom line . . . I need you. Both of you. To keep things from unraveling until we come to unity as a congregation about how to go forward.”
Avis and Peter glanced at each other. She’d thought First Lady Rose was being a bit melodramatic yesterday when she’d said Pastor wanted to meet with them to avoid a “leadership crisis.” But Avis had chalked it up to the stress of the day and assumed Pastor Cobbs would be dividing out some of Pastor Clark’s tasks among a number of people. But “to keep things from unraveling” felt more ominous than just being asked to take on a few more responsibilities.
“Uh, say a little more, Pastor,” Peter said. “As you know, Avis and I are seriously considering that mission trip to South Africa. Her school year will soon be over, and when Carl Hickman comes back to work, I was hoping—”
“I know. To be blunt, Brother Peter, I’m asking you to set that aside. Not forever, but for now. When you came to talk to Pastor Clark and me about the Sisulu-Smiths’ invitation, none of us foresaw this situation. If we were to have that same meeting today, I would say this isn’t the time. You are needed here.”
The muscles in Peter’s jaw tightened. Avis realized her husband was struggling with what probably felt like cold water being poured on his dream. She leaned forward. “Pastor, I’m not sure I understand why you are talking to us. We have a board of elders, good people, all of them—and yes, certainly, Peter is one of the elders. But shouldn’t you be consulting with the whole elder board about this situation and how to go forward?” As the words left her mouth, Avis suddenly worried that she’d been too outspoken. Would the pastor be offended that she’d challenged him?
But Pastor Cobbs nodded. “I do plan to meet with the elders—as soon as we can find a time this week when everyone can be there. But I needed to talk to the two of you first, because”—he cleared his throat—“I want to put your names forward to the elders as interim pastors. They would need to give their approval and blessing, of course—but I need your willingness and your permission first.”
Avis and Peter were quiet as they left SouledOut an hour later and walked toward Peter’s car, each lost in their own thoughts. But instead of driving toward home, Peter headed to Sheridan Road. “I need some air,” he said. “Want to walk along the lake a bit?”
Sounded good to Avis—although she would have preferred to go for a walk by herself. She wasn’t ready to talk about Pastor Cobbs’s startling proposal just yet.
But once they’d parked at Loyola Beach, locked the car, and started hand in hand along the bike path, Peter didn’t seem inclined to talk either. Charcoal smoke wafted in the air, carrying the tangy smell of grilled chicken. The grassy park along the beach was full of holiday revelers throwing Frisbees, romping with dogs, laughing around picnic tables, or just lounging in lawn chairs. Bikers dodged pedestrians on the paved path, rarely slowing down, sometimes cursing the occasional trio who insisted on walking three abreast, forcing the bicycles onto the grass.
Avis breathed deeply of the warm air, catching the cadence of disparate languages as they passed other walkers. It was a perfect day for a holiday. Not yet too warm, humidity low, scattered clouds drifting across the sky. The tall buildings of Chicago’s Loop rose several miles to the south, but here the trees were in full leaf and the grass was lush and green. The slate-blue expanse of Lake Michigan, so wide it faded into the horizon, was still too chilly to tempt many swimmers, even though lifeguards were on duty.
She’d asked, “Interim pastors?” Why her and Peter? Pastor Cobbs thought a married couple would be received more easily to “fill in” on short notice than just one person. Also easier for two to share the pastoral responsibilities than just one person. Both she and Peter already held leadership roles in the church. Both were grounded in the faith
. Both were respected in the community.
To Pastor Cobbs it was a slam dunk.
Avis was honored that he felt that way about them. But she and Peter already had full-time jobs. Could they do this? For how long?
Something else bothered her. While the pastor was talking, the conversation she’d overheard in the ladies’ restroom—Was it just yesterday? Seemed like a year!—niggled in her head. If she and Peter accepted this role, the pastoral team would be all African-American. In a multicultural church. A few weeks ago she might not have even thought about it—especially for a temporary role. After all, meaningful relationships had developed at SouledOut across color lines and cultures in the past few years, and “differences” seemed to fade as what they shared in common as the family of God deepened and became more important.
But after the chitchat in the ladies’ room, obviously not everyone felt that way.
“Avis?” Peter’s voice seemed to come from some faraway place.
She shook off her troubled thoughts. “Mm?”
An in-line skater plugged into an iPod, eyes hidden by wraparound sunglasses, zoomed toward them, causing them to jump to either side of the path. Glaring after the skater, Peter gestured toward the wall of large rocks hugging the bank between park and beach. “Let’s sit before we get killed, okay?”
Avis joined him on one of the flat-topped boulders, wishing she’d worn jeans instead of her good slacks to meet with the pastor. But the rock was warm and forgiving. She hugged her knees and watched the seagulls screeching at the water’s edge, flapping up into the air, then down onto the sand again, pecking here and there.
She heard Peter groan. “I don’t know what to do.” He wasn’t looking at her. Just gazing out over the water. Was he talking to her? Or to God?
But she said, “I don’t either.”
Another long silence. Then Peter threw up his hands. “I don’t understand what God is doing! Why would He put the opportunity in our laps to go on mission for Him, to get out of our ruts and do something different, exciting, worthwhile—just to jerk the rug out from under us and ask us to plug holes in the SouledOut dike?”
Avis had no answer. Her questions and train of thought had run along a totally different track than Peter’s. Not once had she factored in the “implications” of Pastor Clark’s death on the mission trip to South Africa. Though . . . they’d been praying that God would show them what they should do, to make it clear.
Maybe this was His answer.
Jodi Baxter poked her head into Avis’s office the next morning before the first bell rang. “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself.” Avis glanced up from her computer where she’d been scrolling through the e-mails that had piled up over the long weekend. “Ugh. Didn’t anybody at the superintendent’s office stay home over the holiday weekend? I’ve got twenty-seven school-related e-mails I need to deal with. This morning!”
“Need a hug?” Jodi didn’t wait for an answer but came around Avis’s desk and wrapped arms around her from behind.
Avis gave a short laugh. “Oh, all right. I know what that means. You need a hug.” She swung her chair around and eyed her friend. Denim skirt and sweater to match the thirty-degree drop in temperature since yesterday. “Are you okay?”
“Am I okay? Let’s see . . . Our pastor just died of a heart attack in the middle of worship. Amanda came home from U of I a week ago, but we’ve barely seen her because she’s already juggling two nanny jobs. And one of my third graders—Sammy Blumenthal, small for his age—is being bullied by one of the bigger boys. Other than that, I’m peachy keen.”
Avis gestured at her visitor chair. “Sit. Tell me about the bullying.”
Jodi sighed as she sank into the chair. “It’s Derrick Blue. He’s pushing Sammy down on the playground, tripping him in the hallway, stealing food from his tray at lunch, calling him names, making fun of his yarmulke. I think we may need a meeting with the parents. Although . . . they never show up at parent meetings, so I don’t know.”
“Names? Like racial slurs?”
Jodi grimaced. “You don’t want to know. But I’d rather not let this escalate into a racial issue. At this age they hardly know what those words mean. But I’d also like to nip the bullying in the bud before this kid goes on to middle school.”
Avis sighed, pulled a pad of paper toward her, and wrote down the names. “I’ll talk to both boys and see how that goes. If necessary, I’ll contact the parents. Thanks, Jodi. We can’t let this bullying go on. It can have disastrous consequences if allowed to fester.”
“Oh. One more thing. Pastor Cobbs called last night asking if Denny and I would put together several folks to plan the funeral service for Pastor Clark. He’s trying to track down any family who should be notified and make burial arrangements. Uh, we’d really like you and Peter to help us plan. We already asked Estelle and Harry. They’re coming over tomorrow night at seven. Are you guys free?—Oops. There goes the bell.” Jodi launched herself out of the chair and headed for the door. “Let me know if you guys can make it, okay?” The door closed behind her.
Avis picked up the phone and dialed Peter’s number. She was sure he’d agree. This decision was easy. Plan a service for a beloved pastor. Do it. Then it’s done.
It was the other decision that had a thousand loose ends. Stand in for Pastor Clark . . . indefinitely? What did it even mean?
Chapter 24
The Red Line rattled out of the Morse Avenue Station, packed with early morning commuters. Kat grabbed a pole and hung on as the elevated train lurched and picked up speed. The train seemed even more crowded than usual after the holiday weekend.
“Uhhh,” groaned Brygitta, squished right behind her. “Adding a forty-five-minute commute to both ends of a school day sucks.”
Kat had to agree. Five stops and then they had to transfer to the Foster Avenue bus. But at least both trains and buses ran about every ten minutes at this time in the morning. They should make their nine o’clock classes all right.
The train was too crowded to talk. She couldn’t even see Nick and Olivia. Maybe they’d ended up in another car. But she couldn’t help smiling to herself, remembering the campfire at Lighthouse Beach the night before. She was glad they’d gone. The campfire ring had been tucked among the trees on a slight slope above the sandy dunes that led down to the beach. Firelight and shadows had danced on the faces of the fifteen or so teenagers, erasing the differences in their skin tones, though the group was fairly evenly mixed between white, black, and Latino. No Asians, though. Odd.
One of the younger boys, maybe fourteen, a white kid with freckles and reddish curly hair—Paul Somebody—had brought a guitar, and he had played while the group sang gospel songs. She’d been surprised how good he was for his age. Edesa had pointed out another boy, a couple of years older, dark brown hair, drop-dead good looks already, and said they were brothers. Last name Fairbanks. Kat had to take her word for it, because the two didn’t look anything alike.
Besides Josh and Edesa, the only other youth leader had been the worship leader guy, Justin. He’d been home with laryngitis when Pastor Clark died, and he still didn’t have much of a voice, but he’d told the kids he’d needed to be there tonight, needed to be with “his peeps.”
“The reason I’m a son of God tonight,” he’d croaked, “is because of Pastor Clark. I won’t lie to you. I messed up when I was your age, and that wasn’t too long ago. Ended up in juvie for five months. Pastor Clark and a couple other guys from SouledOut led a Bible study down there. At first we all made fun of him—this old white dude, skinny as a stick, coulda knocked him over with my little finger. I just hung out at the Bible study for somethin’ to do, to break the boredom. But he kept comin’ every week, talked to us like regular people. Told me I had lots of potential. Told me God had a purpose for my life, if I was willin’ to follow Him.”
Justin had gotten a little emotional at that point, but he’d soon recovered. “Pastor Clark prayed with me, an’ I think he
kept prayin’ for me every day—before and after I said yes to God. I’m goin’ to college now”—the kids around the circle had clapped—“and I’m real sad at his passin’, ’cause I sure did want him to be there when I graduated.”
The young black man’s sharing had seemed to turn on a faucet, and several other kids had shared memories of Pastor Clark—his gawky smile, the jokes he told on himself, and the time he came to youth group and talked about becoming young men and women of character. “He told us character was more important than a high IQ, or top grades, or being popular, or makin’ lots of money,” said a girl with lots of dark, straight hair and olive skin. “I’ll always remember that.”
“Yeah,” another boy had piped up. “He said character is what you do and who you are when nobody’s watchin’. Now that spooked me. Know what I’m sayin’?” The other kids had laughed.
As she’d listened, Kat had felt a sense of loss, realizing she’d never get to know the man. Her only interaction with him had been pushing on his chest while he lay dying. Had anyone in her life talked to her about character like that? Seemed like it had been mostly, “Don’t waste your time on trivial pursuits,” or “Do what you need to do to get ahead,” or “You’re a Davies, act like it!”
At least the Jesus she’d met at the Midwest Music Fest had shown her a new way. The last shall be first, and all that kind of stuff. Right there in the Bible!
Bree’s poke in her back interrupted her thoughts. “Berwyn. That’s our stop.” Together they pushed their way out of the car, following the back of Nick’s head and Olivia’s blond ponytail down the stairs and out onto the street.
As they walked the few blocks to the bus stop heading west, Brygitta paused at a row of newspaper boxes lining the sidewalk. “All I want is the classifieds,” she said, feeding quarters into one of the boxes and pulling out a Chicago Tribune. “I need to start looking for a job. Anybody else want a paper?”
“Classifieds!” Nick scoffed. “Easier to do an Internet search. C’mon, people, this is the twenty-first century.”