by Neta Jackson
Peter turned his head slightly, letting her see part of his profile in the moonlight streaming through the window blinds. “Yeah, well, when Rochelle said Conny had been staying with the man and she’d need to go back to get his stuff, no way was I going to let her face him alone. We know what he’s like.”
“But you said Conny should go with us too. That surprised me.”
“Humph. I did it for Conny’s sake. Poor kid doesn’t understand all the adult reasons his mom and dad are separated. It would just be more confusion if he didn’t get to make some transition, say good-bye to his dad. He’s been living there for, what? Four months? And I knew showing up without Conny would just set the man off, and we’d have a big scene on our hands.”
Avis felt a nervous giggle escape. “We almost had a scene on our hands anyway.”
“Yeah, well . . . Dexter wouldn’t be Dexter if he didn’t try to bully Rochelle, make her feel guilty for taking Conny back.”
“I know.” She raised up, leaned over his shoulder, and kissed his scratchy cheek. She caught a slight whiff of his leathery aftershave. “Thank you for standing up to him. You were so . . . strong. Told him what’s what. No shouting. But no nonsense either.” She kissed him again. “My man.”
Peter’s head sank back onto his pillow and his breathing evened out. Avis cuddled closer, her heart swelling with love for him. And yet, not twelve hours ago she’d been so angry with him! But that was before . . .
“Peter?”
“Mm.”
“Thank you for apologizing to Rochelle about last Valentine’s Day. I know that meant eating some humble pie.”
“Humph.”
She thought that was all he was going to say, but after a moment he murmured, “Yeah, I was upset at her barging in on us late at night. I had designs on you that evening, which she completed disrupted.” He gave a little snort. “To tell the truth, I didn’t want to admit she needed us that night. But . . . she was hurting and I was being selfish. So I meant it when I asked her to forgive me.”
Suddenly he rolled over to face her in the dim moonlight. “Actually, I need to ask you to forgive me too. I thought the whole thing would blow over in a couple of weeks, and she’d get her act together. When we lost contact, it was more serious than I wanted to admit. I know you’ve suffered a lot these past few months, and . . . I’m sorry, Avis. Really sorry.”
A lump caught in her throat. She couldn’t speak. But reaching up she traced his lips and stroked his face. “Forgiven,” she finally whispered. “And I know Rochelle forgives you too. Did you hear what she said to Kathryn and the others when we got back here with Conny’s stuff?”
“No, what? I was putting the car in the garage, remember?”
“She said, ‘You should’ve seen Dad stand up to Dexter.’ ”
Now Peter leaned up on one elbow. “She said that? She called me Dad?” He chuckled. “How about that.” He lay down again, still chuckling.
They were quiet again for several minutes as Avis’s mind ran through all that had transpired since that fateful day in February, including the missing ruby earrings.
“Peter?”
“Mm.” His eyes were closed.
“I think I know how the earrings got back on my dresser.”
“Hm. You didn’t ask Rochelle?” he murmured, eyes still closed.
“No. The first thing she said to me at the coffee shop was she was sorry about the earrings, but I didn’t want to talk earrings right then. But I’ve been thinking . . .”
Silence.
“It was Kathryn Davies.”
“Kathryn?”
“Rochelle said she met Kathryn Dumpster-diving, and they ran into each other several more times. She must have given Kathryn the earrings and told her to put them on my dresser sometime when she was here. Maybe the night they came for dinner? I don’t know. But it makes sense, don’t you think?”
Silence.
Dumpster-diving. Avis’s heart twisted. The first time she’d met Kathryn at SouledOut, the girl had her arms full of food she’d “rescued” from a Dumpster. Florida was offended by it. To Avis, the whole thing had been slightly annoying, one more of Kathryn’s idealistic ventures to save the world. And yet . . . her own daughter, her precious Rochelle, had been Dumpster-diving because she was hungry. Because she was homeless. Had no money. No food.
And it was Kathryn who’d found her. God had used Kathryn’s Dumpster-diving to bring her daughter back to her. God had used Kathryn . . .
Oh God! Forgive me for judging that girl. Your Word says that all the parts of Your body are important—even the Dumpster-divers, I guess. And that we need each other! I didn’t realize it, but You did, my Father. You knew I needed Kathryn, that she was the one You were going to use to bring my daughter home again.
“And Kathryn needs you,” a Voice whispered in her spirit.
Avis was startled by the clarity of the words. Kathryn needs me, Lord? She seems like such an independent young woman, totally self-sufficient, with all these big ideas.
“She needed you this morning.”
That morning . . . it was true. Avis could hardly believe what Kathryn had said when she’d discovered the girl crying outside the coffee shop. That she couldn’t remember being hugged like that by her own mother—or even hugged at all. Was that possible?
Okay, Lord. I see it now. She needed to learn more about Kathryn’s family situation. Stand by her in the same way that the girl had stood by Avis and her family, in spite of how often Avis had pushed her away, kept her distance. Why? Why had Kathryn continued to show up on her doorstep, so to speak?
She was hungry. Hungry for a mother’s unconditional love? Yes. But more than that. Kathryn was a fairly new Christian. She’d been reaching out to Avis, needing a woman of God to show her the way. Didn’t Scripture say for the older women to teach the younger?
Oh God, I’ve been so blind! Forgive me, Lord. Forgive me . . .
And then there was Nick. What was it Peter had said? That Nick was sweet on Kathryn? Avis wondered how Kathryn felt about that. Or if she even knew. But if it was true, then Kathryn and Nick needed both her and Peter. So maybe it was a double blessing that Peter had given Nick a job. Maybe he could be a mentor to him . . .
Which he’d already become, in a way. After all, it was Peter who said he felt God was prompting him to support Nick’s pastoral internship at SouledOut. Even if it meant that one of them should withdraw from the process of becoming part of the interim pastoral team.
Which one? Her or Peter?
“Peter?”
No answer. Her husband’s breathing was deep and regular. But she had an idea what he’d say. That they should take the whole idea to Pastor Cobbs and get his discernment. But Peter was convinced that the young man should intern at SouledOut Community Church. And Avis had to agree. Frankly, she wouldn’t mind taking her name off the list. A team of Pastor Cobbs, Peter, and young Nick could be dynamite.
There was only one thing that bothered her.
It was David Brown who’d brought up Nick’s internship at the congregational meeting. For less than noble reasons. The man and his wife were closet racists. That was harsh . . . but it was true. So if Nick became an interim pastor, even as an intern, would the Browns have “won”?
“Avis?” The Voice in her spirit almost jolted her upright.
She felt like young Samuel in the Bible. Are You talking to me, Lord?
“Don’t forget, people misunderstood a lot of things I did while I was on earth. And it looked like the devil had won when they crucified Me. But I was obedient to the Father because it was the right thing to do. All part of God’s plan.”
Avis almost stopped breathing, not wanting to miss this inner Voice.
“So the only question is, is encouraging Nick’s internship the right thing to do? If it is, then let Me take care of the Browns and their misguided prejudices.”
The inner Voice faded. The only sound in the room was Peter’s deep breathing, almo
st a gentle snore. A sweet peace filled Avis’s spirit as she relaxed against the soft pillow and finally closed her eyes.
“Thank You, Jesus,” she breathed, “for Your faithfulness—for standing with me in spite of my failures, my sins, my blind eyes and deaf ears . . .”
And Avis slept.
Reading Group Guide
1. If you’ve read the Yada Yada Prayer Group novels, you’ve already met Avis Douglass. What surprised you the most as you became more intimately acquainted with her in this first SouledOut Sisters novel?
2. Have you ever felt like Avis’s husband Peter: “Do we just keep on doing what we’re doing until we retire? Or do we look ahead, ask ourselves, what would we really like to do before we retire, while we’ve still got our health and a little energy . . . put our experience to use doing something else, something different”? How would you approach such a conversation with your spouse or family members?
3. Is there someone in your life who annoys you, like Kat Davies annoys Avis? Have you thought about why this person annoys you? How do you respond? Do you . . . pull away? Avoid him or her? Speak with annoyance or frustration? Simply tolerate him or her? Consider: Might God be prompting you to relate in a different way with this person? Why or why not?
4. Even Avis Douglass—a mature Christian—had her moments of feeling stuck in her prayers! (See pg. 137–138.) When was the last time you felt like that—wanting to pray, feeling desperate, but not knowing just how to pray? Avis heard the still, small voice of the Holy Spirit say: “Praise Me in faith, praise Me for what I’m going to do and am already doing, even if you can’t see it. Let the joy of the Lord be your strength.” Avis prayed Psalm 42 to get unstuck . . . try it. Let the “joy of the Lord” by your strength.
5. In Chapter 19, Avis recognized she was holding the CCU students at an emotional distance. “Sorry for fussing, Lord . . . I just have so much on my plate right now. I don’t feel like I have the energy to relate to new neighbors.” Why is it so hard to relate to “new people” when you have a lot on your plate? Is that an easy excuse? When is it OK to pull away from other people? Is there danger in ignoring someone God may be putting in your path for a reason?
6. A multicultural church can be a blessing—and also has its challenges. What do you think the women talking in the Ladies Room at SouledOut (Ch. 19) meant by worrying that the church might become “too black”? Avis never confronted the women or let them know she’d overheard. Was that the right or wrong thing to do? What would you have done if you’d been in Avis’s shoes in that bathroom?
7. Kat had promised Rochelle she wouldn’t tell her parents about meeting her on the street. But when she learns that Rochelle’s ex had been abusive, and that the Douglasses don’t know Conny is staying with his dad, she faces a dilemma. What would you have done? Have you been in a similar situation where you’ve made a promise but feel like you have to break it? What are the implications?
8. When Kat rushed out of the Douglasses’ house after dinner, Nick wanted to go after her but Avis stopped him. What do you think Avis meant by telling Nick not to “get in the way” of the Holy Spirit? In our rush to comfort someone or “fix things,” how might we “get in the way” of the Holy Spirit?
9. Kat said she wished she were Rochelle—at least Rochelle and her mother had a relationship that could be restored. Kat barely had a relationship with her mother, couldn’t remember when she’d been hugged like that (see pg. 363). Is there a broken relationship in your family that needs restoring? What might you do to take that first step toward reconciliation?
For more Reading Group Guide questions about Stand by Me, visit www.ThomasNelson.com/RGG
An excerpt from
The Yada Yada Prayer Group
The lobby of the Embassy Suites hotel in Chicago’s northwest suburbs was packed with women. An intense hum rose and fell, like a tree full of cicadas. “Girl! I didn’t know you were coming!” . . . “Where’s Shirlese? I’m supposed to be roomin’ with her.” . . . “Look at you! That outfit is fine!” . . . “Pool? Not after spending forty-five dollars at the salon this morning, honey. Who you kiddin’?”
Avis and I wiggled our Mutt and Jeff selves through the throng of perfumed bodies and presented our reservations at the desk.
“Jodi Baxter? And . . . Avis Johnson. You’re in Suite 206.” The clerk handed over two plastic key cards. “If you’re here for the Chicago Women’s Conference”—she added with a knowing smile—“you can pick up your registration packet at that table right over there.”
Avis let me forge a path back through the cicada convention to a long table with boxes of packets marked A–D, E–H, all the way to W–Z. As we were handed our packets emblazoned with CWC in curlicue calligraphy, I noticed a bright gold sticker in the right-hand corner of mine with the number 26 written in black marker. I glanced at the packet being given to the woman standing next to me at the A–D box who gave her name as “Adams, Paulette”—but her gold sticker had the number 12.
“What’s this?” I asked the plump girl behind the registration table, pointing to the number.
“Oh, that.” Miss Helpful smiled sweetly. “They’ll explain the numbers at the first session. Don’t worry about it . . . Can I help you?” She turned to the next person in line.
Humph. I didn’t want to wait till the first session. I was nervous enough surrounded by women who seemed as comfortable in a crowd of strangers as if it were Thanksgiving at Grandma’s. I didn’t want any “surprises.” Avis waved her packet at me over the heads of five women crowding up to the table between us and nodded toward the elevators. We met just as the door to Elevator Two pinged open, and we wheeled our suitcases inside.
“What number did you get?”
“Number?”
“On your packet, right-hand corner, gold sticker.”
“Oh.” Avis turned over the packet she was clutching in one hand, along with her plastic key card, purse strap, and travel-pack of tissues. “Twenty-six. What’s it for?”
I smiled big and relaxed. “I don’t know. They’ll tell us at the first session.” Whatever it was, I was with Avis.
As it turned out, we didn’t need our key cards. The door to Suite 206 stood ajar. Avis and I looked at each other and stole inside like the Three Bears coming home after their walk in the woods. The sitting room part of the suite was empty. However, through the French doors leading into the bedroom, we could see “Goldilocks” sitting on the king-size bed painting her toenails while WGCI gospel music blared from the bedside radio.
The stranger looked up. “Oh, hi!” She waved the tiny polish brush in our direction. “Don’t mind me. Make yourselves at home.”
We stood and stared. The woman was average height, dark-skinned, and lean, with a crown of little black braids sporting a rainbow of beads falling down all around her head. Thirties, maybe forties; it was hard to tell. Her smile revealed a row of perfect teeth, but a scar down the side of her face belied an easy life.
Avis was braver than I was and said what I was thinking. “Uh, are we in the right room? We didn’t know we had another roommate.”
The woman cocked her head. “Oh! They didn’t tell you at registration? Suite 206, right?” She capped the nail polish and bounced off the bed. “Florida Hickman—call me Flo.” She stuck out her hand. “Avis and Jodi, right? That’s what they tol’ me downstairs. Anyway, I was going to room with this sister, see, but she had to cancel, and I didn’t want to pay for a whole suite all by myself. Had to sell the kids just to get here as it is.” She laughed heartily. Then her smile faded and she cocked her head. “You don’t mind, do you? I mean . . . I don’t need this whole king-size football field to myself. Unless . . .” Her forehead wrinkled. “You want me to sleep on the foldout couch?”
My good-girl training rushed to my mouth before I knew what I was saying. “Oh no, no, that’s okay. We don’t mind.” Do we, Avis? I was afraid to look in Avis’s direction. We had pretty much agreed driving out that since it was a suit
e, we could each have a “room” to ourselves. Avis was definitely not the stay-up-late, sleepover type.
“Oh. Well, sure,” Avis said. “It’s just that no one told us.” I didn’t know Avis all that well, but that wasn’t enthusiasm in her voice. “I’ll sleep on the foldout,” she added, wheeling her suitcase over to the luggage stand.
I noticed that she didn’t say “we.” I stood uncertainly. But our new friend had generously offered the other side of the mammoth bed, so I dragged my suitcase into the bedroom and plopped it on the floor on the other side of Florida’s nail salon.
Well, this was going to be interesting. I had thought it would be quite an adventure to get to know Avis as my roommate for the weekend. As members of the same church, this was a chance to get beyond the niceties of Sunday morning and brush our teeth in the same sink. But I hadn’t counted on a third party. God knows I wanted to broaden my horizons, but this was moving a little faster than I felt ready for.
As I hung up the dress I hoped would pass for “after five” in the narrow closet, I suddenly had a thought. “Florida, what number is on your registration packet?”
Florida finished her big toe and looked at it critically. “Number? . . . Oh, you mean that gold sticker thing on the front?” She looked over the side of the bed where she’d dumped her things. “Um . . . twenty-six. Why?”
About the Author
Neta Jackson’s award-winning Yada books have sold more than 600,000 copies and are spawning prayer groups across the country. She and her husband, Dave, are also an award-winning writing team, best known for the Trailblazer Books—a forty-volume series of historical fiction about great Christian heroes with 1.7 million books slold—and Hero Tales: A Family Treasury of True Stories from the Lives of Christian Heroes (vols. 1–4). They live in the Chicago area, where the Yada stories are set.