by Neta Jackson
After our “Amen,” Edesa said Jodi Baxter had given her an idea: to pray a blessing for each woman based on the meaning of her name. “Sister Jodi does that for her students at school, and she’s done it for the Yada Yada amigas too.” Beaming her generous smile, the vivacious black woman waved a thick paperback. “She loaned me her baby name book. I’m just getting started. Do you want to help? Maybe we can find them all by tomorrow morning, sí?”
An hour later, yawning women started to wander downstairs looking for breakfast, which we’d set out on the counter for do-it-yourself: cold cereal, bananas, bagels, and OJ. And by ten o’clock everyone had gotten showered and dressed—even Lucy, after I offered to help wash her hair in the sink—and we gathered in the main room overlooking the lake for a short Bible-and-prayer time before heading out to see the sights.
Edesa read the story of Hagar from Genesis, chapter sixteen— which was also the story of the childless Sarai, who gave her servant to Abraham as a second wife so he could have an heir. But when Hagar got pregnant, the servant girl couldn’t help feeling superior to her barren mistress, which made Sarai so furious she threw Hagar out of the household. “Now she was homeless,” Edesa said. “Nowhere to go. Pregnant and abandoned.”
I noticed all the women were listening intently. “Know ’xactly how she feel!” Shawanda spouted. “This dude got me pregnant— bam-bam, thank you ma’am—then threw me out for a slut who had more booty than me. How you think I ended up at the shelter anyway?”
Oh dear. I’d wondered where the name Bam-Bam had come from.
“But notice what God did,” Edesa urged, rereading several of the verses. “God sent an angel to her, who called her by her name. Isn’t that amazing? God knew the name of this unappreciated servant girl! And the angel asked her, ‘Hagar, where have you come from? And where are you going?’ The angel of the Lord was asking her to tell her story! Hagar was so amazed by this encounter that she gave God a name: El Roi, the God Who Sees Me.”
Edesa let that sink in for a moment. Then she said softly, “Did you ever think of that, mi amigas? That God is interested in your story? That God sees you?” The room was so quiet, all we heard were the whistles and chirps of the sparrows, wrens, and juncos flitting in the trees outside. Then suddenly several women wanted to talk at once and tell their stories.
“I’m from Cleveland, see,” Kikki said, twisting a strand of dark blond hair around a finger. “Got two kids back there living with my folks ’cause I was all strung out on drugs. My parents wanted to get me away from my old crew, so they brought me to Chicago six months ago, stuck me in a residential rehab center—but I got kicked out of the program. I just couldn’t stay clean.” The blue eyes teared up. “I been clean again almost four weeks . . . but sometimes I’m scared I won’t ever get to be with my kids again.”
Several women murmured sympathy. But not Bertie. “Ain’t seen my kids in ten years.” The woman’s hard features matched her tone. “State stole ’em. Nothin’ I do seem to work out. Nobody want to listen to me. So I just end up not carin’ anymore.”
“Leastways you had kids,” Hannah said, her voice quivering. “I got pregnant when I was fifteen, knew I couldn’t take care of no kid—so I got an abortion. My boyfriend even paid for it. But somethin’ went wrong, and now they tell me I can’t have no kids.” The girl I’d so easily nicknamed “Hannah-the-Bored” started to cry.
Wanda put a big arm around our would-be manicurist and murmured in her Jamaican patois, “Aw, gal, it goin’ fe be ah-rite, it goin’ fe be ah-rite.”
We heard a few more stories that morning. I was familiar with Wanda’s story, who’d come to the States from Jamaica as a temporary resident three years ago, but lost all her ID when her purse was stolen. The process of applying for new ID was held up until her elderly mother in Kingston sent a copy of her birth certificate. “But it been t’ree months an’ I hear not’ing. Dey gon’ ship me back home if it don’t come soon.”
But I knew nothing about Sunny Davis, a sad-faced white woman with bad teeth, which seemed to mock her name. Her story came out in bits and pieces: bounced around from relative to relative growing up, no one seemed to want her, no one cared when she dropped out of school. Unable to hold down a job, she was finally trying to complete her GED—at age forty. “But learnin’ don’t come easy for me.” She shrugged. “Feel like givin’ up most days.”
“Nah, nah, don’t give up,” several encouraged. “Ask Carolyn to help you! She real smart. Teaches the kids in the afterschool program.”
Finally Edesa asked everyone to hold hands while she thanked God for knowing each woman by name and caring about her story. I had to drop the hands I was holding to fish for a tissue halfway through her prayer. Her words touched me. God knows my name—Gabrielle Shepherd Fairbanks. And He cares about my story too.
We spent the rest of the day sightseeing around Devil’s Lake State Park and Baraboo, the closest town. The fall colors were as spectacular as I’d hoped—brilliant yellows and reds sparking from among several shades of greens. But some of the women got bored just driving around, so we found a couple of picnic tables and pulled out the cooler, which we’d packed with sandwiches—each woman had made her own—as well as cans of pop, apples, cookies, and the not-so-popular raw veggies. Angela Kwon led a group along a short hiking trail and came back with tales of purple and blue and pink wildflowers still poking their noses through the blanket of leaves that had fallen to the ground.
But even in the sun, the air was chilly, so we piled back in the van and headed for Baraboo. There were several signs for the Circus World Museum, but Tina Torres got all excited when she saw a sign for the Ho-Chunk Casino featuring . . . bingo? “Hey, bingo! I love bingo!”
Huh. Didn’t know casinos offered bingo. Yeah, right. Probably the come-on to lure tourists to the slot machines and blackjack tables. I was about to deliver a three-point sermon about the evils of gambling when Angela piped up. “I saw a kids’ bingo game back at the retreat house. We can play for chocolate kisses tonight if you want.”
The ladies all laughed. “ ‘At’s more my speed,” Lucy muttered.
As we drove through Baraboo—a tourist town if I ever saw one—someone spied a Sweet Shoppe and yelled, “Ice-cream!” As our motley crew of black, tan, and white faces piled out of the van and filled up the tiny store, a few of the customers pulled their children close and left quickly after getting their ice-cream cones. I bit my tongue before I said something I’d regret and caught Edesa’s eye.
She just patted my arm and smiled gently in a don’t-let-it-bother-you way.
I sighed. Sure hoped I could be like Edesa when I grew up.
“Can’t they spell in Wisconsin?” Shawanda snickered in a loud voice. “Everybody knows ya don’t spell shop S-H-O-P-P-E.”
The woman behind the counter rolled her eyes, but customers were customers and I was paying with real dollar bills, so twenty minutes later we walked out with fifteen assorted ice-cream cones, though most of the ladies elected to eat them in the warm van instead of the outdoor tables with the red-and-yellow striped umbrellas.
As we headed out of town back toward Devil’s Lake State Park, we saw more signs for Circus World. “Pull in, pull in,” Angela begged. “Wouldn’t that be fun? Maybe it won’t cost anything.”
Well, she was right. It didn’t cost anything because the season was over. We got out of the van and looked around, but the museum was closed. The signs indicated there were circus performances and animal acts daily from May through September, and that this was the original site of the old Ringling Bros. Circus winter quarters. It gave me an idea. What if we scheduled our Fall Getaway next year in September? I’d call and see if Circus World had special group rates. Maybe we should even bring the kids.
“Who needs a circus?” Tawny James teased. “I can stand on my hands.” Which the pretty girl with the creamy caramel skin and dark, tiny ringlets proceeded to do in a grassy patch just beyond the parking lot.
�
�Huh. That’s nothin’. I can do a flip,” snorted Shawanda. And she did. Not just one, but two.
The ladies laughed and clapped. Getting in the mood, some of the others tried to outdo each other. “I can touch my nose with my tongue!” . . . “Can you make yourself into a human knot?” I grinned at Angela and Edesa. Who knew what other “talents” this group possessed?
“Well, watch me. I can walk a tightrope.” Lucy’s raspy voice took me by surprise—even more so when she hauled herself up on one of the park benches scattered around the site and, holding out her hefty arms to either side, pretended to be walking a narrow tightrope. Now the younger women were cheering her on. I couldn’t help but laugh. This was good. Getting away from the everyday stresses of being homeless in the city or housed in a shelter, letting down their hair, even getting silly.
Until Lucy came to the end of the bench, that is. “No, Lucy!” I cried, seeing that she was about to step off.
I was too late. With a flourish, the old lady stepped off—but the step was too high. Her left foot twisted as it hit the ground and she went headlong into the hard dirt.
“Humph,” Monique sniffed. “ ‘Pride goeth before a fall.’ ”
“Shut up, Monique,” I hissed, as half a dozen of us rushed to Lucy, whose face, covered in dirt, was twisted in pain.
But after getting the old woman up and back into the van, Lucy refused to let me take her to the hospital, even if I knew where one was, which I didn’t. “Jus’ a few scratches, that’s all. Don’t be such a fussbudget.” Angela and Edesa got the bleeding stopped on her scraped face and hands with some disinfectant wipes from the van’s small medical kit while I drove, my hands sweating on the wheel. But by the time we got back to the Pine Tree Retreat house, her left ankle had swollen to softball size, and it took three of us to get her inside and lowered onto the couch.
Angela eased off Lucy’s shoe and worn sock while Edesa propped up her foot and emptied ice cubes from the freezer to make plastic-bag ice packs. My anxiety level was about to go through the log roof. “You should see a doctor, Lucy. It could be broken!”
“It ain’t broke. Don’tcha think I never sprained my ankle b’fore? Just get one o’ them elastic things and wrap it ’round.”
Fortunately, the retreat house had a cupboard of basic medical supplies, including elastic bandages. “Here, let me do that.” Tina Torres elbowed the rest of us out of the way and deftly wrapped Lucy’s ankle, ignoring the old lady’s complaints that it was too tight. “Shut up, Lucy,” the large Puerto Rican ordered. “You one loco old woman, you know that? Doing something estúpido like that! Here, take this.” She handed Lucy a couple of pain relievers and a glass of water.
“Praise your way through it, sister Lucy!” Monique admonished and would have kept preaching if I hadn’t pulled her away with a reminder that she was on supper duty with Kikki and me. I kept the two newbies scurrying like squirrels as I banged pots around and tossed out orders. Forty-five minutes later we set out a big bowl of spaghetti on the long wooden table, along with a simple tossed salad and loaf of hot garlic bread.
A round of cheers greeted Angela’s announcement at supper that Daylight Saving Time ended that night, so we’d all get to sleep in another hour the next morning. Well, she should know, given her job as receptionist and timekeeper at Manna House.
Lucy seemed to enjoy bossing the rest of us around as we waited on her hand and foot—literally—the rest of the evening. I’d had visions of building a bonfire in the fire ring down by the lake and introducing these city girls to the joys of roasting marshmallows and making s’mores with the chocolate bars and graham crackers we’d brought along. But Lucy’s sprained ankle and temperatures dipping into the thirties as the sun set kept us in the log house around the stone fireplace, and I decided I didn’t want to deal with hot, gooey marshmallows on the carpet and furniture. So I offered the chocolate bars and marshmallows straight from the bag as prizes for the hot bingo game that lasted for at least two hours after supper.
Not exactly my cup of tea, but I shrugged and took three bingo cards and even won two marshmallows. Nobody would trade me for chocolate.
It wasn’t until much later, as I covered a sleeping Lucy with several blankets and turned out the house lights, that I realized I’d totally missed my chance while in town to make a quick call back home to see how the “guy weekend” was faring. While getting ready for bed, Edesa caught me checking my cell phone to see if I had any voice mail or text messages. She eyed me quizzically. I shook my head. Nothing.
Edesa laughed and gave me a sweet-smelling hug. “Don’t worry, mi amiga. I am sure El Señor is capable of working out His own purpose for this weekend.”
But as I slid under the covers, I thought, Yeah, but the least God could do is tell me what He’s up to.
chapter 23
Hallelujah! No raccoons, tipped-over trash cans, or frightened girls shaking me awake in the middle of the night. But I did get up to investigate a grunting noise at one point and discovered Lucy crawling over the floor to the bathroom.
“Oh, Lucy, let me help you! You need some crutches as soon as we get back to Manna House today.”
Lucy pushed me away as I tried to get her up. “I’m doin’ jus’ fine, Fuzz Top. Now git. Go back to bed, will ya?”
Huh. Who was calling whom Fuzz Top? I’d just washed her frowzy gray hair yesterday morning, but it already looked like a bird’s nest in the dim glow from the nightlights plugged into sockets around the log house.
I went back to bed.
The end of Daylight Saving Time meant nothing to my body clock, which woke me up at the usual time. My glow-in-the-dark watch said six thirty, which meant it was only five thirty new time. Too early to get up. But I didn’t go back to sleep. My mind was awake and already tumbling.
Sunday . . . will Philip take the boys to church? Probably not. Maybe Josh will take them . . . unless Philip thinks up something to do with the boys, which would be hard for them to resist. After all, going to church every Sunday is a new routine for the boys since they came back from Virginia. Oh well . . . it isn’t the end of the world if the boys miss one Sunday, I guess.
I finally gave up trying to fall sleep and got up at six, pulled on a pair of leggings, added a sweater over my sleepshirt, and crept quietly down the stairs to the first floor. The sun wasn’t up yet, but the first light of dawn etched the tops of the trees in stark relief to the brightening sky. Lucy was still snoring on the couch, so I slid quietly past to the kitchen, made a pot of coffee, and then sat at the kitchen counter with Jodi Baxter’s baby-names book and started looking up the meanings of names.
Edesa found me still at the counter an hour later. “Why did you not wake me?” she scolded in a whisper. “I wanted to help with the names!”
“Well, you can help now,” I murmured. “I found what their names mean—but how to make a blessing out of some of them is beyond me! Want some coffee?”
Putting our heads together—Edesa’s tiny black corkscrew ringlets next to my messy curls—we went over the list:
Angela—“Angelic messenger.” Edesa grinned. “Seems appropriate for someone who answers the phone all day. Who’s next?”
Naomi—“Pleasant.”
Tawny—“Golden-brown color.” “What can we do with that?” I wondered aloud.
Aida—Swahili: “An advantage or reward.” “Hm. The name is Swahili—but Aida’s Latina,” Edesa said. “That’s interesting.”
Hannah—Hebrew, biblical: “Grace” or “Favor.”
Shawanda—“Closest I could find was ‘Shawana,’ which means ‘graceful,’ ” I said. “Kind of nice.”
I pointed at Kikki’s name. “Couldn’t find hers. Maybe a nickname?”
Edesa grew thoughtful. “I heard her tell someone her real name is Kiersten, but her baby sister couldn’t say it, so she called her Kikki. Look up Kiersten.”
I flipped to the Ks. “Whoa—it means ‘Follower of Christ.’ ”
“Gloria a
Dios! ” Edesa breathed. “That will make a wonderful blessing. Okay, who’s next?”
Monique—Latin: “Advisor.” Oh, Monique was going to love that.
Wanda—“Wanderer.” “That’s true enough,” I murmured. “She’s not really at home here or back in Kingston.”
Bertie—“Bright.” I made a face. “That’s a misnomer. Her spirit seems so dark. And Sunny. Her name means ‘Filled with Sunshine,’ but she’s the saddest-looking woman here. And Lucy? Look at that. Her name means ‘Light.’ Go figure.”
Edesa was thoughtful a moment. “You know, when prophets speak they say what God sees, not necessarily what we see. These names may be prophetic—our Father God speaking what He saw when He created each woman. Don’t you think He wants to change Sunny—wants to give her a bright sunny spirit, full of light?”
I leaned over and gave the young woman a hug. “You always think the best of people.”
She seemed embarrassed. “That’s because Jesuchristo thinks the best of us, and I want to be more like Him. But don’t be fooled.” She made a face. “I have my moments. Just ask Josh!”
Humph. Hard to imagine. When Josh looked at Edesa, he still seemed starstruck.
I’d changed my watch to the new time, which now said seven thirty. We’d announced that breakfast would be at eight thirty. “We better get started on these blessings before people get up.”
“Wait. Do you remember the meaning of your name, Gabrielle?”
I nodded. How could I forget? When Philip first kicked me out of the penthouse and my life was falling apart like so many broken shards, Edesa had encouraged me to “live into your name,” which she said meant “strong woman of God.”
“It was the first time I ever thought of myself that way,” I murmured, “and it’s made a big difference in my life.” I picked up the paperback book. “But this says my name also means, ‘God is my strength’—which I also like, because I don’t always feel like a strong woman of God!”