The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Rolling

by Neta Jackson

  A wail broke the hush in the room. Ruth was fanning herself big-time. I could hear Ben’s growly voice soothing and shushing his child as the mohel finished his administrations. As Isaac’s wail subsided, sighs of relief and whispers filled the room.

  Then the mohel lifted his voice once more. “Creator of the universe, may it be Thy gracious will”—I leaned forward, trying to hear—“and give a pure and holy heart to Yitzak, to be called Isaac, the son of Ben and Ruth Garfield, who has just now been circumcised in honor of Thy great name. May his heart be wide open to comprehend Thy holy Law, that he may learn and teach, keep and fulfill Thy laws.”

  Ben’s “Amen!” boomed out over all the others. I caught Denny’s eye—and saw that he had his handkerchief out and was blowing his nose. At least he didn’t faint.

  “One moment, please,” the mohel added, finishing the ritual and actually smiling. “Today we have a double privilege, the honor of blessing and naming Isaac’s twin sister. Ruth, can you join us?”

  Beaming now, Ruth elbowed her way to the mohel and surrendered the baby in her arms. The bearded man took her gently and then held her up for all to see. A pink headband circled the tiny head, the bow on top matching the just-woke-up rosy cheeks. An ahh seemed to squeeze from the room, like the sigh of an accordion. And then the mohel prayed, “Lord of the universe, who created us both male and female, we ask your blessing on this little girl, to be called Havah, which means life. Help her to grow in joy and understanding of your gift of life to all people, even as she herself is a gift to her parents.”

  Again we all cried, “Amen!” accompanied by much applause and laughter.

  And like all Jewish festivities Ruth had introduced us to, the brit mila was soon followed by food—lots and lots of food, spread out on the dining room table like its own deli. I sidled up alongside Yo-Yo, who was filling her plate. “Hey, Yo-Yo,” I grinned. “Wasn’t that a neat ceremony?”

  “Yeah. I guess.” Yo-Yo shrugged inside the bulky cotton sweater she was wearing over her overalls and moved to the other side of the table.

  I frowned. What was that about? But Yo-Yo ducked out and headed for a seat, just as Ruth appeared with little Havah in her arms. Clucking ladies—clones of Ruth, I thought—gathered around, oohing and ahhing over the pretty child, passing her from hand to hand. “Two minutes older than Isaac, she is,” Ruth bragged.

  Ben, I noticed, anchored the straight-back chair in the other room with Isaac on the lap pillow, as if daring anyone to pluck away his son.

  After urging platefuls of macaroons, rugelach, and mandelbread on everyone—“Jewish biscotti, only better,” Ruth said about the latter—Ruth followed several of us Yadas as we finally headed for the bedroom to retrieve our coats piled on the bed. “So,” she said, “does this count as our Yada Yada meeting? Everybody in town was here—or else up to their eyeballs in family shtick.”

  Yada Yada normally met on second and fourth Sundays, and this was the last weekend of the year. But she had a point. Stu’s parents were still here. Avis’s daughter and grandbaby were “home” for the holidays. (Avis couldn’t bear the thought of Rochelle and little Conny spending Christmas at the women’s shelter, where they’d been since Rochelle left her abusive husband a month ago.) Becky Wallace probably had Little Andy for the holidays, and—

  “What about Chanda’s birthday?” Yo-Yo piped up. “She complained that we missed her birthday last year ’cause it falls between Christmas and New Year’s.”

  “Do not worry about Chanda. She decided at the last minute to take the kids to Jamaica.” Nony’s cultured South African accent made it sound like the queen of England had gone abroad. “Since her sister moved back to the island, Chanda has been—how do you say it?—sick for home.”

  “Oh, si, Jamaica!” Delores closed her eyes dreamily. “Sunshine. Tropical breezes. No ice storms . . . Can’t blame her. Every Chicago winter I get homesick for Mexico.”

  “Yeah, me too,” Yo-Yo muttered. “And I’ve never been out of Illinois.” We all laughed.

  “So, we cancel?” Ruth pushed, handing out the last of our coats.

  “Uh,” I stalled. “If we don’t meet tomorrow, it’ll be another two weeks before we get together—practically a whole month since our last real meeting.” Didn’t we all need a lot of prayer going into the New Year?

  “Excuse me.” My husband poked his head (swathed in the overly long scarf my mother had knit him for Christmas) into our little huddle. “I hate to state the obvious, but why don’t you Yadas just meet the next week? Try first and third Sundays for a while. Half of you were complaining about meeting second Sundays anyway.”

  Which was true. Now that Uptown Community Church and New Morning Christian had merged, half of us Yada Yadas were in the same church, and second Sundays already had a combined church potluck and business meeting until we ironed out all the bumps in the road.

  But I whacked him with my glove anyway. “Isn’t it a burden to be right all the time, Denny Baxter?”

  2

  The clock said 4:30 when we got home. Ack! Stu and her parents would show up for supper in less than two hours. Did I have time to finish supper and send an e-mail to Yada Yada suggesting the new time? Not that most of us looked at our e-mail on a regular basis, especially around holidays. I’d probably have to call people so they wouldn’t show up at . . . whose turn was it, anyway?

  I looked at the Yada Yada list taped inside one of the kitchen cupboards. Yo-Yo’s turn to host next.

  What was up with Yo-Yo, anyway? I thought, opening the fridge and pulling out the lasagna spinach roll-ups I’d made earlier that day. I thought she’d be all over those babies, as close as she and her brothers were to Ben and Ruth. But she’d seemed . . . indifferent. Never once saw her hold one of the twins or even talk to Ben and Ruth, except when Ruth cornered us about our next meeting. Weird.

  Oh well. Maybe she just felt out of place. There had been a lot of people today at the brit mila I didn’t know either.

  While the oven was heating, I called up e-mail and typed a quickie to Yada Yada saying, “It has been suggested”—didn’t have to say who suggested—“we (a) cancel our fourth-Sunday meeting tomorrow, and (b) consider changing our meeting times to first and third Sundays to avoid schedule conflicts at Uptown–New Morning Church. That would mean we could meet NEXT week, the first weekend of the New Year.”

  I frowned at the message. If anybody didn’t like this, I was the one who was going to hear about it. How did I end up being the group secretary, anyway?

  I could just hear Stu answer that one: “Because you do it, Jodi. If you don’t want the job, just say so!”

  But as a precaution, I signed it, “Ruth, Nony, Hoshi, Delores, Yo-Yo, and Jodi,” and thumped the Send key. I was pretty sure no one would complain about canceling tomorrow. And I’d let Avis, our unflappable group leader, handle the other one. After all, didn’t elementary school principals have to major in Scheduling Changes Diplomacy?

  By the time our front doorbell rang—Stu must be on her best behavior, I snickered to myself; she usually came sailing through our back door without knocking—I’d dragged Amanda off the phone long enough to set the table, Denny had buttered some garlic bread, and I’d tossed together a green salad. While Denny was greeting Stu and her parents in the front hall, I was still wondering whether to put out wineglasses. We usually splurged on wine with Italian food. But my parents would die if I served wine, with or without Italian food. Any kind of alcohol was verboten in the little Bible church I grew up in.

  Better not risk it. Should’ve checked with Stu first.

  I scurried into the living room to greet our guests. The resemblance between Stu and her father was striking. Tall. Angular face. Strong nose. “Hi, Jodi,” Stu said. “You met my folks the other day, right? Lester and Luann Stuart . . . Jodi Baxter.”

  I smiled and stuck out my hand. “I’m so happy you guys could come for supper.” Ack! “You guys”? Why did I say that? But what am I supposed
to call them? Lester and Luann? Or is that too familiar? They’re Stu’s parents, for pity’s sake. Should I call them Mr. and Mrs. Stuart?

  Stu’s mother, a sixtyish woman with short blonde hair, smiled and shook my hand. “Mrs. Baxter. You are very kind to invite us. You and your husband have been so good to Leslie . . .”

  Okay. That answered that.

  Mr. Stuart presented a slim bottle of red wine with a fancy label. “I hope you can use this. A small token of our appreciation.”

  I smiled, trying not to giggle. And that answered that. Oh, right. They were Lutherans. Real wine at Communion.

  Stu and I left Denny to small-talk with the Stuarts while we set out the food and added wineglasses to the table. “How’s it going?” I whispered, climbing on the kitchen stool to get a basket for the garlic bread.

  She idly twisted a long strand of her straight blonde hair. “Pretty good, I guess . . . well, okay, kind of weird. I mean, until Thanksgiving we hadn’t even talked to each other for four years! But yesterday we went to the Museum of Science and Industry and had dinner at Bubba Gumps on Navy Pier. Not too bad if we keep busy.”

  “Bubba Gumps! I’m jealous.” We’d never been to the popular seafood restaurant named after the boat in the Forrest Gump movie. I struck a match, lit the green tapers nestled in some fake holly in the center of our red holiday tablecloth, and dimmed our modest chandelier. Even in the candlelight, Stu’s eyes carried a sadness that the holidays only intensified. “Can you . . . you know, talk about stuff?”

  She snorted. “You mean about the abortion? The grandchild they don’t have? They know about it, sure—we got it all out on the table at Thanksgiving. We all cried buckets. But now it’s like a big elephant standing in my living room that we’re all pretending isn’t there. No one wants to bring it up.”

  I gave Stu a squeeze. “Give it time. I’m humbled by your courage, Stu. Took guts to break the ice after so many years.”

  The back door opened and slammed shut, letting in a surge of frigid air. “Yo! I’m home!” Josh announced, shrugging out of his winter jacket. “What’s for—oh. Hi, Stu.” Josh surveyed the candlelit table. “Whassup? We got company?”

  I held up a warning finger. “Read my lips,” I breathed. “Stu’s parents are here. Go meet them. You are not surprised. You are pleased to meet them. You speak English.” I raised my voice sweetly as he meekly headed for the living room. “Call everyone to the table, will you, Josh? Your sister too.”

  Stu snickered. “I’ll get another plate. You forgot to set a place for him.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Huh. Never know when Josh will show up for dinner. We still get mail for him, so I think he still lives here.” I was only half kidding.

  But ten minutes later, as we passed around the lasagna roll-ups, I breathed a prayer of thanksgiving that Josh had showed up. He kept the conversation rolling with tales from the Christmas party at the Manna House women’s shelter. Mrs. Stuart seemed especially interested.

  “—and you should have seen the crazy decorations the kids made for the Christmas tree. Somebody donated a tree after Christmas, but hey. We went all out anyway. Paper chains out of magazine pages, newspaper snowflakes—even raided the kitchen for measuring spoons and tea balls. We tried to string popcorn, but most of it got eaten. Maybe ten or twelve lonely kernels got on the tree itself.”

  We all laughed, but I felt a twinge. Sheesh. I could’ve sent tons of colored construction paper. Why didn’t he ask?

  Stu’s mother leaned forward, fork delicately held in her manicured hand. “And how did you happen to get involved in this charity, Josh?”

  Josh had used the laughter to finish off a piece of garlic bread. He chewed thoughtfully. “Kind of a long story. But if you’re coming to church tomorrow, you’ll hear a little more. Edesa and I are recruiting volunteers.”

  “Edesa?” Mrs. Stuart asked sweetly. Josh’s ears turned red.

  “She’s in our prayer group,” I put in. “Also volunteers at Manna House.”

  I eyed Stu across the table. Are you going to bring your parents to church? Uptown Community had been “an interesting experience” when my parents had visited a year ago. But the Uptown–New Morning amalgamation? We hadn’t yet ironed out all the booby traps inherent in merging two churches—one mostly white, one mostly black—in an unfinished new building smack-dab in the middle of a shopping mall. That might be a stretch for a couple in their sixties from a mainstream church in Indianapolis.

  Stu must have read my mind. She slipped a grin and mouthed, “Sure. Why not?”

  “ON SECOND THOUGHT,” Stu murmured to me the next morning as we surveyed the rapidly filling storefront sanctuary at the Howard Street Shopping Center, “I forgot about these awful folding chairs. My dad will be squirming in no time.”

  New chairs were probably at the bottom of the list of things to be decided by our new congregation. “Maybe we could make a case that padded chairs are a necessary tool for shopping center evangelism,” I murmured.

  Stu rolled her eyes. “Ha. Good luck.” She moved off to rejoin her parents. “Pastor Clark, Pastor Cobbs,” I heard her say, “these are my parents, Lester and—”

  “Hey, Jodi. How ya feel?” Florida Hickman peeled off her winter jacket and knit hat, shaking out the coppery corkscrew curls that nearly matched her skin. “Man, it’s hot up in here.”

  I nodded. “Yep. Temps in the forties today. Not what you expect from a Chicago winter.” Florida looked good but didn’t sound like her usual high-octane self. “How was—”

  “I wannit ta snow.” Nine-year-old Carla Hickman, hair done in matching corkscrews, folded her arms in a pout. “Daddy said I could build a snowman when we got us a house.”

  “Of course you want it to snow,” I teased. “You’re nine.” I’d made it through half a bumpy school year with Carla Hickman in my third-grade class at Bethune Elementary; maybe we’d make it through the rest of the year. I leaned down and whispered in her ear. “Tell you what. If it snows after school starts, we’ll build a snowman in the playground, how about that?” She cocked her head at me. “Cross your heart and hope to die?”

  Might as well live recklessly. “Promise.” I got a rare Carla-smile in return before she skipped off. I turned back to Florida. “So, how was Christmas in your new house?”

  Florida sighed. “Decent, I guess. Carl got us a tree, tried to keep our spirits up on account of Carla and Cedric. An’ it was fun havin’ Becky and Little Andy with us.”

  Ah, yes. Becky. Ex-con Becky Wallace had moved out of Stu’s apartment and into the Hickmans’ upstairs studio back in November when she got off house arrest. Trying to make a home of her own so she could get custody of Little Andy.

  “But . . .” Florida wagged her head. “My insides was all torn up, knowin’ Chris is locked up at juvie.” Then she brightened. “But God is good, know what I’m sayin’? Carl an’ me got to go see him that evenin’, an’ we goin’ again tonight. They don’t let kids in, though. Oh, hey!” She waved across the room. “There’s Nony an’ Mark. Mark’s lookin’ good, don’t ya think?” Florida made a beeline for the Sisulu-Smith family.

  The worship band and praise team were warming up, and Denny beckoned me to come sit down. But as I headed his way, I did a quick gander around the room to see if any other Yada Yada sisters were there . . . yep. Avis Johnson-Douglass and her husband, Peter, sat in the second row. Avis’s daughter Rochelle sat beside her—a beauty, just like Avis, with that trim figure, smooth nutmeg skin, and fall of long, raven-colored, wavy hair. Two-year-old Conny was crawling all over his stepgranddaddy’s lap. Hm. The Christmas visit must be going well.

  My attention was diverted by Becky Wallace grabbing for Little Andy, who was chasing the Sisulu-Smith boys across the six-inch-high platform and dodging musicians—and I had to snicker when I saw Hoshi Takahashi, the Northwestern University student who lived with the Sisulu-Smith household, snag Marcus and Michael and march them to their parents. Ha. Mild-mannered Hoshi obvio
usly didn’t put up with any nonsense from her charges.

  So that was Avis, Stu, me, Flo, Becky, Nony, Hoshi, and—wait a minute. Edesa Reyes just came in, getting a huge hug from our sixteen-year-old Amanda. I poked Denny. “Look. Edesa’s here,” I whispered. Even though seven of us from Yada Yada had ended up here after the Uptown–New Morning merge, Edesa was a member of Iglesia del Espirito Santo on the West Side, had been ever since she came to the States from Honduras on a student visa.

  Denny nodded. “Yeah. Recruiting volunteers for Manna House, remember?”

  Oh. Right. Josh had said . . . Ack! I twisted my head, trying to catch a glimpse of my son. Did Josh wear those tattered jeans again? It was one thing to sit at the back with the sound equipment and look like something that’s been through a paper shredder, but to get up front—

  Pastor Clark, our pastor from Uptown, and Pastor Cobbs, New Morning’s pastor, both stepped onto the low platform to signal the beginning of the worship service. They made a funny pastoral team: salt and pepper, tall and short, widowed and married. And to be honest, Pastor Clark’s quiet demeanor was usually no match for Pastor Cobb’s vigorous style. But as Pastor Clark kept saying, “God is doing a new thing.”

  “Good morning, church!” Pastor Cobbs boomed.

  “Good morning!” bounced back from all over the spacious room.

  “Our hearts should be bursting with joy this morning, for this week we celebrated the birth of the Christ child—”

  “Thank ya, Jesus!” “Praise God!” “Hallelujah!”

  The congregation was definitely awake. I fully expected the worship band and praise team to swing into a rousing gospel version of “Joy to the World!”—the usual carol to kick off the Sunday after Christmas. But Pastor Cobbs simply started to sing from somewhere deep, slowly, majestically . . .

  O come, let us adore Him

  O come, let us adore Him

  O come, let us adore Hi-im . . .

  Chri-ist the Lord.