The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Rolling

by Neta Jackson

  As we resumed our seats and took up the agenda, I was surprised at how quickly a number of potentially sticky issues were cared for. But the first recommendation oiled the gears: all decisions made today would take effect for one year, giving the congregation more experience with one another, at which time all decisions would be reviewed. That one passed unanimously. “Smart,” Denny murmured. “Very smart.”

  Next, the double congregation affirmed that Pastor Joseph Cobbs and Pastor Hubert Clark were copastors, with mutual responsibility for teaching and preaching, but with a division of administrative oversight for the various ministries according to their gifts and strengths. (“Hubert?” Florida hissed in my ear from the row behind me. “No wonder that man keeps his given name under his hat!”)

  I wondered how we’d deal with the next level of leadership, though. We didn’t know each other well enough to elect new elders from each previous church. But the current crop—three from Uptown and five from New Morning—was too many for a church our size, seemed to me. Peter Douglass cleared his throat and stood up.

  “I realize I’m not a voting member of this congregation . . . yet.” He smiled. “A fact I intend to change at the first opportunity.” A burst of applause and laughter erupted. “But I’d like to make a suggestion about elders. Why don’t the current elders from both congregations draw lots. Half would serve the first six months of this year; half would serve the second half. Then at the end of the year, we can have a new election.”

  A murmur rippled among the rows of chairs. But Peter held up a hand to continue. “That way, we honor our current elders, giving us the benefit of their experience as we begin this marriage.” Several people laughed. “But it also gives an opportunity to raise up new leaders in the near future.”

  “Amen, brother!” More clapping.

  Denny stood up. “I like that suggestion. But I have to confess, I don’t know who we’re talking about—from New Morning, at least. Could we have the current elders from Uptown and New Morning introduce themselves?”

  More clapping. Pastor Clark introduced Uptown’s current elders: Rick Reilly, Tom Fitzhugh, and David Brown. Pastor Cobbs said New Morning had deacons, not elders, but the function was probably similar. He called on Debra and Sherman Meeks, Carrie Walker, Rommel Custer, and Mark Smith to stand.

  I beamed at the Meeks, who’d been so warm and welcoming from day one.

  “Hallelujah!” Florida exclaimed behind me. “All right now!” Then I heard her hiss in my ear again. “They got women on they board!”

  I watched as Nony’s husband stood with the other deacons, gripping the back of the chair in front of him. The Northwestern University history professor whose head had been bashed in with a brick last summer was still a looker, in spite of the weight he’d lost during his convalescence. The black eye patch he wore over his left eye gave him a debonair, mysterious air—especially with that trim goatee outlining his chin. I poked Denny. “Did you know Mark was a deacon at New Morning?” I whispered.

  He shrugged. “Not surprised.”

  But I saw Nony’s face tilt upward, watching him, brows knit in concern.

  Mark raised his hand. “Pastors? If I may say something?” He spoke clearly, just a tad slowly. Easy to miss if someone didn’t know what he’d been through.

  The room quieted. People leaned forward.

  “I think Peter Douglass’s suggestion is excellent, and under normal circumstances I would be glad to serve. But as you all know, I haven’t been able to carry out my responsibilities for the last six months, and I think it best to step down at this time. God has brought me a very long way . . . but I also want to be realistic. I don’t think I need to explain.” He sat down. Nony put an arm across the back of his chair, resting it there.

  Pastor Cobbs stroked his chin thoughtfully. “We could assign you to the second six months if that would make a difference, brother.”

  Mark just shook his head. My heart was aching. Why step down? Give the healing process another six months! Was stepping down accepting defeat?

  But we moved on. Peter’s suggestion became a motion, which was carried by the “ayes.” Then and there, the seven remaining elder-deacons drew slips of paper, four of which had X’s on them. Our first set of elders was Debra Meeks, Rommel Custer, Rick Reilly, and Tom Fitzhugh. The second set would be David Brown, Sherman Meeks, Carrie Walker. I noticed no one said anything about the disproportionate number. Maybe Pastor Cobbs was leaving the position open on purpose, just in case . . .

  The last item on the agenda was a new name for the church. Now I was getting excited. I fished the papers I’d printed out from my tote bag. Wasn’t sure what the procedure for introducing new names would be, but I was ready. The pastors passed out a sheet with a few possibilities. All were a combination of the old names: Uptown New Morning Church . . . New Morning Community Church . . . New Community Christian Church.

  The discussion was spirited.

  “How we gonna decide whose name goes first?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Sure it does. Uptown’s been around twenty years. If we want people to know we’re still around, the name ought to be in there somewhere.”

  “I like that ‘New Community’ one.”

  “We’re not voting yet.”

  Becky Wallace waved her hand. “Uh, seems ta me we oughta come up with a new name. New church, new name.” Her head swiveled at the murmurs that rippled around her. “Or maybe not. What do I know?” She shrank into her seat.

  “Maybe the old names aren’t important to some folks.” A big woman eyed Becky over the top of her skinny reading glasses. “But for those of us who’ve been around awhile, the name is important. Preserves our history. It’s part of our identity.”

  Murmurs of assent this time.

  “Heh-heh-heh. This is like John Smith-Brown gettin’ hitched to Mary Jones-White,” a man cracked. “Whatcha gonna call the next generation? Smith-Brown-Jones-White?” That got a laugh—but I could tell the tension had risen.

  Silence descended over the room. My insides were churning. Seemed like some combination of the old names would win the day. My idea was probably dumb anyway. Nobody else had mentioned any new names—

  “Could I say something?” Avis Johnson-Douglass stood up, her Bible open. “I don’t disagree about the importance of history, of celebrating our identities. But I find it interesting that God often gave a new name when He was doing something new in the lives of His people. Abram was changed to Abraham. Jacob was changed to Israel. Simon was changed to Peter. Oftentimes there was a prophetic quality to the new name—a promise of something new, something God was going to do. Here, let me read . . .”

  My eyes widened. Prophetic. That was the word. That was what had excited me about Ruth’s off-the-cuff suggestion.

  Avis read from Revelation chapter three. “ ‘He who overcomes, I will make him a pillar in the temple of My God, and he shall go out no more. I will write on him the name of My God and the name of the city of My God, the New Jerusalem, which comes down out of heaven from My God. And I will write on him My new name. He who has an ear, let him hear what the Spirit says to the churches.’ ” Avis closed her Bible. “I don’t have a name to suggest, but Pastor Clark often says, ‘God is doing a new thing.’ A new wineskin, so to speak, for new wine. So I’d like to suggest we add some new names to this list. Something that expresses what God is doing among us. Or”—she smiled—“what God will do among us if we let Him.”

  I felt like shouting. Thank you, Avis! But I still hesitated. Didn’t want to be the first one.

  To my surprise, Hoshi Takahashi stood up. “Avis spoke my heart. Thank you, dear sister. I have a name to suggest: All Nations Church. Because we want people of all nations to be welcome here.”

  I saw a few heads bobbing, as well as a few frowns. But Hoshi’s courage strengthened my own backbone. I stood up. “Thank you, Hoshi. I like your suggestion. But I also have a suggestion. You might think it sounds funny at firs
t—I did. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized—”

  “Just tell us the name, Jodi,” Stu piped up.

  For a moment, I felt flustered. “Okay. Yachad.” I heard a few snickers, so I rushed on. “Yachad is a Hebrew word, found in the Bible, which means ‘together in unity’ or ‘in one accord.’ It has the prophetic quality Avis was talking about. Like Jesus’ prayer in John seventeen, when He asked God to make us one, just as He and the Father are One. That’s our prayer for this merger, too, I think. I’ve got a page here explaining the meaning if anyone’s interested.”

  I sat down, feeling the heat in my face. Comments flew all around me. “Yachad what? Yachad Community Church?” “Sounds like a mosque to me. We’d get a bunch of Muslims showing up.” “So? Maybe that’s good.” “She said it’s Hebrew, not Arabic.” “Still, nobody would know what it means.” “But people would ask and we could tell them—like a witness, you know.” “I kinda like it.” “I don’t know . . .”

  But a sense of peace lapped quietly at my frazzled nerves. In spite of the voices all around me, I heard a still, small Voice in my spirit. Now let it go, Jodi. You planted the seed. You were obedient to speak the Word. Let it go.

  8

  My watch said 3:10 by the time Josh pulled our minivan into the garage after the marathon worship, potluck, and business meeting. I groaned, shedding my coat as I dragged myself from the back door to the coat tree in the front hall. “I am so glad we changed Yada Yada off second Sundays. I just wanna chill tonight and go to bed early.”

  “Oh.” Denny, following me to the front of the house, sounded disappointed. “I thought maybe we could go out or something, take advantage of a free Sunday night.”

  I locked eyes with him. “Why not Friday? Why not Saturday? Why wait till Sunday? We’ve both got to go to work tomorrow morning.”

  He tossed his London Fog with the flannel zip-in liner over the top of the coat tree, making it look like a football pileup. “Okay. Except we didn’t go out Friday or Saturday this weekend, and now it’s Sunday. Besides, you know Fridays are bad. A night game or something usually keeps me at school late.”

  “You’re not coaching now, remember? You don’t have to be at every game.” I headed back to the kitchen. I needed a cup of hot tea.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, what’s that about?” Denny was right behind me. “I said I’d like to go out with my wife tonight, and now we’re talking about my job? C’mon, Jodi.”

  Josh was standing at the refrigerator, pulling out bread, mayo, cheese, and lunchmeat, in spite of the fact we’d had a megapotluck only two hours ago. Irritated that I was sandwiched between my son and my husband, when what I really wanted was a cup of tea and a good book, I flipped on the gas under the teakettle. “Fine.”

  Denny stopped in the kitchen doorway. “Yeah. I know what ‘fine’ means. It means I haven’t heard the last of this yet.”

  Josh stared at us, hands full of sandwich makings. “You two need a time-out?”

  “Mind your own business, buster.” I turned off the stove, marched out of the kitchen, and headed for the bedroom.

  “So much for yachad!” Denny yelled after me.

  I slammed the bedroom door behind me. Hot tears stung my eyes. What did he mean by that? That he wasn’t going to vote for the name I suggested for the church, just because I didn’t want to go out tonight? How mean was that!

  Shedding my nylons, skirt, and sweater, I crawled under our wedding quilt in my slip and punched the pillow into submission. How did Denny and I end up fighting five minutes after coming home from church? Yeah, I’d been kind of nervous to nominate a name for the church . . . but nobody got upset at me. The pastors suggested we have a preliminary paper vote between all the names in two weeks, then a discussion and final vote of the top two at our next business meeting. That was cool. So why did I get all hot and bothered the minute we got home from church?

  I had no idea. Still, it had already been a long day. Maybe I just needed a nap.

  But as I lay in the bed, willing my churned up emotions to calm down, I heard Denny’s comment again in my head: “So much for yachad!” . . . and I boiled up all over again, mad tears wetting the pillow. Maybe I had been short with Denny, but that was downright mean.

  Jodi, My child. Are you sure? Denny may be a lot of things—but mean?

  I listened. Was the Holy Spirit talking to me? I mean, it was like a thought in my head, and yet . . . more than a thought. Something deeper down, nudging my spirit.

  It was true. Whatever faults Denny had—huh! Clueless came to mind—“mean” wasn’t one of them. So what was he implying?

  Now I was wide awake. I got out of bed, pulled on a robe, and quietly opened the door. Competing music came from behind Amanda’s and Josh’s closed bedroom doors. Down the hall, I could hear the TV . . .

  I snuck into the dining room, found my Sunday tote bag I used to carry my Bible and other stuff, and pulled out one of the sheets I’d photocopied. “Yachad . . . together in unity . . . in one accord.”

  My eyes teared up again. That’s what Denny meant. So much for ‘together in unity’ . . . so much for being ‘in one accord.’ ” Touché. Yeah, it hurt—but he was right.

  Darn it. I sighed. Why was I the one who always had to say I’m sorry? On the other hand, wasn’t I learning that “I’m sorry” and “Please forgive me” were steps toward healing and freedom? The sooner the better, before we made mountains out of molehills.

  I sucked up my pride and headed for the living room.

  DENNY NOT ONLY FORGAVE ME (as I knew he would), but said we could have a night “in,” make something yummy like quesadillas after Amanda went to youth group, and just watch TV together. But as it turned out, every single station—we didn’t have cable—was running specials on the “Presidential Primaries 2004” kicking off in high gear. Channel 2 . . . 5 . . . 7 . . . 11 . . . all blabbing opinions about the chances of the president’s reelection. Followed by cozy magazine formats on the various candidates’ backgrounds and dissecting their political careers (or lack thereof). Commentators nodded soberly at their monitors showing reporters in the field, following presidential wannabes like rock-star groupies. We even tried channels 32, 38, and 50, but only got a rerun of The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, some big-haired TV evangelist I’d never heard of striding around a platform, and a motivational speaker talking about turning your money into millions. Yeah, right.

  Denny finally jumped in the car and rented a video. We both fell asleep on the couch and had no idea how the movie ended, waking only when Amanda came in after being dropped off after youth group. Well, at least Denny and I had zoned out “in one accord.”

  If the kickoff of the presidential primaries had taken over our Sunday evening, it consumed the teachers’ lounge at Mary MacLeod Bethune Elementary that week. No yachad here, though. A couple of the staff bellyached loudly about the current administration, complained about the war in Iraq dragging on when we’d been promised the US would be “in and out,” and enumerated a long list of election promises from 2000, which still eluded fulfillment. A few defended the president. Most of us kept our mouths shut. In fact, I did my brave Jodi Baxter thing—I began avoiding the teachers’ lounge altogether. Maybe I could return when the election was over next November.

  Florida called me Tuesday evening while I was recording math homework scores in my grade book. “Jodi? Girl, I got a big favor to ask ya.”

  My mind was still calculating scores. Lamar is falling too far behind . . . I need to get him some extra help . . . “Uh, sure, Flo. What’s up?”

  “Chris got a hearing tomorrow down at the JDC, know what I mean? Smuckers, the new lawyer Peter Douglass lined up for us, he gonna try and get the charges thrown out. Says Chris don’t have no priors, was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. All the other perps are two, three years older; the perp who pulled the job is gonna get tried as an adult. Smuckers says it’s a long shot, but he wants to keep Chris out of adult court at all c
osts. This would be a prelim hearing; if it don’t work out, then they schedule a hearing to decide whether he gets tried as a juvie or an adult.”

  She had my attention now. “Oh, Flo. Want me to get the Yada Yadas praying? I could send out an e-mail, make some calls—”

  “Well, yeah. That too. But what I wanna ask is, can Carla come home from school with you tomorrow? The hearing’s at two—but regardless of what happens, Smuckers says he wants to meet with Carl and me afterward. We both takin’ the afternoon off work. Don’t know when we get done. I’d feel better if I knew Carla had someplace ta go.”

  I hesitated. Teachers weren’t supposed to take kids home—for obvious reasons. But given my personal relationship with Florida, this wasn’t exactly a normal situation. How could I not be there for my friend? “Uh, sure! Not a problem.”

  Should I let the office know what was going on? Like, do it officially? I decided no. I’d write Avis a note and leave it in her box to cover my butt.

  WHICH IS HOW Carla Hickman ended up at my house Wednesday after school, cooing over Willie Wonka while I made hot chocolate. Wonka, stretched out on the floor by the window radiator in the dining room, patiently put up with the child kissing his nose, stroking his silky ears, and yelling into the kitchen, “Isn’t Willie Wonka a boy dog? How come he got those nipple things on his belly?”

  I took two mugs of instant hot chocolate out of the microwave and brought them into the dining room. Carla hopped onto a chair and took a sip. “Eww. It’s too hot!”

  “Sorry ’bout that. I’ll put some cold milk in it.”

  Carla seemed satisfied with the cooled-down chocolate but eyed me over the rim of her mug, her three wiry ponytails peeking out top and sides. “Got any cookies? My other mama always had cookies to go with hot chocolate.”