The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Rolling

by Neta Jackson

  My snit melted. I even felt ashamed. Why had I gotten so aggravated, assuming that if I didn’t do it, nobody would? But we really did need a birthday maven to make sure somebody was on top of the Yada Yada birthdays. I’d bring it up at Yada Yada tonight—

  I smiled and shook my head. There you go again, Jodi!

  Denny was laid back about me going off to Yada Yada Sunday evening. We’d had a great time the night before—went out to dinner at the Davis Street Fish Market in Evanston, tried not to talk about all the trials of various Yada Yada sisters, spent way too much money (“It’s Jamaica Jerk Café next time,” Denny groused goodnaturedly), and laughed at my squeamish attempt to eat one of the oysters he’d ordered. We ended the evening with some behind-closed-doors hanky-panky, given that Amanda had a late-night babysitting job and Josh was “out.”

  I hitched a ride to Yada Yada with Stu, who seemed kind of quiet on the way over to Hickmans. Dirty ice and snow humped in ugly patches along the streets. It was time for a fresh snowfall to brighten up winter’s gray rags. “You okay?” I said.

  She shrugged. “Just tired. I might leave early. We’ll see.”

  We arrived at the little frame house before Nony and Hoshi got there. But Becky Wallace beckoned us furtively into the Hickmans’ narrow kitchen. A baby carrier on the floor contained baby Havah, sound asleep just under a pretty bakery cake on the counter. But Yo-Yo, Ruth, and Florida were crowded around a box lid on the other counter. My eyes widened. Sitting in the box lid were at least a dozen exquisite origami shapes folded from bright colored paper. A star, a butterfly, a rose, an owl . . .

  “Hoshi smuggled ’em to me after church,” Flo said. “Said we were supposed to each pick one and sign it for Nony.”

  “Hey. I like that frog on a lily pad.” Yo-Yo picked it up. “Do we hafta give ’em all to Nony? Man, this is cool.”

  “Don’t be a shmo, Yo-Yo,” Ruth sniffed. “Sign the frog.” She lifted the paper butterfly from the box. “This one I like. I will sign it from Havah and Isaac, one name on each wing.”

  Chanda called while others were still arriving. “All three of her kids got the flu,” Flo announced when she hung up. “She said Adele ain’t gonna make it either. MaDear’s got the flu too. They had to put her in the hospital. Worried about pneumonia.”

  The prayer list for tonight was getting longer.

  But Nony, wearing a blue-and-gold tunic over a black turtleneck and wide, black pants, was utterly delighted with the origami shapes and touched that we had remembered her birthday. I eyed Avis. Ha. If it weren’t for Hoshi, we’d be up a creek without a paddle. I was touched by Hoshi’s unselfish spirit, providing a gift for all of us to give Nony.

  “So, Nony. How old are you? I wanna be like you when I grow up.” Yo-Yo was serious. Ruth rolled her eyes and stuck a pacifier in Havah’s mouth.

  “I am thirty-eight this week,” Nony admitted in her cultured South African accent. “Do you think I will know what I am supposed to do with my life by the time I am forty years?” Her tone was light, but I suspected her words betrayed a trace of frustration. Six months of playing nursemaid to her husband recovering from head trauma had sapped some of her fire.

  After demolishing the bakery cake, we tromped upstairs to Becky Wallace’s studio apartment at the back of the Hickmans’ house. The two rooms—combination kitchen/living area plus a bedroom with a single bed for Becky and a youth bed for Little Andy—were somewhat bare but neat and clean. The closet-size bathroom even had a scented candle burning on the sink. Stu poked me and muttered in my ear, “Maybe she picked up some household tips living with me after all, you think?” Avis brought out her anointing oil, and we prayed that God would fill the apartment with His love, His laughter, His protection, His hope. The prayers didn’t take long, but Becky sniffled and had to blow her nose.

  Half our time was gone already, but back downstairs Avis led us in singing, “ Jesus, Your Name is Power.” I was gripped by the words, “Jesus, Your name will break every stronghold . . .”

  We all sat quietly after the song, each one probably grappling with the words. Did I really believe Jesus had the power to break strongholds? Free every captive? Give life?

  To my surprise, Avis broke the silence. “I’ve been singing this song in my heart all day,” she said, “holding on to the words. Because, I confess, Satan seems to have established a stronghold in my family that threatens to devastate us.”

  Ten pairs of eyes stared at her.

  “I . . . did ask Rochelle’s permission to tell you this, but I’d like to ask that it not leave the room.” And then Avis said it, flat out. “Rochelle has been diagnosed with HIV.”

  Shock and disbelief registered on every face, like freeze-frame photography. But Nony literally lifted right out of her seat, hands clenched toward the ceiling. “Nooo!” she wailed. “No! No! No!” Then she burst into tears.

  10

  I was startled by Nony’s outburst, even though I’d had the same inner reaction when I first heard the news. But she practically flew to Avis, fell to her knees, and grasped Avis’s hands in her own. “Oh, my sister! The devil is afoot, stealing the health of our own daughters, right under our noses. It is her husband, yes?”

  Avis, slightly taken aback, nodded silently.

  “O God, how long will the wicked be jubilant? They pour out arrogant words! Evildoers are full of boasting!” Nony’s head was thrown back, eyes tightly closed, even as she still kneeled in front of Avis. I knew she had to be praying one of the psalms, but I didn’t know which one. “They crush Your people, O Lord! They oppress Your inheritance—even one of our own precious daughters! They slay the widow and the alien; they murder the fatherless. They say, ‘The Lord does not see; the God of Jacob pays no heed.’ ”

  The rest of us reached out for one another’s hands, making a circle as she prayed.

  “O Lord God who avenges, shine forth! Rise up, O Judge of the earth; pay back to the proud what they deserve.” With this, Nony’s chin fell to her chest. She seemed spent. After a few moments, she got to her feet and returned to her chair. She looked around the circle. “Forgive me, my sisters. But you know that AIDS is killing my people in South Africa at a terrible rate, leaving thousands of orphans. It has troubled my spirit for years, and I have often felt God calling me to respond in some way. But Rochelle . . . Oh Jesus, Jesus, have mercy.” Tears rolled down her smooth cheeks. “It is as if a spear has pierced my own child, child of my own body. That beautiful girl . . . Oh Jesus.”

  Avis’s calm had been rattled by Nony’s intense emotion, and she dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.

  We moved on with our meeting, gathering prayer requests and covering each other with prayer and words of encouragement from Scripture. But as we hugged each other goodnight, I noticed that Nony’s eyes had a new fire in them. If I had to guess, the call of God on her life was roaring in her ears.

  AMANDA WAS ON THE PHONE in the kitchen when I got home, still wearing her jacket after getting home from youth group. “Why not?” she was saying. “It’s a holiday! . . . José! You played with your father’s mariachi band on Saturday! Why do you have to do it again tomor—” She rolled her eyes, leaning against the doorjamb between kitchen and dining room as she listened, totally ignoring me as I squeezed past. “So? That’s in the evening! We could do something earlier in the day—go roller-skating or something . . . What? . . . Practice! What do you need to practice for! . . . Fine! Fine!” Amanda slammed the phone into the wall set and stormed past me, heading for her room.

  The door slam shook the whole house.

  Denny poked his head into the dining room, where I was still standing with my coat on. “What was that?”

  “Uh, a fight with José, I think. Did you pick her up from youth group?”

  “Yeah. We just got home ten minutes ago. She was fine.”

  I sighed. Seemed like Amanda had inherited my ability to go from zero to eighty mood-wise when it came to reacting to the men in our lives.

&
nbsp; I decided to ignore my daughter’s little tiff. Let them work it out. I was tired. What I wanted to do was crawl into bed, turn on the electric blanket—if we had one, which we didn’t; a hot water bottle would have to do—and read myself to sleep on a cold winter night. It was supposed to get down to seven degrees tonight. Even if it was a school holiday the next day, thanks to Dr. King . . .

  But as I lay in bed, feet propped on the hot water bottle under the covers, trying to concentrate on my novel, I rather regretted that Amanda hadn’t been able to talk José into going roller-skating tomorrow. I used to love to roller-skate—the “good Christian girl” alternative to going to dances when I was growing up. I’d gotten pretty good too. Skating backward, leaning around the corners, waltzing with my partner . . .

  I smiled. Maybe I could talk Denny into going skating sometime. Wondered if Amanda and José would come with us . . . maybe Josh and Edesa too . . .

  I closed my book. Okay, that was weird. Triple dating with your own teenagers.

  Nah.

  MAYBE IT WAS BECAUSE we only had four school days that week. Maybe it was because the president gave his State of the Union address on Tuesday, heating up the opinions dividing the school staff into liberal, moderate, conservative, or head-in-the-sand. Maybe it was because I had a lot on my mind, worried about my friends who seemed to have a lot on their plates. Not just Florida with her boy locked up on charges of armed robbery—and he hadn’t even done the robbery! . . . Not just Avis, learning that her own precious daughter had been diagnosed with HIV . . . but Adele, too, worried about her ailing mother, who already suffered from dementia and was now in the hospital with pneumonia . . .

  Whatever it was that stole my attention, suddenly it was Saturday. The fourth Saturday of January. The day I’d agreed to be an overnight volunteer at Manna House.

  Hoo boy. I wasn’t ready.

  “Mom.” Josh eyed me over the rim of his glass of orange juice as he slouched in the kitchen, backside propped against the counter, legs crossed at the ankle like an urban cowboy, arms folded except for the hand holding the glass. “It’s going to be fine. You’ll love it. The kids are great. Besides, the staff will give you a tour and an orientation the first time you volunteer.”

  “Uh-huh.” I opened cupboards, doing a quick inventory so I could make a shopping list for Denny and Amanda. “Twenty-four hours, you say?”

  “Well, give or take. They usually let us off a couple of hours early Sunday morning so we can get to church . . . There, see?” He slapped the counter. “The shelter needs a van so we can bring some of the women and kids to church! Know anybody who has a van they’d like to donate? They could get a tax write-off.”

  Had to admire Josh’s dedication to Manna House. How my nineteen-year-old son got so immersed at a women’s shelter still seemed odd to me. Although . . . Edesa Reyes had changed her college major to public health last year, and Manna House, a new and struggling shelter on Chicago’s north side, was crying out for public health volunteers. And where Edesa was, you could pretty well count on Josh showing up too.

  Oh Lord, I prayed silently as I stuffed sweats for sleeping, slacks and a sweater for Sunday, and my toothbrush into my backpack. I hope You’ve got that “first love” thing under control. At Josh’s suggestion, I left all jewelry except for my wedding ring at home, along with my wallet and purse, tucking only my driver’s license and ten bucks into my jeans pocket.

  At least Josh was going with me. He and Edesa and one of the other new volunteers—Karen from church—were also scheduled for this weekend. We nobly took the elevated train down to Belmont so Denny could have the car. Correction, I thought, shivering inside my winter jacket while we waited on the platform at the Morse Avenue el station. Denny already has the car over at school, leaving me no choice.

  I was a bit taken aback when Josh said, “Well, this is it,” after getting off at the Belmont el stop and walking four or five blocks. We stood in front of a small, rather dilapidated, brick church building shoehorned between two larger buildings, complete with ancient stained-glass windows and a short steeple, badly in need of paint.

  “Wow,” I said. “You didn’t tell me Manna House was housed in a church. Do they still—”

  “Nope. Congregation moved out to the suburbs years ago. Some little Missionary Baptist Church met here for several years, I’m told, but it was mostly elderly people who couldn’t meet the mortgage payments, so the bank foreclosed. Not sure how Manna House got hold of it.”

  Beside the warped and damaged wooden doors hung a church sign—the kind you could slide letters in to post worship times or change the name of the sermon each Sunday. Blank. “There’s no sign that says Manna House. How would anyone know—”

  “Because it’s a safe house, Mom. We don’t exactly want to advertise to every Tom, Dick, and Harry. C’mon.” Josh took my arm and steered me around to a side door, located in a little gangway that measured five feet at best between the church and the ugly brick building next to it, which housed at quick glance a Korean grocery, a Pay-Day Loan, and a twenty-four-hour Laundromat on the street level, topped by five floors of apartments. Who in the world would do their laundry at three in the morning?

  We went down five steps into a small stairwell, where Josh tapped a numeric code into the automatic lock and then opened the door. In spite of the almost clandestine entryway, I was pleasantly surprised by the brightly lit basement room, even more delighted by the bright, colorful walls—orange, yellow, and blue. A Christmas tree that had seen better days dominated one corner of the room, decorated with dozens of handmade decorations and strings of mismatched lights. Nearby, a teenage girl and two smaller boys—all African-American—played a noisy game of Ping-Pong. Several cozy sitting areas had been created with overstuffed couches, armchairs, and braided rugs, none of which matched, while another corner functioned as an office or reception area, complete with a large desk, computer, two large file drawers, and an overflowing wastebasket.

  The young woman sitting at the desk looked up. “Jodi Baxter! Hola!” Edesa Reyes scurried from behind the desk to give me a big hug. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Josh beaming at her. No wonder. Edesa’s wide smile lit up her whole face, like gemstones laid out on velvety soft mahogany. As usual, her ebony curls bounced behind a sunny headband of three-inch cloth, tied at the base of her neck.

  Edesa’s eyes danced. “We are so excited to have you join our volunteers! And I get to give you the tour and the orientation.” She motioned to the Ping-Pong players. “Mikey! Jeremy! Come here! I want you to meet someone. You too, Sabrina.”

  The two boys put down their paddles and ran over. The girl followed more slowly, seemingly indifferent, but she said hello, then flopped on one of the couches and flipped open an ancient issue of Allure magazine. But the boys, maybe eight and nine, tugged on Edesa’s hands. “Let us give her the tour, Miz ’Desa!”

  The younger boy, Mikey, looked suspiciously up at Josh. “Is that lady really your mama, Mr. Josh?”

  “I dunno,” he said with a straight face. “She and the guy she’s married to let me sleep at their house, though.”

  I backhanded his shoulder. “Watch it, buddy.”

  The two boys nodded at each other knowingly. “Yeah, she his mama,” they chorused in tandem.

  Josh disappeared somewhere, lugging a bucket with tools in it, while Edesa and the two chatty boys gave me a tour of the building. Another brightly painted basement room was set up as a playroom, with tables and small chairs, large pads of newsprint clipped to painting easels, dolls and doll furniture, several potty chairs, and shelves of toys. Two heavyset white women with frowzy hair chatted in a corner while several children bounced around the room.

  We passed an office door—locked—marked “Director,” peeked into a kitchen where three women, two Latina and one black, were doing dishes at one end of the room, and another was wiping tables—six long ones with four chairs along each side.

  “How many residents do you have?�
�� I asked Edesa.

  “Right now, twenty women and about that many niños.”

  Where are they all? I wondered as the boys led us up some narrow stairs to the main floor. We peeked into the sanctuary, which was just that—a small sanctuary, complete with pews, platform, and a pulpit. In the dim light that made its way through the dusky stained-glass windows, I saw the shadowy form of someone sitting in a far pew.

  “We use this as a prayer room,” Edesa whispered. “Women can come here to be quiet, get away from the common rooms. We have a prayer meeting on Saturday mornings, and sometimes a music group or drama troupe lead worship service on Sunday evenings. No one could bear to turn it into a dormitory.”

  But finally we did get to the sleeping rooms both on the sanctuary floor and the second floor—what were once Sunday school rooms, I presumed, now containing six to eight bunks each. Edesa introduced me to every woman and child whose path we crossed, and I was greeted for the most part by friendly smiles. Nametags would be helpful, I thought ruefully, knowing I’d never remember all the names. Well, I’d just have to suck it up and keep asking until I learned a few. Mikey and Jeremy and Sabrina . . . at least that was a start.

  Back in the basement common room, the two boys grabbed both my hands. “C’mon, Miz Jodi, play Ping-Pong with us!”

  Edesa laughed. “Go ahead. We can show you where you’ll sleep later.”

  I let the boys drag me away, but I called back over my shoulder, “I didn’t see Rochelle. Is she here?”

  Edesa looked at a sign-out book on the desk. “She’s out. Avis often comes down on Saturday and they do lunch or go shopping or something with Conny.” She gave me a meaningful look. “Rochelle’s kind of fragile right now, because of . . . well, you know.”