The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Rolling

by Neta Jackson

  The Douglasses had no sooner left than a Salvation Army van squeezed past the police barricades. A man and three women in navy blue uniforms quietly and efficiently carried in armloads of colorful fleece blankets, baskets of sweet rolls, jugs of hot coffee, and boxes overflowing with sweatshirts, hats, mittens, socks, children’s boots, and adult gym shoes. In one way or another, all of us got fitted with something to keep body and soul together for the next few hours.

  The clock on the wall said 2:45. My eyes burned with unshed tears.

  While the Salvation Army people were gathering names, ages, and contact information for any relatives in the local area from the Manna House residents, Pastor Clark showed up, rail thin even in his bulky parka and big rubber boots. He asked no questions, just said, “The church van is around the corner. I can take fourteen people. Several other church members with minivans are coming. The Cobbses are over at the church, making calls and collecting blankets, food, and air mattresses.”

  I wanted to throw my arms around Pastor Clark and hug him. But Denny arrived, ashen-faced, unshaven. He looked terrible. He looked wonderful. He held me a long time. “You okay, babe?” he whispered into my hair. “You sure?” I nodded my head against his chest but couldn’t speak.

  Finally, he gently pushed me away. “Let me go see Josh, okay?”

  I nodded again. For the first time I noticed Josh sitting in one of the ugly plastic chairs, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. Denny sat down next to him, stretched an arm across his son’s bent shoulders, then . . . just sat without speaking. My heart ached as I watched my two men sharing a silent pain.

  Edesa didn’t sit. She joined Pastor Clark as he made his way from person to person, touching one. Hugging a child. Whispering something to another.

  But within the next half hour, several other members from Uptown–New Morning Church arrived with minivans and SUVs, lined up just outside the barricades. Josh, Edesa, Karen, and I managed to park our feelings and assigned small groups of women and kids to the various cars, agreeing all would meet at the church building in the Howard Street shopping center. Rev. Handley said she’d stay with the Manna House residents until they got situated. Pastor Clark promised to stay in touch with the Salvation Army people, and we moved amoebalike out of the safety of the twenty-four-hour Laundromat into the night.

  Most of the women, dead tired, wrapped in blankets and assorted sweatshirts, plodded silently behind their assigned driver toward the cars. But, like Lot’s wife, I turned and looked back at the smoldering remains of Manna House. The stained-glass windows were broken. Smoke had blackened the outside bricks and still rose in stubborn ribbons from holes chopped into the roof. Leaking water from the hydrant and drips from the broken windows were turning into ghostly icicles. The wide sidewalk, steps into the church, and the front of the church itself glistened like sheets of ice.

  Unlike Lot’s wife, I didn’t turn into a pillar of salt. But the image of the shelter—shattered, broken, no longer a refuge—burned itself into my spirit, especially as Precious and Sabrina, and Mikey, Jeremy, and Margo climbed into our Caravan for the trip up an empty Lake Shore Drive toward Howard Street. From somewhere in my memory, the words of the psalmist floated to my lips. “God is our refuge and strength,” I murmured. “Our ever-present help in trouble.”

  “I know that one,” Precious said from the back. “My grandma used ta say it. ‘God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore, we will not fear, though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea. Though the waters roar, though the mountains shake . . .’ Somethin’ like that.”

  “Huh,” Margo muttered from the third seat. “Don’t say nothin’ ’bout no fire.”

  “Yeah, but there’s another one. Lord, Lord, my grandma knew ’em all! Somethin’ ’bout passin’ through the waters—”

  “I said fire,” Margo grumbled. “An’ keep it down. Mikey’s asleep.”

  Precious was not deterred. “I’m gettin’ there. Mr. Denny, you know what one I’m getting’ at?”

  Denny kept his eyes on the drive as the tall streetlights passed over us like gentle waves. But I saw the tightness in his face soften slightly. “Uh, think so. The one that goes, ‘When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow you . . .’ ” He glanced at me, as if asking for help.

  Now I knew the scripture Precious was remembering. “ ‘When you walk through the fire, you shall not be burned, nor shall the flames kindle upon you. For I am the Lord your God . . .’ ”

  “Yeah.” Precious blew out a long sigh. “That’s the one.”

  PASTOR JOE COBBS and First Lady Rose cheerfully welcomed the stream of homeless women and children as if the shopping center church were always open at five in the morning with the temperatures outside hovering at fifteen degrees. A small crew of volunteers—I saw both Uptown and New Morning people among them—had stacked up the chairs in the large meeting room, and assorted “beds” had already been laid out. More blankets and air mattresses were in some of the back rooms used as Sunday school rooms. “Get some sleep,” Rose Cobbs urged the bedraggled band, giving hugs to as many women and children as time allowed. “We’ll be back at nine o’clock with breakfast.”

  Oh yes, God. Sleep . . . Suddenly I felt as if all my body parts might disconnect and clatter to the floor if I didn’t lie down somewhere.

  Pastor Cobbs pushed the church keys into Josh’s hand and herded the drivers and other volunteers out the door. I hesitated. Rev. Handley was spreading blankets on the floor as a makeshift bed for herself. Should I leave? Could I live with myself if I did? After all, my twenty-four-hour volunteer stint wasn’t up yet. But Pastor Cobbs tapped a finger on Denny’s chest. “Brother Baxter, take your wife home. Reverend Handley, Josh, and Sister Reyes can stay with these people. But you’ll both be more helpful sorting things out for these women if you go home and get some sleep.”

  I didn’t protest. I didn’t even look back this time as I numbly shuffled behind Denny across the icy parking lot to the car. But when I crawled into the front seat and Denny turned the heater on full blast for the one-mile trip to our house on Lunt Street, I cried all the way home.

  13

  Willie Wonka nosed my hand and whined. Blearily, I opened one eye and tried to focus on the bedside clock. Eight-thirty . . . Eight-thirty! No wonder Wonka was whining. I slid out of bed, groped for Denny’s robe, and followed the dog to the back door, my eyes at slit-level, hoping I could remain half-asleep and fall back into bed.

  Then it hit me. Rose Cobbs would be showing up at the church with breakfast for the fire victims at nine o’clock. I should be there. After all, I wasn’t the only one short on sleep. And Josh . . . how is he doing? Did he get any sleep at all? I’d hardly spoken more than a few sentences to my son since the fire alarm went off. Frankly, I’d let him and Edesa shoulder the primary responsibility for the Manna House residents.

  A pitiful whine from outside broke up my reverie. Stuffing my feet into a pair of clogs by the back door, I darted outside into air so brittle it felt like it would break and hauled the arthritic dog up the icy back steps and into the house. Then I stumbled toward the bathroom mumbling, “Sleep can come later . . . sleep can come later.” But I had to admit, I felt worse now than I did before I fell into bed three hours ago.

  A shower and a strong cup of coffee helped a little. But I pulled on my sweats from the night before. No way was I going to dress up for church. I was tempted to just take the car and let Denny and Amanda come later with Stu. But a call upstairs nixed that idea. Stu was headed out the door herself to pick up Little Andy Wallace on Chicago’s west side.

  Sheesh. She’s still doing that? Why hasn’t she asked—

  “What’s going on?” Stu demanded. I told her in twenty-five words or less. “A fire at Manna House! Why didn’t you call me?”

  “Later, Stu,” I mumbled and hung up.

  Reluctantly, I
woke Denny and offered to come back and pick him up, but he gamely got out of bed. He even woke up Amanda with the promise that all she had to do was throw on her sweats. Fifteen minutes later, we all piled into the car with travel mugs of coffee—though we had to wait while Amanda doctored hers with lots of milk and sugar. “Cool,” she said. “Wish we could dress like this every Sunday.”

  Her eyes widened when we pulled up in the shopping center parking lot and she saw the crowd of homeless women and children milling around inside the big open room we used as a sanctuary. True to their word, Pastor Joe and Rose Cobbs, along with Debra and Sherman Meeks, were handing out bagels with cream cheese, jam, hardboiled eggs, apple, and orange juice, while a crowd-size pot of coffee perked away in a corner. Several of the young children were still sleeping on blanket pallets in spite of the chatter among the adults, while others were sitting up and rubbing their eyes as bright daylight streamed into the room from the bank of windows along the front.

  The director of Manna House, still grim-faced, and a representative from the Salvation Army were huddled in a far corner with Pastor Clark, comparing lists, frowning. Two women in Salvation Army uniforms were opening boxes of donated clothing and passing out jeans, sweats, tops, sweaters, and socks.

  Taking her cue from Edesa, who was taking some of the children to the bathroom, Amanda pitched right in with the kids—getting them washed up, sitting them down with bagels and juice, cracking the hardboiled eggs while making little jokes. I greeted Precious and Estelle with a hug, then assigned myself to serving coffee as soon as the big pot stopped gurgling.

  Josh was nowhere to be seen.

  I snagged Edesa, but she shook her head. A moment later, little Mikey tugged on my sweatshirt. “You lookin’ for Mr. Josh?” He pointed toward the parking lot. “He said he goin’ for a walk.”

  Wearing what? I thought. He’d run out of the burning building with no shirt and bare feet. The last I’d seen him, he was still wearing the old man’s coat and shoes . . .

  We were still cleaning up after breakfast when people began arriving for our usual ten o’clock worship service. Mattresses and blankets still dotted the floor, the chairs had not been set up, and the room was full of strange women and children in an assortment of rumpled nightclothes.

  “Come in, come in!” Pastor Cobbs beckoned the bewildered members of our Needing-a-New-Name Church into the warmth of the big room. “Grab a chair and a cup of coffee, or sit on the floor. Church is going to be somewhat different this morning.”

  The sound crew and musicians cleared a little area at the back and the front of the room for their equipment—and with extra hands, it didn’t take long to stack the mattresses and blankets along one wall. The women and children from Manna House looked a bit overwhelmed as the room filled with men in suits and ties and women in dressy coats and high-heeled boots. Mothers drew their children close.

  As folding chairs were set up at random, Pastor Cobbs took a handheld mic and explained the emergency situation as briefly as possible. “What we have here, brothers and sisters, is an opportunity for us to worship God not only in spirit but in truth. Let the Word of God speak for itself.” He flipped open his Bible and searched for a passage. “In the Gospel of Luke, chapter three, John the Baptist said, ‘Every tree that does not produce good fruit will be cut down and thrown into the fire.’ So the people asked him, ‘What shall we do then?’ He answered and said to them, ‘He who has two tunics’—make that two coats—‘let him give to the one who has none; and he who has food, let him do likewise.’ ” More page flipping. “And in the book of Romans, chapter twelve, the apostle Paul said, ‘Share with God’s people who are in need. Practice hospitality.’ ”

  Pastor Cobbs looked up from his Bible, and made his way to where Margo was sitting with Mikey in her lap. He lifted the little boy—still in his pajamas—into his arms. “But maybe the most important word of all was spoken by Jesus. ‘Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for Me.’ ”

  Sherman Meeks stood up. “All right, Pastor. Say it now.”

  Pastor Cobbs let Mikey get down. “Thank you, Brother Meeks. What we need, church, are temporary homes for these women and children until the Salvation Army or another shelter can find a more permanent place for them. But while you’re thinking about that, we’re going to thank the Lord God Almighty—”

  “Hallelujah! Oh, thank You, Jesus!” At first, I thought it was Florida, but then I saw Estelle on her feet, still in her nightgown with a worn sweater over it, arms lifted in praise and tears running down her cheeks.

  Pastor Cobbs’s voice caught. “That’s right, sister. Let’s thank the Lord God Almighty for all His goodness and mercy in saving every single life from that fire last night. Praise team, can you do ‘We Bring a Sacrifice of Praise’?”

  As voices joined in a hearty rendition of, “We bring a sacrifice of praise into the house of the Lord!” I saw Josh slip inside the double doors, blowing on his bare hands. I sidled over to him and slipped an arm around his waist. He was shivering.

  I could’ve kicked myself. Why didn’t I bring some of his warm clothes from home? Socks! Boots! Gloves! His own coat, for heaven’s sake. Under cover of the music, I whispered, “Josh, honey. You’re freezing. Let me take you home—”

  He shook his head and pulled away from me. He looked down at his sockless feet, stuffed into the old, scuffed shoes. Then he said in a hoarse whisper, “The old man . . . I took his jacket and shoes. How . . .” His lip twitched. “How am I ever going to find him to give them back?”

  BY THE TIME OUR UNUSUAL “WORSHIP SERVICE” was over, a table had been set up where Pastor Clark, Major Lewis from the Salvation Army, and Liz Handley coordinated the matching process, assigning Manna House residents to the homes of various church members. Denny and I agreed to take Precious and her daughter Sabrina. Stu, grinning, said she’d take Estelle. Rochelle and Conny, of course, were already with Avis and Peter, who didn’t make it to church that morning. Who could blame them?

  I was surprised, though, when the Hickmans agreed to take Margo and her two boys. I pulled her aside. “Flo! You guys don’t have to do this. With what you’re going through with Chris, don’t you guys have enough on your plate?”

  “Like nobody else does? Look, girl, we got us an empty bedroom now, don’t we? And them two little boys, they don’t have nothin’. ’Sides, Becky Wallace said they mama could bunk up with her.”

  I backed off, feeling like I’d just had my mouth washed out with soap.

  All the host families were told to remember that Manna House had been a “safe house” for several of these women and our homes needed to function in the same way. “Do not talk publicly with your coworkers or neighbors, even your extended families, about who you are hosting,” Rev. Handley said. “Do not take any phone calls for your guests except from Major Lewis, Pastor Clark, or myself. If you have questions, feel free to call me at any time on my cell. One of us will let you know as soon as we have found more permanent shelter for the Manna House residents—hopefully within the week. If you have e-mail, we will send a daily report about our progress.”

  Josh insisted on taking Edesa home after dropping us off at home. I figured they needed to debrief after the stressful events of the past twelve hours, but he was home sooner than I expected. He seemed relieved that his sister had already given up her room for Precious and Sabrina, turned down the sandwiches we’d thrown together for lunch, and disappeared into his room.

  “I think we all need a nap,” Denny said.

  I lay beside Denny in the darkened bedroom, feeling awkward with strangers under my roof. I envied Stu and her guest room upstairs, beautifully decorated in muted green and rose. All we had was Amanda’s bedroom, which looked like a geometric black-and-yellow puzzle with one thousand loose pieces, though at least I was able to put clean sheets on the double bed.

  Today’s the last Sunday of January . . . thank goodness Yada Yada isn’t meeting on t
he fourth Sunday anymore! . . . but something was supposed to happen today . . . can’t remember what . . . Oh, yeah.

  “We didn’t take the paper vote.”

  “Huh? What paper vote?” Denny’s voice was muffled by his pillow.

  “For the church name. We were going to take a paper vote today to narrow it down. Final vote at the next business meeting.”

  Denny raised his head an inch from the pillow, eyed me with a look that suggested I’d just entered a not-guilty-because-of-insanity plea, and turned over.

  I GOT UP AT FIVE, worried that I wouldn’t get any sleep that night if I napped too long. Under other circumstances, I would have told my family “you’re on your own” for supper, but with two guests, I ransacked the cupboards and threw canned beans, chopped vegetables, a can of tomatoes, and macaroni into a soup pot that was supposed to resemble minestrone.

  Precious, dressed in her “new” clothes from the Salvation Army boxes, raved over the soup, as chatty and bubbly as if there’d been no fire the night before. But Sabrina kept her eyes down, stirring the soup with her spoon and mostly nibbling crackers. She cringed warily every time Willie Wonka wandered through the dining room. I finally had to shut the dog in our bedroom.

  “Um . . . what grade are you in, Sabrina?” Amanda asked.

  “Ninth. But . . .” Sabrina shrugged. “Ain’t got no school clothes now. An’ don’ know how I’d get there.”

  “Maybe you could wear something of mine.” Amanda eyed her enviously. “Though you’re smaller than me, lucky you.”

  Lucky you? I hoped the irony was lost on Sabrina.

  “Hey! Let’s go shopping tonight.” Amanda brightened. “I’ve got some babysitting money—we could get one outfit at least. If we went to Target or A. J. Wright, anyway.” She turned on Denny. “See why I need my license, Dad? Then you wouldn’t have to drive us!”