The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Rolling

by Neta Jackson

  Her father waggled his eyebrows. “You know the drill, kiddo. Finish driver’s training, come up with your share of the insurance, then you get your license.”

  “What about youth group tonight?” I asked. “Maybe Sabrina would like to go.”

  Sabrina shook her head emphatically even before I finished. Amanda rolled her eyes. “Don’t sweat it, Mom. Come on, Sabrina. I’ll find you something to wear to the store.”

  Shopping. Huh. Why didn’t I think of that? Surely Precious could use some more clothes—underwear, at least. “Precious, do you want to go with—?”

  “Nah. Let them two go. Maybe ’nother day.” She watched the girls disappear. “She sweet, your Amanda.”

  “Mm. She can be. Would you like some more soup?”

  14

  The girls came home with a pair of fashion-faded jeans, bikini underwear, a bra, two clingy tops, and two pairs of socks. Denny pleaded no contest. “Uh, no way was I going to hang around women’s intimate apparel.”

  “Dad got the shoes, though,” Amanda said, giving him a hug. She didn’t seem the least bothered that she’d just spent all her babysitting cash.

  But as it turned out, Precious decided not to send Sabrina to school the next morning until she talked to Rev. Handley about train fare and figured out the route. Couldn’t blame her. I’d probably do the same thing in her shoes. Still, I felt uncomfortable going to work the next morning, leaving two strangers in my house all day with only Willie Wonka on duty. And Sabrina still whimpered every time Wonka came within three feet.

  Bethune Elementary office was in an uproar when I got to school. All the school computers had been shut down as a precaution against the MyDoom virus, supposedly wreaking havoc on millions of computers nationwide via the Internet. Teachers wanted lesson plans, now locked in the school’s digital brain. The office staff wanted the weekly schedule, the lunchroom rotation list, and a flyer for the upcoming Fall Festival. “The Fall Festival isn’t even on the Internet!” snapped Ms. Ivy, the chief school secretary.

  But Tom Davis, second-grade teacher and the closest the school had to a computer guru, was adamant. “No one gets on a computer until we’ve blocked the virus.”

  I called Denny at his office. “Do we have virus protection against this MyDoom ‘worm,’ or whatever they call it?”

  He sighed. “Just don’t open any e-mails when you get home. I’ll ask Peter what we should do. Or Josh. Maybe he knows.”

  Sabrina and Precious were both watching afternoon TV when I got home, Wonka zoned at their feet. Guess girl and dog had made their peace. Precious glanced up, then crowed as the contestant failed to win his round. “Girl, I knew that! They should get me up on that show!” But when the show ended, she bounced into the kitchen, where I was frowning at the open refrigerator, trying to think what to feed our expanded family. “Miz Estelle came down, said the Stuart lady invited us all upstairs for supper t’night. Nice of her, ain’t it?”

  Downright nice. I let the refrigerator door close with a sigh of relief.

  Stu seemed almost giddy having company. She and Estelle had obviously hit it off big-time, laughing and joking. Josh, however, came upstairs reluctantly and excused himself from Stu’s table early, saying he was going to do a search-and-destroy on our computer in case MyDoom was lurking somewhere.

  “I think we’re clean,” he reported when the rest of us trooped downstairs half an hour later. “But I deleted all our incoming emails just in case one of them was infected.”

  “What?” I jerked a thumb at Precious and Sabrina. “Reverend Handley said they were going to keep us updated by e-mail! How are we supposed to know—”

  “Mom.” Irritation spiked Josh’s voice. “These worms aren’t pretty. Do you want us to be protected or not?” He stomped off to his room.

  Denny and I exchanged glances. Why did I suspect this wasn’t just about a computer virus? But I was frustrated too. I’d wanted to send an e-mail to the rest of Yada Yada, to tell them what had happened. Now I was going to have to make calls.

  Sabrina had no homework—yet—but Denny hogged the TV for Monday night football, so the fourteen-year-old sprawled on Amanda’s bed listening to CDs while Amanda did her calculus. I listened to the decibels shake the windows for two minutes before marching in and handing Sabrina a set of earphones. Amanda would thank me later.

  Precious went back upstairs to Stu’s apartment to hang out with Estelle while I spread out my February lesson plans on the dining room table. This was my third year at Bethune Elementary, which helped. I could build on my previous syllabus, tweaking as needed: introduce fractions and word problems using measurements in math . . . highlight “Main Idea” and “Fact vs. Opinion” in language arts . . . tackle early Illinois history, Abraham Lincoln, and Black History Month in social studies . . . construct simple machines and focus on home safety in science. Add test-taking skills somewhere—

  “Mom?”

  I looked up. Josh leaned against the dining room archway in his favorite pair of shredded jeans and a sweatshirt with the sleeves ripped off. His disheveled sandy hair hung over his ears and down his neck. I was beginning to think the bald look he used to sport was better.

  “Got a minute?”

  “Sure. Time for a tea break. Want some?”

  He shook his head. I turned on the tea water and sat back down at the table.

  Josh didn’t look at me, just sank into a chair and hung one arm over the back. He sighed. “Okay. I deleted all our incoming e-mails, like I said. But . . . I did scan through some of the senders and subject headings. One was from the Manna House director—” He sucked in his breath and let it out. “Calling a meeting this coming Saturday to debrief about the fire.”

  I nodded. “Makes sense.” Huh. I needed a meeting next Saturday like I needed sand in my shoes. “But . . . you didn’t open the message.”

  He shook his head again. “Guess we should call to get the details.”

  I waited. He said nothing. Just fidgeted with his hands.

  I cleared my throat. “So are you going to call, or do you want me to?”

  “Oh. . . . Yeah, would you?” More fidgeting.

  God, help me here! I’m not sure what’s going on.

  The Voice in my spirit said, Just ask him, Jodi. He came to you. That was an invitation.

  I reached out and laid a hand on his. “Josh, what’s going on? It’s natural to feel upset after a fire like that. I’m upset! Everybody is. Just give yourself some time . . .”

  He pulled his hands away, jaw muscles working. “It’s—it’s not that.”

  Oh, great, Jodi. You not only asked, you supplied your own answer. This time I kept my mouth shut.

  Finally he sighed. “I don’t want to go to that meeting Saturday. Because everyone wants to know what happened. And you and I”—he finally looked at me, eyes tortured—“we both know how that fire started. Mikey and Jeremy, they begged and begged me to keep the tree lights on one more time. So I gave in. And then . . .” His head sagged into his hands. “I forgot to turn them off. That fire’s my fault, Mom. My fault!”

  Josh’s shoulders began to shake.

  “Oh, Josh.” My heart squeezed so hard I could hardly breathe. I got up and put my arms around my son. “Don’t . . . don’t cry. It’s all right. Nobody’s blaming you.”

  He jerked out of my embrace, nearly vaulting out of his chair. “That’s not true! Edesa blames me. I can see it in her eyes! And she won’t talk to me.” With that, Josh strode out of the room and slammed his bedroom door.

  I TOLD DENNY ABOUT MY TALK with Josh. He frowned. “I’ll talk with him.” But it wasn’t easy. Josh left early for work, worked late, went out in the evening, or stayed holed up in his room. Not to mention that with two extra people in the house, juggling our schedules took extra energy and time.

  Denny drove Precious and Sabrina to the Morse Avenue el station early the next morning so Sabrina could get to school on time. Had to hand it to Precious, who decided to
take Sabrina and pick her up each day from school until they got resettled, rather than leave her daughter to navigate the new route on her own.

  As for Yada Yada, I was sure Edesa would have called Delores first thing. But I finally managed to call Chanda to tell her about the fire, and she promised to call Adele and Yo-Yo. “Why you wait t’ree days to call mi?” Chanda scolded. But she seemed pleased that I called her first and asked her to call the others.

  I called Ruth myself. Had to check on the twins, anyway.

  “Oy! Oy! I read about that fire in the paper!” Ruth said. “An abandoned church, the paper said. Or maybe they said it no longer had a congregation. But they didn’t mention Manna House. Rochelle and her little boy are okay? No one was hurt? Praise to Jehovah-Rohi, the Good Shepherd! You were there, Jodi? Gray hair it would give me! You need something to help you lighten up. Come to our party on Saturday.”

  She actually left space for me to speak. “Uh, what party, Ruth?”

  “The twins’ birthday party! They’re two months old this week. Ben says, why wait a whole year to celebrate? Every month they change so much. Did you know, Jodi, that babies change more in the first year than—”

  “Uh, sorry Ruth. I have to go to a meeting on Saturday. The volunteers and staff of Manna House.”

  “A meeting? Why? You were there two minutes, the place burns down, end of story. Come on, come to the party. You should see Havah lift her head, straight up on her arms. Like a gymnast she is!”

  End of story . . . I wished. I hadn’t even finished my volunteer training, so what did I have to contribute? I sighed. “I’d love to, Ruth. But I was there when the shelter burned down, so I better go.”

  STU POPPED IN Thursday night while Denny and I were doing dishes, looked into the dining room to make sure no one else was about, then leaned against the counter. “I’m thinking of asking Estelle to stay, to be my roommate. Housemate. Whatever.” She liberated a cookie from the cookie jar. “Whaddya think?”

  I stared at her. “Are you sure, Stu? It’s only been a couple of months since Becky moved out. Weren’t you looking for some peace and quiet?”

  She nibbled on the cookie. “Yeah. But . . . I miss the company. Miss having someone there when I get home.” She looked at Denny. “What do you think, Big Guy?”

  He frowned. “How well do you know Estelle? I mean, she’s been living in a shelter for some reason. No money. No job. Will you be giving her a free ride? How can she pay her share of the expenses?”

  Stu rolled her eyes. “How well did I know Becky Wallace? At least Estelle never robbed me, isn’t a drug addict, and isn’t under house arrest. So far, we’ve hit it off great. She’s got a great sense of humor. Like living with an older sister or favorite aunt.”

  “Sounds like you’ve made up your mind.” I knew that sounded tart, so I softened. “Just give yourself a little time before committing yourself, Stu. Maybe invite her to stay for a few weeks as your guest, you know, to give her a breather from living in a shelter. You can decide to invite her longer if it works out.”

  “Huh. Now that’s a good idea. Glad I talked to you guys . . . Oh, your phone’s ringing.” Stu bopped out the back door as quickly as she’d come.

  The answering machine had kicked in by the time I found the cordless phone tucked between the couch cushions in the living room, where Precious and Sabrina were watching sitcoms on TV. “We’re here! . . . Oh, hello, Reverend Handley. . . . Yes, she’s here.”

  I handed the phone to Precious and headed back to the kitchen, but not before I heard her say, “Yeah, okay . . . That’s good, I guess.” A few minutes later, she showed up in the kitchen doorway. “Uh, Reverend Handley says Salvation Army has room in they shelter for Sabrina an’ me, if y’all can take us down there Saturday morning.” She shrugged. “Or we can take the el if that’s too much trouble. We ain’t got that much stuff.”

  “No trouble. Be glad to take you.” Denny smiled as he turned on the dishwasher. “Glad something is getting worked out. Sabrina will be closer to school too.”

  “Yeah.” Precious leaned against the kitchen doorjamb. “It’s been nice here, y’all. Real nice. Someday me an’ my girl gonna have a nice apartment like this. Just gotta get me a job, save up some money.” She started to go, then turned back with a wry smile. “Heard Estelle might be stayin’. Lucky Estelle.” And then she was gone.

  I looked at Denny. Had Precious been hoping we’d let her stay permanently? Impossible. Completely impossible!

  15

  Chicago got a dump of snow that Thursday—an accumulation of five inches. My third graders wanted to build more snowmen. I rolled my eyes. “You’re on your own, kiddos.” A few diehards charged bravely into the playground at lunchtime, but they were back in five minutes. The high that day was only ten degrees above zero. Add the wind off the lake and it felt like tiny ice picks hammering away at your face.

  Josh emerged from his hole Saturday morning to say he’d drive Precious and Sabrina to the Salvation Army shelter. Amanda also wanted to go along. We packed up as many warm clothes, boots, jackets, and blankets as we could find to fit the mother and daughter, using Pastor Cobbs’s John-the-Baptist guideline: “If you have two coats, share with the one who has none.” But our guests looked so forlorn as we hugged them good-bye that guilt nibbled away my smile. Just washing your hands of it, aren’t you, Jodi? You’re glad they’re gone. Now maybe things can get back to normal. But how would you like to be heading to a shelter with your teenage daughter for who knows how long?

  I stood in the kitchen long after the minivan disappeared down our icy alley. It was true. I felt relieved that they were gone. The week had gone smoothly enough, but it had been taxing having two extra people in the house—people whose life situation was so starkly different from ours. Homeless. Poor—no, not poor. Destitute. No relatives in Chicago to take them in. Sabrina’s father had abandoned them long ago. Since then it had been hand to mouth, shelter to SRO “by the week,” back to a shelter. Then the fire, wiping out everything but the clothes on their backs. Literally. Now another shelter.

  Should we have invited them to stay, like Stu invited Estelle? Wait. Here I was wrestling with those questions in good old Jodi fashion. Stewing. Going around and around. I needed to pray. Didn’t the Bible say we could ask God for wisdom?

  I heard Denny turn on the shower; now was not a good time to wash the sheets from the “guest bed” anyway. Willie Wonka followed me stiffly as I grabbed my Bible and another cup of coffee, and settled into the peace and quiet of the living room. I reread the scriptures Pastor Cobbs had mentioned on Sunday morning: Luke 3:9–11; Romans 12:13; Matthew 25:40. Definitely stretched my comfort zone, but Scripture was clear: we needed to not just be “concerned” about the poor but give practical help. Okay, Lord, what are You saying here? I really didn’t want to put it into words, but I gulped and prayed: Were we supposed to ask Precious and Sabrina to stay?

  The Voice in my spirit seemed to speak right up. Why are you assuming you have to fix it for Precious and Sabrina all by yourself, Jodi? You did what was needed: you gave them a place to stay until another could be found. You gave them food and clothing.

  Huh. Was that the Holy Spirit speaking to me, or just wishful thinking?

  I know. But look at Stu. She’s going the extra mile, asking Estelle to stay.

  The Voice continued, So? Are you Stu? Do you have room in your home for another grown woman and her almost grown teenager for the long haul?

  Well, no. Amanda had had to sleep on the couch all week. She was a good sport about it, but it wasn’t a permanent solution.

  Guilt isn’t helpful, Jodi. Neither is overresponsibility. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t more you can do. Look for the possibilities, My daughter. And ask for My direction. Because My yoke is easy, and My burden is light.

  “Jodi?” Denny poked his head into the living room, swathed in knit hat, long scarf, and several sweatshirt layers. “I think I’ll jog over to the Hickmans’.
Been wanting to talk to Carl about something. Give me some exercise too. Oh—when’s your meeting?”

  “One o’clock. At the church. Josh promised he’d be back in time to pick me up. I think he’s going to pick up Edesa first while he’s down that way. Isn’t it too icy out there to jog?”

  “I’ll be fine.” He came into the room, bent down, and kissed me on the lips. He smelled good. Irish Spring good. “Just one thing, Jodi. Don’t feel like you have to take the world on your shoulders, just because this situation with Manna House presents a lot of needs. Whatever they ask you today, it’s okay to think about it. Take time to pray about it. Talk about it with me. Okay? Promise?”

  I nodded sheepishly. “Thanks. I needed that.”

  “What? The kiss or the lecture?”

  I grabbed his shirt and pulled him closer, kissing him back. “Both. Believe me.”

  THE MANNA HOUSE MEETING started at one and ended at three. To my surprise, the group was small—just Rev. Handley and the other staff person, an African-American woman named Mabel, who served part time as office manager, resident coordinator, and volunteer organizer, plus the four volunteers who had been there that night: Josh, Edesa, Karen, and myself. I thought all the volunteers would be there to get hyped up about “what next.”

  The fire marshal showed up to report on the inspection. The fire had started in the basement, probably an electrical short, intensified, of course, by the dry Christmas tree. Josh kept his eyes down, his face pale. “But it was a fire waiting to happen,” the fire marshal added, “Christmas tree or no Christmas tree. The wiring in that old building should have been totally replaced before getting a permit to use it as a shelter.” He glared pointedly at Rev. Handley. “I’m not saying anything illegal happened here, but we are investigating who did the safety inspection for your permit and whether city negligence is an issue.”

  Rev. Handley nodded, visibly upset.

  The verbal reports we had each given the night of the fire had been typed up. The marshal asked us to read them over and sign our names if we stood by our reports. I was afraid Josh would scrawl over his, “It’s all my fault!” But like the rest of us, he read his report tersely, then signed.