The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Rolling

by Neta Jackson

  The fire marshal stood up to leave. “You people are trying to do a good thing here. But if you manage to get a building and start up again, now you have a chance to do it right. That’s what I want to say to you. No shortcuts. Always put safety first.” He solemnly shook hands all around, then headed for his official car, parked like a red cherry in the snowy parking lot.

  We all just looked at each other. Rev. Handley finally cleared her throat. “Well. Mabel and I will be meeting with the board to discuss the future of Manna House—or even if we have one. Right now, however, I want to commend each one of you volunteers for responding quickly and responsibly during the emergency. I’ve talked to all the residents, and they have nothing but praise for you four helping to get them all out of the building. Josh, I especially want to thank you for taking charge—”

  “That’s right!” I wanted to cry out. “He did!” But Josh was shaking his head miserably. I bit my lip, my throat tight, knowing my son was in pain.

  Rev. Handley pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Son, I know you’re beating yourself up because you turned on the Christmas tree lights that night. But all of us—myself included—knew that tree was nothing but dry kindling. We let cozy feelings—trying to create a homey atmosphere for Manna House residents—override our responsibility to put safety first. And you heard the marshal. All the electrical wiring was compromised. As director of Manna House, I take full responsibility for what happened.”

  I stared at the short, stocky woman with the salt-and-pepper cropped hair and wire-rimmed glasses. Admiration for her eased the tightness in my throat. She could so easily have dumped blame on someone else . . . on my son. She’d only been there briefly that night; wasn’t anywhere around when the fire started. But she took responsibility without mincing around. Huh. If only more leaders displayed that kind of leadership . . .

  Liz Handley sucked in a deep breath, hands on her knees. “We’ve learned something the hard way. But God in His mercy protected all lives . . .” The director seemed to have a hard time getting any more out.

  “Si. That is what is important.” Edesa leaned over and gently touched the director’s hand. “I think we should pray and thank our heavenly Father for His mercy.” She didn’t wait for confirmation but moved right into earnest prayer. “Oh Dios, nuestro Padre, gracias por su misericordia! . . .”

  “YOU DIDN’T TALK ABOUT the future of Manna House? Nobody asked you to do anything?” Denny couldn’t hide his surprise.

  I shook my head. “That’s all it was—a debriefing after the fire. Reverend Handley reported that all the residents have been moved to other shelters—except for a few, like Rochelle and Estelle, who are staying put—and then we just prayed for them all.” I fished a sheet of paper out of my jeans pocket. “I asked for the list so I could continue to pray for them all. By name.” I grinned at him impishly. “Didn’t think I needed to talk to you or pray about praying.”

  Denny scratched his chin. “Uh-huh. Well then, guess I don’t have to ask you if it’s okay if I invite all the guys over here tomorrow afternoon for the Super Bowl. Twenty or thirty is all—”

  “What?” I snatched a dishtowel and flipped him good. “You didn’t!”

  He threw up both hands. “Hey! Just kidding! Carl Hickman and I both nixed our homes; our TVs aren’t big enough. We’re asking Mark Smith. They’ve got one of those monster screens in their family room.”

  “Wait just a cotton-pickin’ minute.” I opened the cupboard door where I kept the Yada Yada list. Tomorrow was February first. Super Bowl Sunday. And Yada Yada was supposed to meet . . . where? I ran my finger down the list.

  Adele. Perfect. At least she didn’t have a sports fanatic hogging the living room or hollow-leg teenagers emptying the food cupboards on Super Bowl Sunday like most of the rest of us.

  RUTH AND YO-YO STRUGGLED out of the Garfields’ big green Buick in front of Adele’s apartment building, each one lugging a baby carrier, just as Stu and I parked across the street. “Where’s Ben? Doesn’t he usually drop you off?” I asked as we huddled in the small entryway of the apartment building, waiting for Adele to buzz us in.

  Ruth rolled her eyes. “Does he usually let me drive? Never. But today, drop him off at the Sisulu-Smiths early, he says. Huh. Doesn’t want to miss even one Super Bowl commercial, that’s what.”

  “He was going to teach me to drive so I could get my license,” Yo-Yo grumbled. “But that was B.B.”

  I started to ask what “B.B.” meant, but I figured it out: Before Babies.

  We had a good turnout that night, in spite of chilly temperatures. February had shuffled in like a hobo in dirty clothes—no exciting snowstorm, no cleansing thaw, just leftover piles of dirty snow along the plowed streets. I thought Stu might bring Estelle, but she said Estelle was busy sewing up some new clothes for herself from material Stu once bought but had never done anything with.

  Rochelle didn’t come with Avis either. Avis wasn’t happy about leaving her and Conny alone on a weekend. “What if Dexter finds out where she is now? But Peter took himself off to the Super Bowl Bash at Nony’s house, so someone had to stay with Conny. Rochelle said she’d love a quiet evening alone anyway.” Avis shrugged. Seemed to me Avis’s usually joyous face had a permanently strained look these days.

  After the traumatic events of last weekend, it felt good to see my Yada Yada sisters chirping away like sparrows on a telephone wire. We teased Nony about leaving her lovely home at the mercy of the guys. She rolled her eyes and laughed. “I know, I know. But Mark was so excited, we managed to get rid of anything on the first floor that said ‘Convalescent Lives Here.’ ”

  But even as we attacked the banana bread Adele brought out right from the oven and passed the babies around, fussing over them like blithering idiots, something seemed amiss. Was someone missing? I counted noses, stopping at Edesa. It occurred to me that Josh had taken her home after the meeting yesterday and had not come right home. What was going on with those two? Well, that was neither here nor there right now. I finished going around the circle. All present and accounted for. So what . . .? And then I realized what it was.

  MaDear’s wheelchair was empty.

  16

  Adele? Where’s MaDear? Did your sister take her for the weekend?” Immediately heads turned, and the chatting and munching hushed to a whisper. Adele snorted. “My sister? That hussy? Don’t know what’s gotten into that girl! Sissy’s so busy huntin’ for a man, she’s likely to forget MaDear’s at her place and go dancin’ all night.” She jerked a thumb toward the small bedroom in the back. “Got MaDear in the bed. She’s still gettin’ over that pneumonia, you know. But don’t know what I’m gonna do, y’all. I can’t leave her here by herself all day. Gotta get her up an’ take her to the shop.” Adele sank into a chair and sighed from deep inside, like a slow leak in a truck tire. “Might have to put her in a nursing home. Hate to do it, though. My people take care of their own.”

  “Girl, I know what you sayin’,” Flo agreed. “Just don’t seem right, how we treat our elders these days. But I hear ya. Ya gotta do what ya gotta do.”

  Delores spoke up. “Si. But maybe we should pray that God would provide another way for Adele and MaDear.”

  Avis smiled. “Sounds like we’re ready to begin our prayer time. Why don’t we worship the Lord for a few minutes, get our focus right, before we gather up our other prayer concerns.” She followed her own suggestion and led out with a familiar hymn . . .

  My hope is built on nothing less

  Than Jesus’ blood and righteousness!

  I dare not trust the sweetest frame,

  But wholly lean on Jesus’ name.

  Even Becky and Yo-Yo, who didn’t seem to know the words to the verse, picked up on the chorus:

  On Christ the solid Rock I stand!

  All other ground is sinking sand;

  All other ground is sinking sand.

  We helped each other through the next few verses and heartily sang the chorus o
nce more, followed by some spontaneous praise. “Thank ya, Jesus!—for being my Rock in the middle of this storm!” “Si! Si! Dios, You are the anchor we cling to.” “Yeah. Thanks, Jesus, for keepin’ me from drownin’ in my own mess.”

  Some quarterback must have made a touchdown at Reliant Stadium in Houston just then, because people in the apartment above Adele started yelling and stomping their feet. “Or maybe they tryin’ to drown us out,” Becky smirked. We laughed.

  Most of the prayer requests that night were updates on ongoing concerns. The Manna House fire and displaced residents . . . a second hearing coming up for Chris Hickman . . . Ricardo Enriquez still looking for a job . . . Becky groaning about the “loop-de-loops” DCFS was putting her through to regain custody of Little Andy . . . whether Stu should ask Estelle to be her housemate . . .

  “Avis,” Nony cut in, two furrows gathered between her brows. “What about your daughter? You are not sending her back to a shelter, are you? I am very concerned about Rochelle. This is a critical time for her, and the fire is one more trauma on top of everything else.”

  Avis shook her head. “Rochelle and Conny are going to stay with us for the indefinite future. In fact, Peter says he was wrong to send her away when she needed us most.” She let slip a wry smile. “Kind of nice to see him grovel.”

  We all laughed again, even harder this time. How many of us had squirmed uncomfortably when Peter put his foot down but kept our mouths shut, not wanting to create more tension in Avis’s new marriage?

  A loud wail from one of the baby carriers joined the laughter. “Awake she is now,” Ruth pouted. “Yo-Yo, see if Havah will fall back asleep if you walk her.”

  Yo-Yo didn’t move. “Walk her yourself,” she muttered.

  My mouth nearly fell open. Ruth glared at Yo-Yo, but unbuckled the baby from the carrier and headed for Adele’s hallway, murmuring, “Shh, shh, mamela. Don’t pay any attention to that nebbish.”

  Avis did not seem to notice the interruption. “There is one piece of good news, sisters. The HIV clinic tested Conny, too, but”—her voice dropped to a choked whisper—“praise God! His test came back negative. We are so grateful!”

  “Thank ya, Jesus!” Florida cried. Others joined in the praise while some looked shocked, as though they hadn’t even considered that possibility.

  When the room quieted, Nony leaned forward. “Avis, do you think Rochelle would be comfortable talking with me? I would very much like to help her get the help she needs to live with her HIV diagnosis. It is not hopeless, you know. But . . .”

  “Thank you, Nony. I—I would appreciate that very much. Let me talk to her.” Avis looked at her lap, absently twisting her wedding ring. “In fact, I think all three of us need some help to live with this diagnosis.”

  In the silence that followed, the only sound was Ruth jouncing the baby over her shoulder and muttering who-knows-what in Havah’s tiny ear.

  “Well.” Avis raised her head and looked around, back to business. “Have we heard from everyone? Hoshi. You’ve been very quiet tonight. Is everything all right? How is your new semester going?”

  Hoshi nodded, her straight hair falling like black silk over her shoulder. “It is very good. But hard. This is my last semester at Northwestern, you know.”

  Her last semester! How had that snuck up on us? I felt a sudden pang. Would Hoshi go back to Japan after graduation? Would Yada Yada lose her? And what would the Sisulu-Smith family do without her? She had been an incredible help to them during the difficult time of Mark’s injury and convalescence.

  “. . . but most of all, I would like prayer for Sara,” she was saying.

  My attention snapped back. Sara. “The girl in the sundress” who had caught my eye at the racist rally at Northwestern last spring, part of the White Pride group. The girl God had prodded me to pray for, even before I knew her name. The girl who had defied her racist friends and named the men who had attacked Mark Smith and left him for dead. The girl Hoshi had unknowingly befriended at Northwestern and brought to a Yada Yada meeting at the Sisulu-Smith home one night last fall, tearing the peace of that home to shreds and smashing the fragile friendship between the gentle Japanese student and the mixed-up white girl from Chicago’s North Shore.

  We all leaned forward. Even Ruth stopped jouncing the baby and tuned an ear.

  “Sara transferred out of my history class, so I do not see her as often. But our walkways keep crossing anyway.” Hoshi smiled. “Nony calls them ‘divine appointments.’ ”

  “Hallelujah, Jesus,” Nony murmured.

  “We had coffee at the student center last week, and I invited her once more to Yada Yada, at a different home this time. But . . .” Hoshi shook her head. “I do not think she will agree.”

  This was met with sympathetic murmurings. “Well, girl, you tried,” Florida said.

  “Yeah,” Yo-Yo chimed in from her perch on a floor pillow. “That girl’s a hard case. Maybe harder than me.”

  Hoshi’s volume hiked up a notch or two. “I do not agree. It is not time to give up on Sara. Why has God put her in our way if He does not want to show her how much He loves her? Haven’t we often said, ‘God’s ways are not our ways’?”

  Whoa. Hoshi had some backbone!

  Hoshi’s voice softened. “I . . . there is a Christian student group on campus. I am going to ask Sara if she would like to attend. They share a meal together, then have a Bible study and discussion. She may say yes if I go with her. She’s very lonely.”

  Delores Enriquez patted Hoshi’s hand. “We will pray that she will go with you.”

  Hoshi lowered her lashes. “There is only one thing. It meets on Sunday evenings.”

  “SUNDAY EVENINGS?” I groused to Stu as we walked from the garage to our back porch. Stu’s lights were on upstairs, but my house was dark. “Do you think Hoshi will start going to this campus group rather than coming to Yada Yada?”

  “Possibility, I guess.” But I could tell Stu was distracted. “Adele said she has to take MaDear to the beauty shop with her, even when she’s sick. But, you know, I wonder . . .” She ran up the back stairs and I heard her call out, “Estelle? How’s the sewing going?” before the door shut.

  I unlocked our door. Wonka rose stiffly from his post just inside the door to greet me, snuffling. Otherwise, the house was silent. So Amanda wasn’t back yet from youth group. But surely the Super Bowl was over. Maybe Denny and Josh were giving rides home to some of the other guys.

  I suddenly had an inkling of how Stu felt coming home every night to a dark house.

  I shed my jacket and turned on the flame under the teakettle. Wonka just stood in the kitchen, whining faintly.

  “What’s the matter, Wonka? Want to go out?” But the dog was facing me, not the door. “Hungry?” I looked in the dog’s bowl. Still full of kibbles. Hadn’t been touched. How strange was that? “Just lonely, huh?” I scratched the dog’s ears. “You don’t like it when we all leave the house, do you?”

  I glanced at the clock. Still had a couple of hours before bed. I should probably finish my lesson plans. February was Black History Month. I already had my class reading books about Mary McLeod Bethune, the inspiring African-American teacher our school was named after. But I felt weighted down by all the concerns we were carrying in Yada Yada. MaDear’s illness . . . Chris Hickman locked up at the JDC . . . Rochelle needing to “live with HIV,” as Nony put it . . .

  I knew we were supposed to take our burdens to God and leave them there. But I still felt like I had sand in my gears. Maybe it was just the winter blues. While we had been sending up desperate prayers for our loved ones that evening, the guys had probably been laughing, cracking jokes, and yelling at their Super Bowl bash. Plain old fun.

  That’s what we Yadas needed! Some good old-fashioned fun.

  I looked at the calendar in the kitchen, ignoring the whistle of the teakettle. Our next meeting in two weeks would meet upstairs at Stu’s place. That Saturday was Valentine’s Day . . . and the follow
ing Monday was a school holiday: President’s Day. We should do something fun that weekend! Something everyone could do, not just the “couples” on Valentine’s Day. But what? Something like . . .

  I grinned. That’s it!

  “Wonka, old buddy,” I said, as I plonked myself down in front of the computer and booted it up, “it’s too bad you have four feet, because I don’t think they make roller skates for dogs.” A few minutes later, I was typing furiously.

  To: Yada Yada

  From: BaxterBears@wahoo.com

  Re: A Roller Party

  Sisters! Anybody up for some FUN in the midst of all the serious stuff life throws at us? How about a rollerskating party on Valentine’s Day! That’s a Saturday. Bring the kids! Bring a friend! (Hoshi? Do you think Sara might come?) Oh, yeah. We might even let the guys come if they behave themselves and don’t act like a bunch of adolescent showoffs. So . . . what do you think?

  Love, Jodi

  ALL THREE OF MY FAMILY MEMBERS looked at each other as though sharing a terrible secret: Mom had gone completely off her rocker. Denny backpedaled. “Uh, Jodi. It’s been twenty years since—”

  “It’s like riding a bike. You never forget!”

  Amanda rolled her eyes. “Kids go roller skating, not . . . not old people.” She flounced off to her room.

  “Watch it, kid. I could skate circles around you!” Denny called after her.

  Oh, so Denny was on my side now?

  Josh shrugged noncommittally and hauled out the city phone book. “Mom? You got a number for the Salvation Army?”

  So much for roller-skating. “Uh, think I do.” I flipped through our address book. “Who’re you calling?” None of my business, but so what?