The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Rolling

by Neta Jackson

  “Precious. She’s gotta be bummed.”

  “What? You mean . . .?” Guilt over letting Precious and Sabrina go to the Salvation Army shelter popped up again and danced like a gremlin on my conscience.

  “I mean”—Josh grinned wickedly—“the Carolina Panthers lost to the Patriots 29 to 32 tonight. I’m calling to rub it in.”

  THE FIRST WEEK OF FEBRUARY slogged its way across the city, with snow flurries upping the snow cover to about seven inches. At least it blanketed the dirt-encrusted ice clumps that made walking as treacherous as downhill skiing. Still dangerous, but not so ugly. One out of two wasn’t bad. But I felt like a triathlon athlete every time I made it to and from school with no broken bones.

  A couple of days in a row, I saw Estelle leaving with Stu in the morning. On the third day, I poked my head out the back door. “What’s up with you two? Estelle going to work with you?”

  Stu laughed. “Better than that! Estelle is taking care of MaDear at home so Adele doesn’t have to take her to the shop.”

  Estelle, bundled against the cold, smiled big. “Ain’t the Lord good? That MaDear is the sweetest thing. And Ms. Skuggs is paying me, too, so I can contribute to my room and board while I’m here.”

  I wouldn’t have called forgetful, feisty MaDear “the sweetest thing,” but I whooped, “Hallelujah!” anyway. “What a great idea! I’m so glad for Adele—and you, too, Estelle. Keep warm!” I quickly shut the door against the frigid air, then pulled it open again. “Stu! Did you get my e-mail about the roller-skating party?”

  “Count me in!” she yelled back.

  “Count me out!” laughed Estelle.

  But as the week wore on, I got several more positive responses to the roller-skating party idea. Florida said she was game, also Cedric and Carla, but she couldn’t vouch for Carl. Chanda and her tribe said they’d come, so did Becky, Yo-Yo, and Edesa. Delores said it depended on her work schedule, but she knew Ricardo had a gig that night. Well, that was a good start, so I Googled a list of roller rinks in the Chicago area and started making calls to find the closest rink. It didn’t matter if everyone got on board. The rest of us could have fun.

  But I was worried about Willie Wonka. I fed him in the morning as usual before leaving for school, but more often than not, when I came home from school, the bowl of kibbles had barely been touched.

  “What’s the matter, old boy?” I murmured, sitting down on the floor beside him and stroking his silky brown head. But all he did was lay his muzzle in my lap and look up at me with dark liquid eyes, whimpering softly.

  17

  Denny?” I said, wandering into the living room Friday night after Amanda had gone out babysitting. “I think we need to take Willie Wonka to the vet. He hasn’t been eating, and he’s been whimpering a lot. But I don’t know what’s wrong.”

  Denny put down the sports section. “I think he’s just getting old, Jodi. What is he now—fifteen? sixteen? We got him when Amanda was still floor-scooting, mopping up dust bunnies better than Dial-a-Maid.”

  “Yeah. What were we thinking?” I sank down on the couch beside my husband. “A puppy and a baby—it was like having twins! Guess we can empathize with Ben and Ruth, huh?”

  He chortled. “Yeah. Except both of their twins poop in diapers, not on the kitchen floor!”

  We both started to laugh, remembering our attempts to housebreak a two-month-old Lab—but the next moment I was feeling teary. “Amanda’s grown up with Willie Wonka. Don’t know what she’ll do if he . . . if he . . .”

  “Hey, we don’t need to go there yet, babe. See what the vet says! Look at your mom. She’s got arthritis and had a bad bout of pneumonia last year, but she’s still chugging along.”

  Oh, great. Thanks, Denny. That’s real helpful.

  But I tried to be matter-of-fact when we loaded Willie Wonka into the back of the Dodge Caravan for the trip to the vet the next morning. “He’s probably just getting old,” I told Amanda when she got up that morning. “But we should let the vet check him out.”

  Amanda climbed into the back with the dog, crooning, “Poor baby. You don’t feel so good? Don’t worry. The doctor’s going to make it all better. That’s right. Don’t be scared, Amanda’s here . . .”

  I gripped the steering wheel and headed for the animal hospital on McCormick Boulevard. I hardly knew how to pray. Dogs and people . . . we all had to die sometime. But we’re not ready to let Wonka go, God! Please let it be something the vet can fix. I hated my next thought: How much is this going to cost? We barely had enough medical insurance to cover our family, much less the dog.

  But maybe Denny was right. Wonka had been healthy up until now, except for going deaf and his joints getting stiff. We’d just have to see what the vet said.

  “THE VET THINKS IT’S CANCER?” Denny’s jaw dropped when I gave him the news.

  “Might be cancer.” I peeked down the hall, where Amanda had headed with the dog, and saw that her bedroom door was shut. I sank into a chair at the dining room table and wrapped my hands around the steaming cup of coffee Denny had poured. “He’s got a growth in his abdomen about the size of a tennis ball. She can’t know if it’s benign or malignant unless they do a biopsy and run a bunch of tests.”

  “And these tests—?”

  I sighed. “Expensive. And if we want the tumor removed, well, they could do surgery. But . . .”

  Denny’s face sagged. “Yeah, I know. Mega bucks.”

  We sat at the dining room table in silence for several minutes, letting our coffee get cold. Sheesh. Made me mad that “what it cost” was even a consideration, if that’s what Wonka needed! But God knew we didn’t have a couple thousand dollars just sitting in the bank. Even Denny’s raise barely covered cost of living increases.

  Denny sighed. “So what did the vet recommend?”

  I took a sip of the now-lukewarm coffee and made a face. “Well, I kinda expected her to push for the biopsy and then surgery if the tumor is malignant. That’s how she makes her living, for Pete’s sake! But she didn’t really. Said it was a toss-up at Wonka’s age. And surgery is, well, surgery. Always a risk. It’s up to us, of course, she said. But I kinda got the feeling she thought making him comfortable and not doing anything drastic was a decent way to go. In fact . . .” I dug around in the tote bag I’d tossed on the table and pulled out a couple of pill containers. “She gave me some sample meds that will help with his arthritis pain. Also, something”—I squinted at the label of another bottle—“to help him digest his food easily. She recommended we give him a small amount of canned food twice a day rather than the dry kibbles, see if that helps.” I shrugged. “She wrote a prescription for the meds and put it with his chart. She said we could take a few days to think about it and let her know.”

  Denny nodded, rubbing the back of his head. Proof positive he didn’t know what to do. “Okay. Let’s give it a few days.” He pushed back his chair. “Want me to run to the store and get some canned dog food?”

  I let slip a grin. “Sure. And while you’re at it . . .” I handed him the grocery list I’d made out while sitting in the waiting room, surrounded by meowing cats in plastic carriers and dogs so nervous they were shedding all over me.

  THE PHONE RANG THE NEXT MORNING while we were doing our usual Baxter hurry-scurry, trying to get out of the house in time to make it to church by ten o’clock. The caller ID said Chanda George. “Hey, Chanda, what’s up?”

  “So when you going to invite mi to dat new church?” she sniffed over the phone. “You got som’ting special coming up? Men’s and Women’s Day? Pastor’s anniversary? Why you not let mi know?”

  “Uh, if that’s part of New Morning’s traditions, I haven’t heard about it yet. We’re still trying to decide on a name! But if . . . wait a minute. Why don’t you just come to visit today? It’s the second Sunday of the month, and we have a potluck after service. That’d be fun to have you there. Except, we’re having a business meeting after the potluck. It’s like the Chicago Marat
hon: only the strong survive!” I snickered. “But don’t worry. You can duck out at that point.”

  “Dis day? But you said potluck. Anyting I cook take at least half a day.”

  “Just come, Chanda. I’m bringing a taco salad—plenty for you too. Besides, they don’t expect guests to bring food. It’ll be fun to see the kids.”

  “Mm.” She considered. “What dey wear to dat church? Maybe mi have to shop first.”

  I laughed, remembering the parade of hats at Paul and Silas Apostolic Baptist, where Chanda, Adele Skuggs, and MaDear were members. “Believe me, Chanda. Anything you have in your closet will be fine.”

  Well, almost anything. Chanda showed up at our shopping center sanctuary in a long red wool coat with a fur collar—probably real—and a fur-trimmed red hat. Underneath she wore a red wool suit, the skirt above the knees and tight around her ample hips, and black, high-heeled boots.

  “Wow,” I said, and turned my attention to Dia and Cheree, cute as catalog cherubs in matching taffeta frilly dresses, lacy ankle socks, and patent leather Mary Janes. Both of them clung shyly to their mother’s hands while twelve-year-old Tom trailed behind, running a finger around his stiff shirt collar and tie. But when the children saw kids they knew—Cedric and Carla Hickman, Marcus and Michael Sisulu-Smith, and Little Andy Wallace—it didn’t take long until they were running around with the rest of the rat pack.

  As the praise band warmed up and we all found our seats on the folding chairs, I noticed Dia cuddling with Amanda, reaching up and twisting Amanda’s butterscotch hair into little ringlets, coaxing a smile out of my teenager. I smiled too. I’d practically had to drag Amanda to church this morning; she’d wanted to stay with Willie Wonka. “He needs me, Mom!” But when he ate half the soft canned food we’d put in his dish that morning, I assured her he would be fine without her for a couple of hours.

  We didn’t have a choir swaying down the aisle like Paul and Silas Apostolic Baptist did. Our preachers didn’t wear black robes with Afro-centric stoles. We didn’t have cushioned pews. But Chanda seemed to enjoy herself, throwing herself into the praise and worship as though she felt right at home. At one point, she leaned over to me and whispered, “Ooo, dat saxophone player is fine.” I wasn’t sure if she meant his music, or if she noticed that he was young, good-looking, and dressed smart. “What dat mon’s name? He from de islands. Uh-huh. Mi know it.”

  I had to admit I didn’t know his name, but said I’d find out.

  Pastor Clark preached that day. Well, “teached.” I’d kind of hoped Pastor Cobbs would preach today, since his style would be closer to what Chanda was used to. But as Pastor Clark taught from the life of David, about how God prepared him to be a powerful warrior and a worshiper while he was still a nobody, out in the fields by himself, watching his father’s sheep, Chanda nodded and called out, “Amen! Dat’s right, Preacher.” Young David, Pastor Clark pointed out, killed a lion and a bear when they threatened his sheep, never knowing that God was preparing him to slay giants. He learned to play the lute and sang praises to God when no one was watching, unaware that God was preparing him to soothe the king when he was troubled by evil spirits, and to write psalms that still inspire and comfort us today.

  “What about you?” Pastor Clark said, looking around the room. “How is God preparing you in the situation you’re in right now, because He has a bigger job for you down the road? Are you being faithful? Using your gifts now?”

  Chanda leaned toward me again. “Now dat’s some good teaching. But dese chairs . . . uh-uh. Dey killing my bottom.”

  I stifled a giggle. “Stu’s started a Chair Fund. But it might be awhile.”

  Immediately after the service, tables were set up and I lost track of Chanda while helping to set out the food—the usual array of rice and beans, fried chicken, potato salad, greens, oxtails, macaroni and cheese, and my taco salad with lettuce, spiced hamburger, chopped tomatoes, onions, cheese, black olives, and crushed tortilla chips on top. The teenagers scarfed that up.

  I looked around for Chanda, to be sure she and the kids got food, and saw her talking to the saxophone player. “His name is Oscar Frost,” she smirked at me a few minutes later. “De mon has family in Kingston, like mi. Now what you tink about dat?”

  Well, at least now I knew his name.

  Chanda and kids scooted when the tables were pushed back and chairs lined up for the business meeting. “Mi coming back, dat for sure,” she giggled suggestively, pulling the fur-trimmed red hat firmly down on her braided head. “You let mi know when dis church get itself some new chairs.”

  Pastor Cobbs called the business meeting to order and asked for the minutes from the last meeting to be read. Debra Meeks stood up with a notebook and read the items that had been approved: Pastor Joe Cobbs and Pastor Hubert Clark to be copastors of the merger of Uptown Community Church and New Morning Christian Church . . . The combined elders from both churches would continue to serve for one year, half serving the first six months, the other half serving the following six months, with a new election in one year . . . However, Mark Smith had withdrawn from the elder board for medical reasons . . . The worship band would incorporate musicians from both churches . . . Current worship leaders would rotate for the next six months, then form new worship teams . . .

  Debra looked up. “Last item of business: Names for the church were still being accepted. We decided a paper vote would be taken in two weeks to whittle the list down to the top two; a final vote at the next business meeting—today.”

  Pastor Cobbs cleared his throat and grinned sheepishly. “As everyone knows, we had an emergency situation two weeks ago and never got that paper vote. What would people like to do—take a paper vote of the list of names today, and put off the final vote until the next meeting? Or . . . yes, Sister Florida?”

  Florida bounced to her feet. “Don’t mean to be pushy, Pastor, but I move we vote on a name today. Take two or three votes to narrow it down, I don’t care. But calling this church by both names for even one more day be like that Chinese water torture you hear about. I’m ’bout to go crazy, know what I’m sayin’?” She sat down to general laughter and not a few hearty amens.

  Pastor Cobbs was smiling too. “All in favor?” The ayes clearly carried. “All right. Let’s get the list of suggested names passed out. Any discussion before we do the first paper vote?”

  The discussion picked up right where we’d left off a month ago. “Seems like we ought to merge the two original names somehow.” “Nah, we need a new name, like Sister Avis said.” “Sister Jodi, could you tell us what that Hebrew word means again?” “Do we really want a name you have to explain to people all the time?” . . .

  I tuned out the discussion, realizing it wasn’t looking good for Yachad, and read down the list of possible names. Wait a minute. A new one had been added since last time. I looked up, about to ask about it, when Rick Reilly stood up.

  “As you can see, a new proposal has been added. When we didn’t take the paper vote a couple of weeks ago, the youth group said they’d like to come up with a suggestion. The pastors said fine since, technically, the floor was still open.” He looked around at the teens. “Anyone want to explain it? Amanda?”

  My daughter ducked her head, but several of the other teens hissed, “Go on, go on.” She stood up, giggling with embarrassment.

  “Well, like, it’s kind of self-explanatory. SouledOut Christian Church . . . or maybe SouledOut Community Church. We couldn’t decide. Somebody saw a bookstore with that name—SouledOut Christian Bookstore, or something like that—and we thought it would make a cool name for a church. You know, souls and sold out—like a double meaning, ‘sold out for Jesus’ and ‘winning souls to Jesus.’ But also kinda jazzy.”

  “You go, girl!” Florida crowed. The congregation laughed. Back at the soundboard, Josh grinned, as if proud of his sister. Flustered, Amanda sat down, her face bright red.

  It only took one paper vote. “SouledOut Community Church” got over 5
0 percent of the vote the first time around. The teens were excited, shouting “Woo woo woo!” as they pumped their fists and then gathered into a spontaneous huddle, slapping hands and yelling, “SouledOut! SouledOut!” like a team ready to go into action on the court.

  Amanda slipped over to me as I packed up my empty taco salad bowl. “Sorry, Mom. Yachad was kinda cool, too, but like, the whole teen group came up with—”

  I gave her a quick hug. “Honey, it’s fine! Really. It’s a good name. Now go on, shoo, before I put you to work washing dishes.”

  I wanted her out of there before she saw the tears watering my eyes. Sure, I had a twinge of disappointment that the name I suggested got left in the dust. But that wasn’t the reason I felt teary. Even though I’d barely had thirty minutes to get used to the new name, I realized something profound had just happened.

  The teenagers—black and white—had suggested a name for their church.

  The congregation voted for their name.

  Could anything say louder to these young people, “You are important. We respect your ideas. You contribute to our church”?

  And SouledOut? Wow, what a concept! “Oh God,” I whispered under my breath, taking another swipe at the serving table I’d already cleaned, “let it be true for me too.”

  18

  Curiosity got the better of me once we got home. “So, um, what name did you vote for, Denny?” He waggled a finger in front of my face. “Uh-uh-uh! No fair. We don’t tell each other who we vote for in presidential elections. Why would I tell you how I voted at church?”

  “Oh. So you didn’t vote for Yachad.” I caught the warning look in his eye. “Okay, okay, you don’t have to tell me . . . if you go roller-skating with me on Valentine’s Day.”

  He threw up his hands. “Jodi! That’s practically blackmail! Are you sure you don’t want me to take you out to a nice restaurant? Or go see a play or something? Something where the odds are in our favor for staying on our feet?”