The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Rolling

by Neta Jackson

  “Yo-Yo! Just call the Garfields and see if Ruth’s coming. Get a ride with them!”

  Silence on the other end. Then, “I’ll see what I can do.”

  I hung up, frustrated. This was getting ridiculous.

  Stu, Estelle, and I rode together to the hospital later that afternoon, bringing a shopping bag full of raw veggies, dried fruit and nuts, and orange juice to help get Adele and Sissy through the long days and nights at the hospital. Edesa and Delores had come up by el. When we arrived, Delores was huddled with Adele, translating some of the medical gobbledygook so she could understand what was happening with MaDear. Avis picked up both Florida and Becky at the Hickmans.

  Hoshi came in with Nonyameko, eliciting gleeful hugs from the Yadas who attended other churches and hadn’t seen her that morning at SouledOut. “I have only missed one Yada Yada,” the Japanese student protested. “Not a trip around the world.”

  “Si, mi amiga,” Delores beamed, “but missing one Yada Yada means we do not get to see you for several weeks! How is your last semester going?”

  We chatted—too loudly, I thought—in the ICU waiting room as we waited for any others to arrive. To my surprise, Yo-Yo walked in. Alone.

  “How did you get here?” I whispered, taking her parka and tossing it on the growing pile filling up two chairs.

  The pixie-haired girl shrugged, hands in the pockets of her faded denim overalls. “Took a taxi. Wasn’t too bad.”

  I opened my mouth to fuss at her, then shut it. Okay, so maybe it was good for Yo-Yo not to rely on the Garfield limo service all the time. Anyway, Ruth wasn’t here; maybe she couldn’t make it. Yo-Yo headed across the room to say “hey” to Adele, who was giving a rundown—for the millionth time, probably—about MaDear’s condition and treatments.

  Chanda blew in like Little Red Riding Hood—well, not little—in her red wool coat with the fur collar, matching hat, and leather boots with skinny heels. I noticed that none of the other SouledOut church members rushed to say anything to her about the new chairs—had they decided that “anonymous” meant anonymous?—but I sidled up to her and put on my sing-songy voice. “The new chairs were a big hit this morning.”

  “Chairs?” She dumped her coat and hat on top of the pile.

  “Aw, come on, Chanda. Did you donate new chairs to our church or not?”

  She tipped her nose in the air. “Amendment Five. Don’t have to answer. Mi learn ’bout dat in citizenship class.” Then she dropped her voice near my ear. “Did dat fine Oscar Frost like dose chairs?”

  My mouth dropped open. “Chanda George! You didn’t!” I rolled my eyes. “You ordered those chairs to impress the saxophone player?!” I was laughing now. “Don’t forget the donor was ‘anonymous.’ How would he know?”

  “Humph. Well den, no matter. Mi just asking.” She flounced around the room, giving overzealous hugs.

  Avis had just called us to gather around Adele for prayer when Ruth stole in, hair askew, lipstick crooked. “I know, I know, late I am. And I can’t stay long. Ben is driving around with the twins in the car.” She suddenly seemed aware of Yo-Yo in the circle. “Oh! Yo-Yo. What, you sprouted wings and flew? We could have . . .” Her voice trailed off and she seemed momentarily confused.

  Avis wisely took the cue and began to pray as we grabbed hands, ignoring the sullen looks of the few others in the room. For several minutes, we all prayed at once in quiet voices. “Oh Jesus, we need You now” . . . “Come, Holy Spirit, Comforter, fill this place” . . . “We love You, Lord” . . . “Yes, Lord, yes!” . . . “Bless Your name, Father” . . . “You are Jehovah-Rapha, the God Who Heals!” . . .

  Then Avis led out in a specific prayer for MaDear. “Father God, Your daughter Sally is fighting a tough battle right now. Sickness and pneumonia are ravaging her body. But life and death are in Your hands, Oh God. You created us to be whole, to be strong, to be about the business of the kingdom! Jesus raised up Peter’s mother-in-law from her sickbed, so we know nothing is impossible for You. You can raise MaDear up out of that bed in the ICU and restore her body and her mind.”

  “Yes, Jesus!” and “Hallelujahs” from others rode under Avis’s voice. I squirmed. Heal her mind too? MaDear’s dementia was pretty far gone. On the other hand, Jesus had healed that crazy guy named Legion running naked among the tombs.

  Oh Lord, I breathed silently, I want to believe. Could it actually be?

  Nonyameko picked up after Avis. “Praise the Lord, O my soul; in my inmost being, I praise Your holy name. Praise the Lord, O my soul! We do not forget all Your benefits. For You are the One who forgives all our sins and heals all our diseases, who redeems our lives from the pit and crowns us with love and compassion, who satisfies our desires with good things so that our youth is renewed like the eagle’s! . . .”

  Even though I had heard Nony pray the psalms many times, I felt mesmerized as she prayed Psalm 103. God forgives our sins and heals our diseases—yes! . . . God satisfies our desires with good things—yes! . . . He renews our “youth,” giving us strength and energy to fly rather than plod—yes! . . .

  How true that is, I thought. How easy to take for granted the many small miracles of forgiveness and healing happening daily in this very group, in my own life. Though—I peeked at Ruth and Yo-Yo—God knows we could use a few more.

  As the prayers ended, Avis asked Adele if a few could go into MaDear’s room to anoint her with oil and lay hands on her. Adele nodded and marched resolutely out of the room with Avis and Florida in tow. I doubted whether any hospital staff would deny her.

  I wanted to see MaDear again and would’ve asked, but I knew all of us couldn’t go in there. Avis and Florida soon returned, saying that a doctor came in and wanted to talk with Adele about switching MaDear to another antibiotic. Florida shook her head. “They talkin’ ’bout some kind of chest physiotherapy—somethin’ to clear her lungs out, so she can breathe easier. Ain’t a pretty sight. But . . .” She grinned. “We got her anointed and prayed over ’fore they chased us out.”

  We untangled the pile of coats and started to leave the ICU floor. While we waited for the Down elevator, I nudged Ruth. “Ruth,” I murmured, “why does Ben always have to drive you? Especially if it means bundling the twins up and taking them out, or driving circles around the hospital. You drove to Yada Yada on Super Bowl Sunday—I saw you!”

  Ruth grimaced. “So call me a criminal. What, they expect a mother of twins to remember to renew her license?” She rolled her eyes. “Ben, of course, conveniently ‘forgot’ my license had expired when he wanted to watch the Super Bowl with his buddies. But his mind is sharp as a fox now. ‘Get your license! Get your license!’ he says. How, I ask? I drive myself, I break the law, and who wants to take along a grumpy husband and my two little oysters”—she kissed her fingers twice, like a little blessing.

  The elevator door slid open. Half the group crowded inside. “Yo-Yo, wait!” Ruth waved her hand. “If you want a ride—” But the door slid closed. We heard the car whirr and fade. She looked at me and frowned. “What mishegoss is that?”

  TEMPERATURES DIPPED THAT WEEK back into the Ice Age, but at least no new snow. Still, I lusted for spring, when I could send my class full of Tiggers into the playground so they could boing boing outside rather than off the walls—sometimes literally.

  I was shouting, “Caleb Levy! Sit down!” for the fourth time on Tuesday when my classroom door opened and Avis Douglass motioned to me. Embarrassed, I held up my finger and nodded that I’d be there in a moment, then marched to Caleb’s desk and placed my hand firmly on his shoulder. “If you get out of your seat once more, young man,” I murmured, “or if I hear your voice even once while I am speaking to Mrs. Douglass, you will sit in the principal’s office the rest of the day. Understand?”

  The boy gave a slight nod, bottom lip stuck out in a pout. Like his ears, I thought uncharitably, as I gave the class instructions to complete the math paper I’d just handed out. “In silence,” I added before stepping out
into the hallway.

  Avis took a deep breath. “She’s gone.”

  “Gone? You mean . . . Rochelle?” I couldn’t fathom why.

  Avis shook her head. “No. MaDear. She died this morning about six o’clock. I just got a call from Adele.”

  I took a step back, as if an invisible hand had slapped me. Gone? But . . . hadn’t we just pounded heaven with our prayers Sunday night? How could she—

  Avis touched my shoulder. “We can talk later. I know you need to get back to your class. But I thought you’d want to know sooner rather than later.” She gave me a half smile, her eyes sad. She seemed weary. “God knows, Jodi. He’s in control.”

  I watched her walk down the hall toward the school office, her usual erect posture slightly deflated. Was she saying that for my benefit? Or hers?

  I tried to get a breath, but I seemed to have a slow leak, draining the energy out of my body. MaDear was gone? Dead? In my mind, I saw her wrinkled, arthritic hand gently stroking Denny’s head when he’d knelt beside her and asked for her forgiveness that strange day two Christmases ago. The image sent a shudder through my body.

  Couldn’t go there . . . I had to get through the rest of the day.

  I gulped another prayer. God, this is hard. I know she’s old and has to go sometime, but . . . My whole body felt tied in knots; I shook myself, as if shaking would loosen up my neurons and make them function again.

  I pulled open the door to my classroom and stepped inside. Several pairs of eyes peeked at me guiltily, as if wondering if I’d caught them doing . . . whatever. I didn’t care. What was a whisper behind hands or a doodle on the math paper or a booger under the desk, when a precious old woman, as much a fixture at Adele’s Hair and Nails as the hair dryers and nail art and weekly chatter, was suddenly gone?

  No, I couldn’t go back to “class as usual.” “Caleb?” I called.

  The boy looked up, startled, mouth open, ready to protest, “I didn’t do anything!”

  “Would you like to choose a chapter book from the bookshelf for us to read? Everyone else, come to the Story Rug . . . That’s right, just leave your math pages on your desk. We’re going to get comfy and listen to a good book . . . Encyclopedia Brown, Caleb? Good choice.”

  AS WORD FLEW FROM PHONE TO PHONE, Stu’s meal plan for MaDear’s homecoming kicked into action, only the food now was for Adele and out-of-town relatives who started arriving the very next day. Estelle took herself over to Adele’s apartment every morning that week and lit into cleaning the house, doing laundry, answering the phone, kicking out visitors so Adele could get some rest, helping Adele find MaDear’s insurance papers, and in general holding things together at the Skuggs household so that Adele could fall apart.

  Florida had dropped by to see Adele when a male cousin from Memphis—who’d just been told to take his feet off the coffee table—fussed at Adele: “Baby, that maid o’ yours is too bossy. You shouldn’t let no maid talk to family like that.”

  According to Florida, Adele had reared up and spit fire. “Estelle is not a maid, and don’t you forget it! She’s family as much as you are, cousin—more so in my book. I see you makin’ more work ’round here, ’stead of helpin’ out.”

  “Couldn’t help myself,” Florida had written in an e-mail to the Yada Yadas. “I bust out laughing. Don’t want to say Manna House burning down was a good thing, but the day Stu invited Estelle to move in was like a gift from the Wise Men.”

  Estelle called from Adele’s on Thursday to say that visitation was scheduled for one o’clock on Saturday at Paul and Silas Apostolic Baptist Church, the funeral would begin at two, and Adele wanted Denny to read the scripture during the service.

  Denny scratched his chin nervously when I delivered the news. “Uh, I don’t know, Jodi. I’m scheduled to do that Captives Free prison training Saturday.”

  “Denny!” I gaped at him. “You can’t mean that’s more important than showing up at MaDear’s funeral, do you?”

  “I didn’t say that. It’s just . . . let me get my information sheet.” A moment later, he was back. “Okay.” He blew out a breath. “The training is from eight to one. If I go straight from there to the church, I ought to make it in time for the funeral. Maybe even time to spare.”

  “Except that means you’ll have the car,” I grumbled. “How are we supposed to get there?”

  The phone rang, cutting us off. “We’ll figure it out,” he called over his shoulder. “. . . Hello?” He listened for several moments. “Okay, mi hermano. That’s good news. We’ll be praying with you. Adios.”

  Denny looked at me, a grin slowly deepening his side dimples. “That was Ricardo. His job application was accepted by Midwest Movers. They only cover eight states—so most trips will only take two to three days, both ways.”

  I felt a pang. Good news . . . and bad? “What about his mariachi band?”

  Denny shrugged slightly. “He doesn’t know. José’s going to fill in for him for now if he can’t make it. But the good thing is, Jodi, Ricardo said he’s taking the trucking job—band or no band—because he knows he has to put first things first. ‘Mi familia,’ he said. ‘They are most important.’ ”

  23

  The day of MaDear’s funeral dawned bright, clear, and cold—not a hard-edged, bitter cold, but softened by the sun, hinting at spring.

  Still, I shivered inside my robe as I half-pushed, half-carried Willie Wonka up the back porch stairs after his morning pee. But the shiver seemed to come from deep inside, not just the snap in the air on my skin. “Come on, old boy,” I murmured, shutting the door behind us and attaching a can of dog food to the electric can opener. “Eat some breakfast, will you? Gotta keep your strength up.” For some reason, my eyes misted as I spooned half the can into Wonka’s dog dish. “Eat . . . please eat,” I whispered.

  Willie Wonka looked up at me with his liquid brown eyes, then lowered his muzzle to the dish and nibbled.

  “Good boy.” I filled a mug with fresh coffee and settled into the recliner in the front room for some prayer time. But my Bible remained closed on my lap. Why did I feel so . . . low? As if Wonka’s obvious decline and MaDear’s death were pressing my spirit down into the mud. After all, I tried to reassure myself, Willie Wonka was still his loveable, sweet self, in spite of slowing down. Waaay down. But he didn’t seem to be in pain, thanks to the meds the vet had given him. And MaDear had lived a long, full life. The last few years had been distorted by mental confusion, which had to have been stressful for MaDear herself, as well as Adele. Shouldn’t we feel glad that the end was quick, without a long, painful illness?

  With a twinge of guilt, I remembered how relieved I’d felt when my grandmother died. I was barely a teenager when she came to live with us in Des Moines. Gram had dominated our life with her complaints. The whole family had to tiptoe around her needs. My older brothers dealt with the Gram Invasion by staying out of the house as much as possible, hanging out with their friends. But as the only girl, I had to share my room with that impossible woman, who felt free to poke around in my dresser drawers when I was at school. I didn’t shed a tear when she died. In fact, I would have shouted “Hallelujah!” if I’d been a hallelujah-shouting person then.

  Was Adele feeling relieved that MaDear was gone? And guilty that she felt relieved?

  At least Adele had treated her mother with compassion, bringing her mother as best she could into her life at Adele’s Hair and Nails, giving her comforting things to do to keep her busy, like sorting the buttons from the old button jar and looking through old photos . . . old photos that brought up memories, both painful and sweet, even in MaDear’s confused mind.

  A tear slid down my face. “Oh God,” I groaned, “forgive me for being such a selfish pig when I was a teenager, never once thinking about life from Gram’s point of view. All I thought about was how she disrupted my life.” For the first time ever, I wished I could hug my grandmother once more, ask her to tell me stories from her life as a girl, ask her to forgive me f
or not understanding what it meant to get old.

  I blubbered for a few minutes, my feelings all mixed up because I’d loved MaDear more than my own grandmother. Finally, I mopped my face, blew my nose, and headed back to the kitchen, still feeling depressed. But I needed to get some laundry done so we’d have clean clothes for MaDear’s funeral.

  AS IT TURNED OUT, Denny got a ride with Peter Douglass to the Captives Free Jail and Prison Ministry training that morning, so we were able to take our minivan after all. Josh drove, looking like a Gap ad in a rumpled shirt and tie, his increasingly shaggy hair caught back in a small, sandy ponytail at the nape of his neck.

  From shaved head to ponytail . . . didn’t this boy-turning-man know about that lovely concept called moderation? I sighed and kept my mouth shut.

  We picked up the Hickman family and Becky Wallace. That put eight in the car and we only had seven seatbelts. Carla and Cedric clamored to ride in the “way back,” but I insisted on them having seatbelts. I finally allowed Amanda to ride back there and prayed all the way to Paul and Silas that no one would slam us in the rear.

  Even when we found the church on Kedzie, we had to drive around a couple of blocks before we found a parking space. I had visited Paul and Silas Apostolic Baptist a year earlier with Yada Yada, but this was a first for the rest of my family. I’d warned Amanda about the head coverings, but even though there was a basket available with the little “doilies,” as Flo called them, for those without a hat, no one was offering them to the many guests coming that day. We waved at Avis and Peter Douglass across the foyer and caught a glimpse of Chanda George arriving with her children, but the foyer was too crowded to actually meet up.

  After hanging up our coats in the coatroom, a female usher with white gloves handed us an order of service with a picture of a young Sally Rutherford Skuggs on the front, and directed us to join the long line moving along the far right aisle. I spotted Delores Enriquez and Edesa Reyes in the line ahead of us. As the line approached the front of the church, people were greeting the family sitting in the front rows and paying their respects at the open casket, which was flanked by a lush garden of roses and white carnations. Most of the crowd was black—though after generations in America, “black” was hardly the word for the rich, rippling shades of brown and tan filling the church, from dark coffee bean to malted milk.