The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Rolling

by Neta Jackson

  I nodded, grabbed MaDear’s button jar, and made up a counting game for Conny, sorting buttons into the egg carton cups. “Can you put one button in this cup? . . . Good job! How about two buttons in this one?” While he was busy, I peeked out front. Rochelle and Avis were talking to two uniformed police officers, one of them female.

  Avis finally returned, a smile for Conny. “Hey. Can I play?” She turned to me. “Thanks, Jodi. The coast is clear, and Adele wants you in the chair. Rochelle’s under the dryer. But I called Peter. He’s coming to take them home, to make sure . . . you know.”

  I gave her a wordless hug, left her with Conny, and made my way to where Adele waited for me, plastic cape in one hand, the other on her hip. As I settled in the chair, she whipped the cape around my shoulders and muttered, “I’m gonna rename my shop.”

  A grin tickled my lips as I watched her in the mirror. “Change it to what?”

  “Adele’s Rescue Mission. Whaddya think?”

  ROCHELLE WASN’T AT WORSHIP with Avis and Peter the next morning. Probably afraid to take Conny out of the house! Afraid that Dexter was going to find her and snatch her baby. But Avis was worship leader that morning, and her normally robust style seemed even more passionate as she read the call to worship from Psalm 139:

  “Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, You are there! If I make my bed in the depths, You are there. If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there Your hand will guide me, Your right hand will hold me fast . . .”

  She looked up from her fat Bible. “Think about it, church! When you leave your house in the morning, God’s presence is there! When you crawl into bed at night, God is there. When you stop at the barbershop or the hair salon”—she closed her eyes, lifted a hand, and interrupted herself—“Oh, thank You, Jesus! Yes . . . God is already there.”

  I blew out a breath. Denny, who’d heard the story from me, squeezed my hand as the praise team followed the call to worship with a stand-and-clap version of the traditional gospel song, “I Go to the Rock.” The “fine” Oscar Frost really wailed on his saxophone as we leaned into the vamp: “When I need a shelter, when I need a friend, I go to the Rock!”

  My own spirit felt like it was going to go right through the roof as hands and voices lifted all over our storefront sanctuary, repeating the vamp. The experience yesterday at Adele’s Hair and Nails had rattled my cage, too, giving me a tiny taste of what Rochelle must feel like all the time, never feeling safe, hovering like a mother hen over her chick, trying to protect it from the fox in the henhouse. But Jesus had protected Rochelle and Conny yesterday—using even a toddler’s need to go potty as perfect timing. I wished Rochelle had come to worship that morning, to be reminded that,“When I need a shelter, when I need a friend, I go to the Rock!”

  The whole service made me want to shout. I was so glad that SouledOut Community Church put Jesus the Solid Rock right at the center of its praise and worship and teaching. And knowing my own tendency to let everyday worries sift the sand under my feet, I probably needed that reminder at least once a week!

  The Yada Yada sisters who attended SouledOut got our heads together after the service to see what we could do for Ruth’s birthday that evening. “We could order a cake from the Bagel Bakery, ask Yo-Yo bring it,” Stu suggested. “But do we want to do cards? A gift?”

  Florida snorted. “Betcha anythang she’d appreciate a package of disposable diapers from each one of us.”

  Nonyameko frowned. “Oh no.”

  The rest of us chorused, “Oh, yes!” That would be the perfect gift for the mother of three-and-a-half-month-old twins! “Wrap ’em in the funny papers,” Becky snickered.

  As our huddle broke up, I slipped my arm around Hoshi Takahashi’s slender waist and gave her a hug. “Can you come tonight?”

  She shook her head, smiling apologetically. “I am sorry, Jodi. But Sara likes the ReJOYce campus group, so as long as she is willing to go, I think . . . no, I know God wants me to go with her. But . . .” Her silky black hair fell over one shoulder as she looked away. “I do miss you all.”

  “Oh, Hoshi. We miss you too. But you’re right; you are doing the God-thing.”

  How long had Hoshi been a Christian? Two short years? And she’d already had to choose between Jesus and her Shinto family back in Tokyo. Her sturdy obedience to God’s call put me to shame, and I’d been a Christian for decades. Supposedly.

  Then she laughed. “I will send a package of kami omutsu—paper diapers—with Nony for the birthday queen. But you Americans are very strange!”

  I CALLED YO-YO at the Bagel Bakery and told her we were all getting Ruth disposable diapers for her birthday, large or small package, didn’t matter, whatever we could afford, and we’d pick her up if she didn’t mind squishing into the back of Stu’s car with me.

  “Uh . . . Ruth’s birthday? Where’s Yada Yada meetin’ tonight?”

  “Ruth’s house.” I kept my voice light, even as a red flag poked up in my brain.

  “Ah, I dunno, Jodi. Jerry, uh, he need some help with his homework when I get off work. Tell everyone ‘hey’ for me though.”

  She hung up before I could say we wanted to order a cake from the Bagel Bakery. Sheesh. What was that word Ruth sometimes used? . . . Mishegoss. Crazy behavior. Yeah. What in the world was that mishegoss all about!

  With no special cake from the Bagel Bakery, Estelle, Stu, and I picked up a two-layer carrot cake from the grocery store—still cost almost fifteen bucks—when we picked up the disposable diapers. We gift-wrapped the diapers in the car on the way to the Garfields’ house. Ha! The manufacturer should add to the car manual: “The backseat of the Celica is not suitable for gift-wrapping.”

  But backseat gymnastics aside, we were the first ones to pile through the front door of the Garfields’ brick bungalow, squealing like teenagers when we saw the twins sitting in bouncy seats in the middle of the living room. Isaac and Havah were dressed in matching denim jeans and little T-shirts that said, “I’m the Brother” and “I’m the Sister,” both waving noisy toys that didn’t look like any rattles I’d ever seen. Ruth noticed our puzzled faces. “Graggers they are. Traditional noisemaker during Purim.” She winked at me. “Your third graders will love ’em.”

  Ack! Should I have second thoughts about Ruth coming to my class?

  “Ooo. I need a baby fix bad,” Estelle said. She reached out for Havah, then stopped and eyed Ruth. “May I?”

  “Not if you’ve had a cold in the last two weeks!” Ben hollered from the next room.

  “Don’t mind him,” Ruth sniffed. “He’s the one with the cold. I made him stay away from the twins a whole week!”

  I picked up and cuddled little Isaac, who looked at me solemnly with his big, dark eyes, the large red birthmark vivid on his otherwise perfect face. “You, little guy, are going to be a heartbreaker when you grow up.” Though, knowing the cruelty of children, my heart ached, realizing the birthmark would invite teasing when he started school. I kissed his soft forehead, drinking in the clean smell of baby powder. But I didn’t get to keep him long, as other Yada Yadas arrived and everyone wanted a “baby fix.”

  But we finally got started by bringing in our generic grocery store cake with five flaming candles—one for each decade—and bestowed a pile of wrapped packages on Ruth. She protested when she saw all the “gifts,” but after unwrapping the first three and realizing what we’d done, she laughed with glee. “Diapers, Ben!” she yelled into the next room. “Enough diapers for another set of twins!”

  If Ben responded, he was drowned out by gleeful laughter in the living room.

  A few people had brought silly cards declaring, “Over the Hill!” and “Congratulations at the Half-Century Mark!” Opening one, Ruth took out a gift certificate, and her eyes widened at Chanda. “What are you, a stockholder at Talbots Kids?” Ruth tsktsked through her teeth. “Too much it is, Chanda.”

  Cha
nda shrugged one shoulder. “Not so much. Dem babies grow so fast, dey outta dey cloes in one minit.”

  The rest of us had fallen silent. Didn’t we agree on bringing disposable diapers? What was Chanda trying to do, upstage the rest of us? I felt a poke in my side and heard Florida hiss, “We gotta rein that girl in.”

  Stu disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a plastic garbage bag, gathering up wrapping paper, newspaper comic pages, plastic forks, and paper plates with cake crumbs. Avis smiled. “I guess it’s time to start our prayer time. ‘Martha’ has taken care of everything so now we can be ‘Marys’ and sit at Jesus’ feet.”

  “Huh?” Becky Wallace looked bewildered. “Is that Stu’s real name? Martha?”

  The room dissolved in laughter. Becky’s face colored. Finally Avis gasped, “That wasn’t fair to you, Becky. I was referring to a story in the New Testament about two sisters, Mary and Martha. Martha was the efficient one, who made sure everything and everybody was taken care of. She fussed at Jesus, because Mary was ignoring the dishes and just sat at Jesus’ feet, listening to him teach. But Jesus said Mary had chosen well.”

  “Hm,” Stu grunted. “Always did think Martha got a bum rap.”

  Her comment was met with hoots and clapping. From the other room Ben shouted, “Hey! Pipe down in there! I can’t hear the TV.”

  “Sisters, sisters.” Avis held up both hands and quieted us down. “I did not mean to get us off track. And Stu, I did not mean to disparage your quick cleanup. I don’t think Jesus belittled Martha’s gift of service either. Only when she let her good deeds keep her from sitting at Jesus’ feet, soaking up His words. So . . . let’s just worship Him a few minutes before moving into our sharing time.”

  We sang a couple of quiet, worshipful songs, and I noticed that Isaac had fallen asleep over Delores’s shoulder. Havah, cuddled in Adele’s arms and sucking two fingers, was fast on her way out too. When it was time to share requests, Estelle piped up and said she needed a job. “But I loved caring for Adele’s mother. I’d like to do more elder care. Does anyone know if I need to get certified or go to school or . . .?”

  “I could find out for you,” Stu said.

  Florida pumped a hand in the air. “Somebody else’s MaDear gonna be sayin’ thank ya, Jesus, when you show up on her doorstep, Estelle.”

  That was followed by “Amen to that” and “That’s right.” Adele nodded, but she simply jounced baby Havah on her knees, as if she didn’t trust herself to speak.

  Avis glanced around the room. “Edesa? How can we pray for the future of Manna House? Are all the former residents cared for?”

  I leaned forward. Josh had said next to nothing about Manna House for the past few weeks, and I’d hated to ask, not wanting to rub it in that the place had burned down. What was happening to the women’s shelter?

  “Gracias. Thank you for asking.” Edesa, her dark curls pulled away from her high forehead, sighed. She seemed emotionally tired. “Yes, shelter has been found for all the residents—”

  “El Dios es bueno!” Delores cried, beaming.

  God is good, I translated mentally. Maybe I could learn Spanish after all.

  “—but even before Manna House burned down,” Edesa frowned, “the need for more shelter for homeless women was very great in this city. Manna House had to turn some away. Now . . . it, too, is gone.” She shook her head sadly. “Maybe they will rebuild. The last I heard, the board wants to build a new building on the old site. But . . . where to get the money?”

  “Could take a long time if you don’t want government money,” Stu murmured. “You need a foundation or something.”

  Edesa threw up a hand. “Si. And in the meantime, our women bounce around from shelter to shelter, which are already overcrowded. It feels like too little, too late—but just pray, sisters. Just pray.” She pressed her fingers against her eyes.

  Avis cleared her throat. “We will pray, Edesa. And please include Rochelle in the prayers.” She briefly shared Rochelle’s close call at Adele’s Hair and Nails the previous day. “Even though Peter is willing to have Rochelle and Conny continue staying with us, Rochelle says Dexter knows where we live. She’s afraid that one day, somehow, he’ll get in the building and take Conny from her when we aren’t home. I don’t know . . .” Avis massaged her hands with her long, tapered fingers, as if working the kinks out of her thoughts. “If she keeps the doors locked . . .”

  “Dat girl can’t live dat way, no how,” Chanda sputtered. “Hiding behind locked doors? She need to come live wit me.”

  “What? Oh, no, Chanda, that’s not what I was asking—”

  “But dat is what mi a-sayin’, Sista Avis. For true. Me new ’ouse is big, eh? Four bedrooms, but we only need t’ree. Dia an’ Cheree, dey always end up sleepin’ in de same bed anyway, don’ like to sleep by demselves. Your grandbaby can sleep in Tom’s room—he’d like dat. Tom never did like bein’ de only mon in de ’ouse. Rochelle can have her own room, pay no money till she get a job. An dat Dexter mon, he don’ know where we live. An’ if he find out . . . ” Chanda drew herself up, crossing her arms across her chest. “Dat mon have to get by mi!”

  27

  Chanda was serious. When our prayer meeting broke up, I saw her buttonhole Avis again. “It’s very generous of you, Chanda,” I heard Avis say. But she seemed flummoxed. “I—I’ll have to talk to Rochelle. And Peter too.”

  “You do dat. You pray ’bout dat too.”

  Everyone else was bundling up in the foyer, talking all at once. “Adios, mis hermanas!” . . . “See you in two weeks!” . . . “Where are we meeting?” . . . “Chanda’s house!” . . . “Anyone talk to Yo-Yo?” . . . “Yeah. Said she had to help her kid brother with homework tonight.” . . . “Huh. I bet.”

  I hung back, wanting to double-check with Ruth about coming to my classroom this week to talk about Queen Esther and Purim. Estelle was willing to take care of the twins—but how to get Estelle here and Ruth to the school if Ben was working?

  Florida grabbed my arm and pulled me aside as the others tromped out the front door. “Jodi. Whatchu doin’ Saturday? Yo-Yo’s day off, right? I think a couple of us sistahs oughta kidnap that girl, find out what’s goin’ on. She ’bout ready to slide right on outta Yada Yada.”

  “Good idea. Gotta check my calendar. It should be okay, though.”

  “Jodi!” Stu yelled from the sidewalk. “Are you coming? It’s snowing!”

  “Just a minute!” I yelled, waving out the door. A flurry of the white stuff sparkled in the light falling from the Garfields’ front window. “Sheesh. She’s right.”

  “Oh no!” Florida peeked over my shoulder and groaned. “It’s March. It’s not supposed to snow. I’ll never get to sit outside on my white wicker porch furniture.”

  “It’s snowing?” Chanda bustled up, pulling on her snazzy red coat and hat. “What crazy sista tinking ’bout sitting in she porch furniture?”

  Becky, waiting for Florida, snorted. “Hickman, here. Except she don’t have any wicker porch furniture.”

  “Humph. I can dream, can’t I? . . . Oh, hey, Avis. We’re riding with you, right?” Florida and Becky ducked out into the snow flurry with Avis. “Call me ’bout Saturday, Jodi!” Florida called back.

  Chanda frowned at the snow. “Uh-uh-uh. Mi don’ like to drive dat new car in snow. Dis might be a good time to soak up some Jamaica sunshine!”

  “Don’t worry, Chanda. It’s not sticking. This won’t last half an hour.” Suddenly an idea tickled my brain. Chanda. Chanda had a car . . . and a license. And she wasn’t working anymore, not since she’d won the lottery . . .

  I WAS RIGHT. The snow was gone by the next morning. And Ruth was coming to my classroom! I was so excited on my way to school the next morning, I felt like a little kid humming along with Jiminy Cricket: “Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay!”

  Spring was coming! A sure thing—in spite of today’s temperature, which hovered in the low forties. Hm, I thought. I ought to have that same k
ind of confidence in God’s promises in the Bible. A sure thing—even if the circumstances don’t look like it at the moment. Same God, isn’t it? Spring Creator and Promise Giver?

  “Zip-a-dee-do-dah!” Yikes! Did I sing that out loud? Giggling, I gave up and warbled, “. . . wonderful feeling, wonderful day!” Not a typical “praise” song, but to me it was.

  When I got to school, I told my class that in honor of Women’s History Month, we were going to have a special visitor this week—Queen Esther of Persia. I saw Caleb Levy’s eyes widen and his hand shot up. “I know that story! We just celebrated Purim this weekend!” He nodded knowingly at his classmates. “It’s a Jewish holiday.”

  “That’s right, Caleb. Queen Esther lived many centuries ago, but her story is told and retold every year right up to the present day.”

  By the time Ruth arrived on Wednesday, excitement was practically at fever pitch. She had told me she was going to tell the story of Queen Esther in first person, to make it come alive, but I had to grin when she came into the classroom dressed in a long gauzy gown, a “cloak” with a gold brocade trim down the front, and a thin silver crown on her head. My class gasped in unison as she came in.

  Chanda—who’d picked up Estelle, dropped her off at the Garfields to take care of the twins, and brought Ruth to Bethune Elementary—slipped into the room behind Ruth and sat down on a chair in the back of the room. She grinned at me and put a finger to her lips, as if promising she’d be quiet.

  “An old woman I am now,” Ruth began—a smart beginning, since she didn’t exactly look young and beautiful as one always imagined Queen Esther—“but I will tell you how I came to be Queen of Persia, and why Almighty God put me in the palace.”

  Not one child cried, “Foul! Separation of church and state!” They were hanging on every word.

  As I listened to her tell the familiar story—well, familiar to me—Ruth indeed seemed to transform into a majestic queen, keeping her story alive for future generations. “Well! When Queen Vashti ignored her husband, the king decided he needed a new queen. All the beautiful girls”—Ruth batted her eyelashes, setting off giggles all over the room— “were called to the palace, and one by one we were taken to see the king.”