The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Rolling

by Neta Jackson

  She didn’t mention that each one spent the night and ended up in the king’s harem. Smooth move, Ruth.

  “But I—a Jewish girl who had been taken captive from my own country—found favor with the king and I became the new queen of Persia. But that didn’t mean I was safe.”

  My students’ mouths hung open as they listened to the story of Queen Esther’s “Uncle Mordecai,” actually Esther’s older cousin, who wouldn’t bow down to anyone but God, which made the king’s chief adviser very angry. “This man’s name was Haman. Can you say that?”

  All the kids yelled, “Haman!”

  “That name you must remember, because Haman was a very bad man. In Jewish homes, when the story of Queen Esther is told and Haman’s name is mentioned, everyone boos and makes noise with a gragger—like this.” Ruth reached into a bag she’d brought with her, and pulled out one of the noisemakers the twins had been waving the other night. She gave it to me with a smirk. “Here. We’ll let your teacher rattle the gragger, and all the rest of you, boo whenever you hear Haman’s name. Ready?”

  “Boooo!” everyone yelled. I swung the gragger and grimaced. We’d be lucky to make it through Queen Esther without some teacher poking her head in and telling us to be quiet. But at least she’d brought only one of the noisemakers—not thirty!

  Ruth took a deep breath. “Well. Haman”—“Boooo!”—“hated the Jews, and he especially hated Mordecai. He decided he would ask the king’s permission to kill them all! But neither Haman”—“Booooo!”—“nor the king knew that I, Queen Esther, was also a Jew.” She put her finger to her lips, as if telling the children to keep her secret. “Uncle Mordecai told me I must go to the king and beg for the lives of my people. ‘Maybe this is the reason God let you become queen—for such a time as this,’ he said. But I was afraid! Very afraid. No one was supposed to go into the king’s court unless the king asked him to come—not even the queen. I could be killed! But it was either my life—or the lives of all my people.”

  Meanwhile, Ruth said, the king remembered that Mordecai had once saved the king’s life but had never been rewarded. The king asked Haman (“Boooo!”) what he should do for a man he wished to honor. Stuck-up Haman (“Boooo!”) thought the king wanted to honor him. So he slyly suggested putting the king’s own robe on this man, let him ride the king’s own horse, and tell a nobleman to lead the horse all over the city, crying, “This is how the king honors this man!”

  “Good idea!” said the king. “Go and honor Mordecai in this way.”

  The kids laughed and laughed as Ruth nodded solemnly. “Now Haman”—“Boooo!”—“was really mad.”

  As Ruth continued her story of brave Queen Esther, I suddenly remembered that telling Old Testament stories at the Cook County Jail was how Ruth had first met Yo-Yo. Yo-Yo, hardly more than a kid herself and trying to bring up two younger half brothers, had forged a check to put food on the table and clothes on their backs . . . and ended up serving an eighteen-month prison sentence.

  All of us Yada Yadas knew the story. How Ruth and Ben had helped Yo-Yo get on her feet after her release, got her a job at the Bagel Bakery (where nobody seemed to mind the denim overalls she always wore), and became substitute “grandparents” to Pete and Jerry, her teenage brothers. Ruth had brought her protégé to the Chicago Women’s Conference almost two years ago, even though Yo-Yo had been dubious about the “Jesus thing” back then. We all thought our smother-mother Ruth and Yo-Yo the ex-con had forged a bond tighter than family. Yet lately that bond seemed to be unraveling —

  Sheesh. I hadn’t called Florida yet about Saturday. But she was right. We needed to get to the bottom of this mess . . .

  My class clapped and clapped when Ruth finished her story. They really whooped when she passed out the traditional Purim cookie called Hamantaschen, shaped like the three-cornered hat Haman supposedly wore as chief adviser to the king.

  I gave her a hug as she gathered up her props. “Thank you so much for coming, Ruth. My students will never forget Queen Esther.”

  Chanda gave me a hug before she followed Ruth out the door. “Dat story hit me right ’ere.” She tapped her fist over her heart. “God took dat girl out of de poor ’ouse an’ put her in de palace. Irie, mon!”

  “Just like you, Chanda,” I whispered. “Maybe you won that lottery for a reason.”

  “Humph.” She rolled her eyes. “’Cept it didna come wit no king.”

  I PICKED UP FLO Saturday morning at ten, and we drove into the parking lot of Yo-Yo’s apartment building twenty minutes later. She must have been watching for us, because her door popped open, and she leaned over the railing of the walkway that ran the length of the second-story, like a two-story motel. “Be right there!” she hollered.

  Two minutes later, she hopped into the minivan. “Where we goin’? Starbucks?”

  “Thought we’d hit Kaffe Klatch on Lincoln Avenue. It’s close. Okay with you?”

  Yo-Yo shrugged. “Don’ matter ta me. I don’t really like coffee.”

  Florida guffawed. “Well, we do. They got other stuff. How’s Pete and Jerry?”

  We did catch-up on our kids as we headed for the coffee shop and parked along the street. Comfy couches and overstuffed chairs clustered around coffee tables invited customers to sink down and stay a while. “Cool,” Yo-Yo said, flopping down on a couch by the front window. Flo and I ordered a white chocolate mocha and a cappuccino. Yo-Yo settled for soup and a sandwich.

  “Thanks for invitin’ me out,” Yo-Yo said, blowing on her soup. “Haven’t seen you guys for a while.”

  “Uh-huh. Whose fault is that?” Florida got right down to business. “Fact is, that’s what me and Jodi wanna talk to you about. Whassup with you ditching Yada Yada lately?”

  Yo-Yo shrugged. “Oh, you know. Stuff. Chasin’ after Pete an’ Jerry. My mom’s in rehab, thinks she can get the boys back. Drivin’ me nuts.”

  I took the bait. “All the more reason to come to Yada Yada, Yo-Yo. We’ve all got ‘stuff.’ That’s why we pray for each other.”

  “Now hold on here,” Florida said. “Let’s not dance in the mud and cloudy up the water. What I wanna know is . . . whassup with you an’ Ruth? You’ve been ducking out ever since the twins was born.”

  Yo-Yo squirmed and looked away. Finally she muttered, “Nothin’. Things change, is all.”

  “Got that right. Things changed big-time for Ruth an’ Ben when the twins was born.” Florida’s voice softened. “But that don’t mean they don’t care about you any more.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Yo-Yo spit her words out like rotten teeth. “Do they ever call the boys any more? Take ’em places? How ’bout forgettin’ ta pick me up for Yada Yada, huh?” She cussed right out loud. “They don’ know I exist any more!”

  I wanted to protest. Of course Ruth and Ben still cared about Yo-Yo and her brothers! But . . . it might be hard to prove. Had to admit the twins consumed their time and energy. But why couldn’t Yo-Yo understand that? Having babies at their age was a big deal. I was sure it wasn’t personal.

  Half a minute—it felt longer—had gone by and we’d all been silent after her outburst. Then Yo-Yo pushed away her mug of soup, leaned back against the sofa cushions, and folded her arms across the bib of her overalls. “But it don’ matter. The boys an’ me, we all right. We don’ need them two anymore.”

  Ouch. Yo-Yo had leaned hard on Ruth and Ben the past few years as she patched her life together again after getting out of prison. And, now, suddenly, her props weren’t there and she was hurting, big-time.

  “But maybe they need you.” The words were out of my mouth before I had time to think about what I wanted to say.

  Yo-Yo’s eyes narrowed. “Whaddya mean?”

  Florida leaned forward. “What she means is, Ruth and Ben have been there for you and your brothers a long time now, an’ now they ain’t. We’ll grant you that. They off in the ozone somewhere.” She flittered her hand and rolled her eyes, then got serious again. “But maybe that’s good
.”

  Yo-Yo snorted. “What’s good about it?”

  “Hear us out, girl. I said good, ’cause sometimes God knocks the props out from under us when we get too used to leaning up on people for ever’thang. People-help is good, far as it goes. But people gonna let you down. They just human; we all are. Maybe it’s time you start leanin’ on God for a change.”

  Yo-Yo slouched even further down on the couch, hands jammed in her overall pockets, brow furrowed, as if mentally chewing on what Florida was saying. “Maybe.”

  “No maybe about it,” Florida said. “You been spoon-fed on the Word up till now. An’ that’s okay, ’cause you just a baby Christian. But seems to me God is sayin’ it’s time for Yo-Yo Spencer ta grow up. Walk yo’ own walk. Talk yo’ own talk. Give back some o’ what you been given.”

  Yo-Yo picked up her soup mug, stared into it for several long moments. Finally she muttered, “Guess I see what you sayin’ ’bout needin’ to lean on God more. Just”—her face suddenly got blotchy, and she wiped the back of her hand across her eyes—“kinda hurts, ya know? Ruth gettin’ pregnant, Ma gettin’ high . . . it’s always somethin’. Somethin’ more important than me and my brothers. Mom dumped me and my kid brothers ever’ time she shot up, which was most of the time. Then Ruth and Ben showed up—now, poof! They gone too. What was I expectin’? That things would be different?”

  Florida’s eyes and mouth twitched, as Yo-Yo’s words touched a wound not quite healed. “Yeah. Know what you mean, baby,” she said softly. “But I’m here to tell you the truth. God don’t abandon nobody. Ever.”

  We all sat in silence a long time. Finally Yo-Yo looked up, a frown etched between her eyes. “Flo said somethin’ ’bout givin’ back. But don’ seem like Ruth an’ Ben need nobody these days. It’s all ‘Havah this’ and ‘Isaac that,’ actin’ like them babies the only people in the world. What do they need me for?”

  I grinned. “Well, I’ve got one idea. Ben’s still driving Ruth everywhere ’cause she let her license expire, who knows when. But if Ben takes her to the driver’s license facility, they have to take the twins with them, and you know that’s not going to happen. What if we”—I pointed to Yo-Yo and myself—“offer to babysit the twins next weekend so she can get her license? Could be fun! Whaddya say?”

  I PULLED UP IN FRONT of Florida’s house after taking Yo-Yo home. “Thanks, Flo. Glad you asked me to go with you to talk to Yo-Yo. She’s really lonely, poor kid. But I think she . . . what?”

  Florida hadn’t heard a word I said. She was staring at the front of her house. “What are all them big boxes doin’ on the front porch? Somebody just dump they trash on us?” She was out of the car, up the walk, and onto the porch in two seconds.

  I followed. “What is it?”

  The name Wickes Furniture was stamped all over the boxes. We looked closer. “Contents: One wicker loveseat, four cushions” . . . “Contents: One wicker chair, two cushions” . . . “Contents: one side table with shelf ” . . .

  Florida stared at me, mouth dropping. And then we both said it together:

  “Chanda!”

  28

  I had just come out of the church kitchen the next morning, after popping my “No Fail Chicken-and-Rice Casserole” into the oven to slow-bake for the Second Sunday Potluck (“no fail” when I remembered to turn on the oven, as Stu likes to remind me), when I saw Chanda George parking her Lexus. The next moment, Rochelle and Conny climbed out of her car along with Chanda’s three kids. I zipped over to the glass doors to greet them as they all came in, but Chanda held up her hand as she breezed past. “Mi know whatchu tinking, Sista Jodee: not enough seatbelts. But de girl only move in yesterday! Goin’ to take mi at least a week to get a bigger car.”

  I closed my mouth and grinned. That wasn’t what I was thinking, but it was a good point. I slipped over to Avis, who was getting a big hug from Conny. “I sleeped in a big-boy bunk bed, Grammy! On the top! An’ I didn’t fall out, ’cause it gots rails.”

  “Oh you did, did you?” Avis let him go and watched wistfully as the little boy skipped away.

  “So. Rochelle accepted Chanda’s invitation?”

  She nodded. “Yesterday. Rochelle had a long talk with Chanda, looked at the house, realized Conny would have playmates, and she’d have her own bedroom . . . didn’t take her long to say yes.” Avis sighed. “I don’t know how long we can keep it a secret from Dexter. Too many people know. Or they will.” She tipped her chin toward Conny, who was excitedly telling Carla Hickman about sleeping in a big-boy bed.

  “Well, we should at least tell the Yada Yada sisters not to be talking out of school—to anyone. But speaking of Dexter, does he know yet about . . .?” I deliberately didn’t finish my sentence.

  She shook her head. “No. A health professional has been trying to contact him and set up a meeting, but so far he hasn’t returned any of her calls. But it needs to happen soon. Like yesterday. No telling how many other . . .” Her voice dropped off.

  How many other women he’s infected, I mentally finished. I doubted Dexter was going to quit fooling around, though, even if he did find out he had HIV and had infected his own wife.

  The beckoning chords of the song “Here I Am to Worship” announced the beginning of the morning service. Avis squeezed my elbow and whispered, “Just pray, Jodi,” before slipping into the empty chair beside Peter.

  FLORIDA GRABBED MY HAND and cornered Chanda right after the service as the tables were being set up for our Second Sunday Potluck. “Okay, out with it. Did you order me up some wicker porch furniture this week?”

  “Why you ’ave to know? So what if mi did—dat not sound like ‘tank you’ to mi.”

  Florida rolled her eyes. “Chanda! Of course I’m gonna say thank you—but you gotta stop raining down expensive gifts on your friends. It’s . . . awkward. You know we can’t do nothin’ like that for you.”

  “Humph. Don’t de Bible say it more blessed to give dan receive? Just wanted to bless you, Florida Hickman. Send dem back if you don’t want dem.” Chanda pushed past us and headed for Oscar Frost, who was putting away his saxophone.

  Florida scowled as she watched her go. “Humph. Messed that up, didn’t I? Now she thinks I’m an ungrateful jerk.”

  I was distracted by Chanda talking to the saxophonist, her smile big, waving her hands, then pointing out her kids scattered around the room. What was she doing? Oscar Frost had to be ten years her junior—at least! But the twenty-something musician was talking pleasantly with her, his face relaxed and smiling. Not flirting, just friendly. Guess the kid could handle himself. Except . . . he wasn’t the one I was worried about. I didn’t want Chanda to get hurt. Again.

  I turned back to Florida. “So what are you going to do? Send the stuff back?”

  “What?” She shook her head, setting her ’do of little twists bouncing. “I might be a jerk, but I’m not stupid.” She lowered her voice and leaned in. “Next Sunday, Jodi Baxter, is the first day of spring. Week from today, you can find me sittin’ on my porch in that new furniture—rain or shine!”

  OR SNOW.

  A sloppy mix of rain and snow started right in the middle of our church business meeting, while we still sat around the lunch tables. I watched shoppers outside dashing for their cars in the parking lot. Chanda and Rochelle, neither of whom were members of SouledOut, had already left right after the potluck with their kids.

  “. . . to kick off our youth outreach this spring,” Pastor Cobbs was saying. “And I don’t just mean the youth of families in this church.” He swung an arm wide, indicating the streets all around the church. “We’ve got a mission field right here on our doorstep, half a mile in every direction. Gangs, drugs, dropouts, pregnant teens, STDs . . . you name it, kids out there are swimming in it. Brother Rick, you want to say something?”

  Rick Reilly, who’d been the youth group leader at Uptown, stood up. “Oscar Frost . . . Oscar, stand up. That’s right, this young man hides behind his saxophone, but he’s c
oming out with his hands up!” Everyone laughed as Oscar stood, grinning sheepishly. “Anyway,” Rick went on, “Oscar recently volunteered with Captives Free Jail and Prison Ministry, along with some of our other men—Denny Baxter, Peter Douglass, several others. That experience opened his eyes to the importance of getting to these kids before they end up at the JDC. But we need more volunteers and we need new ideas.”

  He picked up a clipboard and handed it to the nearest table. “We’re devoting our March men’s breakfast—next Saturday, brothers—to praying for God’s wisdom and direction for our youth ministry. Right after the breakfast, at ten o’clock, we’re having a youth ministry brainstorming meeting here at the church. If you’re interested—sisters, this includes you—put your name and phone number on the sheet that’s coming around. And if you don’t put your name on the sheet but change your mind next Friday”—more laughter—“come anyway.” Rick sat down.

  I watched the clipboard as it made its way around the room. Josh had been so gung-ho about the potential for youth outreach when our churches merged. But Rick Reilly hadn’t mentioned his name today, and frankly, Josh hadn’t said anything about youth ministry since he and Edesa got up in church and asked for volunteers for the Manna House shelter in January. Well, that was understandable if he couldn’t do both.

  But now that Manna House is defunct . . .

  Two tables over, I saw Josh take the clipboard and hold it in both hands for what seemed like a long time. Then he handed it on.

  My insides mushed. What in the world was going on with our son?

  As usual, the Hickman/Wallace household needed rides after the meeting, so we took Becky Wallace and Little Andy, though Andy begged to go home with us so he could play with “the nice brown doggie.”