The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Rolling

by Neta Jackson

  Becky sighed. “Not today, Andy. We only got a couple more hours till you hafta go back to your”—she practically gagged—“other house.”

  “Another time for sure, Andy,” I said. “Willie Wonka doesn’t play much anymore, but I know he’d love to see you.”

  As we dropped Becky and Little Andy off in front of the Hickman’s, I noticed the large boxes were still on the porch. “What’s that?” Amanda piped up from the third seat. “The Hickmans aren’t moving again, are they?”

  “Nope. Porch furniture, actually.”

  “Oh. Cool. Why don’t we get a porch swing, Mom?”

  I left that one unanswered, wondering whether to say something to Josh, sitting in the front passenger seat next to Denny. As Denny navigated the one-way streets between the Hickmans’ and our house, I spoke my thoughts. “Josh, I noticed you didn’t sign the sheet about youth outreach. I thought that possibility interested you most when our two churches merged.” At the wheel, Denny glanced at me in the rearview mirror, but I couldn’t read what it meant. Too late now.

  Josh turned his head away and looked out the side window. Finally, he said, “Dunno, Mom. Need some time to think about it, I guess.”

  Another glance from the rearview mirror. Okay. I got it. ‘Don’t push it.’

  STU CLATTERED DOWN THE BACK STAIRS, heading for work early Monday morning in semidarkness, just as I was trying to coax Willie Wonka out into the backyard. “Hey! Happy birthday!” I grabbed her on the porch and gave her a big hug. Good thing I’d already looked at the calendar this morning. “What is this? The big thirty-six?”

  She made a face. “Sheesh, Jodi. Can’t I get older without you announcing it to the whole world? Say, you want help getting Wonka down the stairs?”

  “Sure.” With me tugging gently on Wonka’s collar and Stu half-pushing, half-lifting from his tail end, we managed to get the old dog down the four steps from our porch to the backyard.

  “I get home at five-thirty if you want help getting him back up the steps,” she deadpanned over her shoulder as she headed for the garage.

  “Ha! They’re predicting snow tonight. Make that an hour later.” I watched her go. Even at thirty-six, Stu cut a youthful figure with her long, ash-blonde hair flying from beneath her red beret, belted jacket, and pants tucked inside lace-up boots.

  I was still waiting on Willie Wonka, shivering inside my jacket under a heavy cloud cover, when I heard, “Psst. Jodi. Is she gone?”

  I looked up. Estelle was leaning over the second-floor porch railing, dressed only in a large loose caftan. Another Estelle sewing project. “Yes, ma’am.” I grinned.

  “I’m fixin’ a birthday dinner for Stu when she gets home. Can you Baxters come up at six o’clock? That would make it a party.”

  “We’d love to.” Just knowing I wouldn’t have to cook dinner tonight was a gift to me. “But get back inside, Estelle! Just looking at you blowing in the wind up there makes me feel like an ice cube.”

  She laughed and disappeared inside.

  The day remained gloomy, with gusts up to fifteen miles per hour. Sheesh. What a dreary day for a birthday, I thought, glancing from time to time out my classroom windows. But if Estelle could cook as well as she could sew, we were in for a treat. Maybe that’s what we all needed—some friend time together, candles, good food, laughter . . .

  I picked up the mail on my way into the house after school and rifled through it as I headed for the kitchen. Oh, great. A letter addressed to Josh from the University of Illinois. Humph. Probably a form letter saying his acceptance a year ago is now out of date and it’s too late to apply for this year, so too bad, forget it. Disgusted, I tossed the letter on the dining room table—and that’s when I saw it.

  Doggy diarrhea all over the kitchen floor. I groaned.

  But where was Willie Wonka? I called his name, even though I knew that didn’t do any good, deaf as he was. But I found him soon enough, crouched under the dining room table, head on his paws, his worried eyes looking up at me as though I’d caught him red-handed with his paw in the cookie jar.

  “Oh, Wonka. Poor baby. Come here, boy . . . come on. It’s all right. You couldn’t help it.” The dog inched his way out from under the table on his belly, still cowering. “What’s the matter, baby?” I stroked his head reassuringly. “You don’t feel good?”

  Then the smell hit me, and I realized that not only the floor needed cleaning up, but the dog too.

  By the time Denny and Amanda came in the back door stomping off slushy snow from their shoes, holding a hot-pink hibiscus plant for Stu, I’d given Wonka a bucket bath, the kitchen and dining room floors smelled of disinfectant, and our old child safety-gate now barricaded the doorway between kitchen and dining room. “What happened?” they chorused, looking from the gate to the dog penned into the kitchen.

  I made a face. “I’ll spare you the gory details. But we better keep him in the kitchen until he feels better—and take him out more often.”

  Josh still wasn’t home from work by six o’clock, so I left a note for him on the dining room table to come upstairs when he got home, and the three of us braved the half-hearted snow flurry to hustle up the outside back stairs to Stu and Estelle’s apartment. Estelle had outdone herself: tablecloth, candles, Stu’s china, and a savory meal of chicken and dumplings, Cajun red beans and rice, green beans swimming in butter, and steaming hot cornbread.

  Stu shook her head at the spread, embarrassed and pleased at the same time. “You cooked. You found my china. My parents sent me a card and a package—first one in years. Somebody brought me flowers. It doesn’t get better than this!”

  “Well, put that overgrown bush in the middle of the table and let’s get started,” Estelle fussed. “Food’s gettin’ cold.”

  We were halfway through the meal when Josh came in the back door. “Sorry. Got a ride, but traffic was awful. Uh, happy birthday, Stu.” He slid into the empty chair, tattooed arm peeking out of his cut-off sleeveless sweatshirt, hair pulled back into a ponytail. “Don’t let me stop the conversation.”

  Stu waved her fork. “Uh . . . thanks. I was just about to give Estelle some good news. Found out that organizations providing in-home elder care often use Certified Nurse Assistants. And several colleges in the Chicago area have CNA programs.”

  Estelle frowned. “College? How many years do I hafta go to school?”

  “Not years. Months. Maybe two or three.”

  Estelle brightened. “Really? I could do that.”

  “And experience doing elder care is a real plus, so your work with MaDear should be a good reference.”

  “Lord, Lord.” Estelle rolled her eyes. “The Lord knows I got experience. Took care of my mother, God rest her soul, and my great-aunt . . . humph. MaDear was a kitten compared to my great-aunt. Mm-mm. Sure glad I don’t believe in reincarnation.”

  We laughed and helped clear the table—except for Josh’s plate—while Estelle brought in hot peach cobbler and set it in front of Stu. “Had to use canned peaches,” she grumbled. “Just ain’t the same, ain’t the same a’tall.”

  Couldn’t prove it by us. We cleaned up the peach cobbler and sat back with overstuffed sighs. “This was fun,” Amanda said. “We oughta do this more often. I mean, we don’t have to wait for a birthday, do we?”

  “That’s a great idea,” I said. “In fact, I was thinking we should invite Precious and Sabrina to come for supper some weekend soon.” Was it my imagination, or did Josh wince? He busied himself finishing up his peach cobbler and said nothing. I ignored His Sullenness. “Estelle, do you know if they’re still at the Salvation Army shelter? You and Stu can come, and it’ll be a party.”

  “Good idea,” Stu said. “Except let Estelle and me help with the cooking. That’ll be fun.”

  We said goodnight and drifted downstairs behind the kids. “Estelle seems to be a good housemate for Stu,” I murmured to Denny as we came in the back door. The floor was still clean, thank God. “And looks like Wonka is h
olding his own.”

  We stepped over the safety gate into the dining room. I noticed that the envelope from the University of Illinois had been opened and the letter stuffed halfway back inside. I pulled it out, expecting a generic form letter. But my heart suddenly tripped a light fantastic.

  “Dear Joshua Baxter,” it said. “Congratulations! You have been accepted into the undergraduate program for the 2004–2005 school year . . .”

  29

  I handed the letter to Denny. He skimmed it, eyebrows going north. “Wait a minute. This isn’t U of I. It’s UIC. . . Josh? Come here at minute!”

  What? I picked up the envelope. Denny was right. This wasn’t from the University of Illinois in Champaign/Urbana. The letterhead said UIC—University of Illinois Chicago Circle campus.

  A moment later, Josh appeared in the archway of the dining room. “Yeah?”

  Denny waved the letter. “Were you going to tell us about this?”

  Josh shrugged. “It only came today. Found it lying on the table.”

  “I mean, tell us that you’d applied to UIC. When did that happen?”

  Another shrug. “Right after New Year’s I guess. Deadline was January 15.”

  Denny and I looked at each other. “You’d already been accepted at U of I,” I said. “Why did you decide to apply to the Chicago campus? I mean, wouldn’t it have been simpler just to submit your intent to enroll at U of I? What about the application fee?”

  “I’m working, Mom. Figured it was up to me.”

  I nodded, still flummoxed. “Guess I, um, owe you an apology. I thought you’d just let the college deadlines pass—or decided not to go next year.”

  “Don’t sweat it.” He turned to go.

  “Wait a minute, Son. Sit down for a minute, okay?” Denny pulled out a chair from the table. The three of us sat. “Does this mean you’ve decided to go to school this fall?”

  Josh diddled with his fingers on the tabletop. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “But . . . why did you apply if you’re not sure?” I asked.

  Another shrug. “Well, I was leaning that way. When I applied, I mean. But . . .”

  “And now?” Denny prodded.

  Josh sighed. “I dunno, Dad. Things change, that’s all.” He threw open his hands. “Look. I know you guys want me to cough up my five-year plan. But I don’t know what I want to do next fall. I don’t know what I want to do now. At least give me credit for sending in the application.” He pushed away from the table. “Can we leave it now?”

  Denny waved him off. “Yeah, okay.” But I could see he was ticked off.

  When we heard Josh’s bedroom door close, Denny leaned forward. “I don’t get it, Jodi. What’s going on? What did he mean, ‘things change’? What?”

  I was tempted to smile. “You sound like me.” But I was thinking. “Okay. He sent that application in early January. Back then, Josh was upbeat, working his job at Software Symphony, volunteering at Manna House with Edesa, eager beaver about the church merger and Pastor Cobbs’s vision for youth ministry. A few weeks later . . . the fire leveled Manna House. Since then, he’s been like a cardboard cutout of himself. That’s what, I think.”

  “Okay. You’re right. I’ve been trying to allow for that. It was traumatic for a kid his age. Traumatic for a lot of people, frankly. Good grief, Jodi, when I got the call, I was so scared, thinking about what could have happened to my wife, my son . . .”

  I stared at Denny. I didn’t know he’d been scared.

  “But life happens! The world doesn’t stop while we mope around. We pick ourselves up and go on. Why can’t he see that?” Denny slumped back in his chair.

  I shook my head. All the things I’d been thinking the past few weeks were coming out of my husband’s mouth. Laid back, easygoing Denny, spouting off like a Jodi-whale.

  Then, to my astonishment, his voice got husky. “Now, someone like Mark Smith, he’s got good reason to be spinning his wheels. After the beating those punks gave him, he’s not sure he can teach again. Maybe he’s afraid to try, afraid to find out he can’t. But even with Mark, it tears me up to see him not even try. He has so much to offer—still has so much to offer.”

  “Wait a minute, Denny. Weren’t we talking about Josh? We shouldn’t—”

  “I know, I know. I just mean, Josh is a kid who’s got a lot going for him. But here he is, acting like he’s hit a brick wall the first time he hits a bump in the road. Frankly, I don’t care what he does—go to school, don’t go to school, do this, do that. Just . . . set a goal and go for it!” He threw up his hands. “But what are we supposed to do?”

  I felt a strong nudge in my spirit. There was something we could do. I laid a hand over my husband’s. “I don’t know either, Denny. But let’s pray for Josh—you and me. Right now. Maybe in our bedroom. You know, ‘where two or three are gathered together in My name’—that kind of praying. Asking God for wisdom. Asking God to move mountains. Trusting God . . . all that stuff it says in the Bible but is so hard to do.”

  A small smile cracked his tense features. “You’re right. Again. Gee, twice in five minutes.” He stood up, our fingers interlocked, and we headed toward our bedroom. “I kinda like this, Jodi.”

  IF NOTHING ELSE, our prayer time together set me free emotionally. Or spiritually. It was sometimes hard to separate the two. But agreeing with Denny Sunday night to put Josh in God’s hands helped me loosen up the rest of the week. I didn’t need to keep bugging Josh. I didn’t need to keep bugging God. God was at work. God was in control.

  And okay, had to admit I was proud of Josh for applying to UIC without us bugging him. Sheesh. That alone ought to give me hope that my firstborn was going to grow up.

  Denny and I really should pray together more often, I thought several times that week. But in the helter-skelter of everyday life, it was harder than I thought. Thursday night rolled around, Denny was down at the JDC leading a Bible study for kids awaiting trial, and we still hadn’t prayed together again. He’d mentioned one kid, who had to decide whether to take a plea bargain and serve two years, or fight his case and go to trial. And another, who rarely spoke up but came every Thursday . . . and another who seemed a natural-born leader. And then there was Chris Hickman.

  We should pray for all these boys by name together! See what God would do! Well, maybe Saturday morning would be a good time . . .

  I forgot that Saturday was the men’s breakfast at SouledOut, and Denny had to leave the house early. Correction. Earlier. In order to hob-nob and pray with “the Bada-Boom Brothers” an hour before the breakfast, which meant picking up Ricardo Enriquez down in the city, who “just happened” to be home for the weekend in spite of his long-distance trucking job. I felt a twinge of resentment at not having any mornings that week together—and then wanted to slap myself upside the head. Hoo boy! I should talk. Denny probably felt that way every time Yada Yada met on Sunday evenings.

  Well, we just had to find a way where it wasn’t either/or.

  “I need the car when you get back,” I told Denny, as he did an awkward hop over the child safety gate still penning Willie Wonka in the kitchen. “Yo-Yo and I are going to babysit the twins so Ben can take Ruth to get her driver’s license.”

  “Ben? That’s later, right? Because I think he’s coming this morning to—” Just then Denny caught his pant leg on the gate and nearly did an end-zone tackle with the toaster. “Good grief, Jodi! Can’t we get rid of this gate? Wonka hasn’t had any more accidents this week, has he?”

  I rolled my eyes at him. “Two. You just weren’t here to clean them up.”

  “Well, put him outside then. It’s supposed to get up to sixty today. Maybe we need to build a doghouse or something.”

  As if knowing we were talking about him, Willie Wonka slunk over to the air vent that heated the kitchen and sank down on top of it with a sigh.

  THE OUTDOOR THERMOMETER WENT UP, but a drizzly rain came down. When Denny returned with the car, I left Wonka in the kitchen wi
th the gate still in place. “Take him out a couple of times, will you?” I asked, grabbing my purse and the car keys. “Precious and Sabrina are coming tonight for supper, and I don’t want the house smelling like disinfectant.”

  “Better than the alternative,” Denny snorted, head inside the refrigerator. He came out with a carton of orange juice. “Have you seen Josh? He didn’t show up for the youth ministry meeting at SouledOut—at least not by the time I left. I didn’t stay; knew you needed the car.”

  I shook my head and jerked a thumb toward the bedrooms. “He came out once, looked at the rain, and went back into hibernation.”

  “Humph.” Denny swigged straight from the orange juice carton, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve as he capped it. “Hey, guess what. Ben came to the men’s breakfast this morning—actually, came to the prayer time beforehand with Peter, Mark, Carl, and Ricardo. I invited Oscar Frost too—that made seven. I think he’ll fit in. Last Thursday night when we rode back from the JDC, I sensed he’d really like a mentoring relationship with some older guys.”

  I suppressed a smile. The Bada-Boom Brothers . . . nope, nope. Gotta quit that, Jodi. It might stick.

  “Anyway,” Denny said, replacing the orange juice back in the fridge, “Ben took us by surprise. Peter asked how we could pray for him, and he got all croaky, said he just wanted to thank God for his babies. Before the twins, life was kind of like the old black-and-white TVs. Now everything is in living color.”

  “Ben said that?” I edged toward the door.

  “Yep. And . . . oh, right. You’ve gotta go. But remind me to tell you something else when you get back.”

  Oh, great. I did have to go, but now that “something else” would bug me for the next three hours.

  I picked up Yo-Yo, and we arrived at the Garfields’ house around eleven. Ruth’s usually neat flower garden bordering the front of the brick bungalow was a tangle of last year’s dead flowers and weeds. Being “huge with child” last fall, she didn’t do her usual surgical fall cleanup. But I had no doubt she’d have the twins out here in a month or two, teaching them—at the tender age of five months—the fine points of gardening.