The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Rolling

by Neta Jackson

  “I just wanna say, Stu’s somethin’ else. I don’t know many folks who woulda taken me into their house, just to give me an address so I could get out on parole. I know I ain’t the easiest person ta live with—”

  Stu put a hand over her mouth, hiding a grin.

  “—but she took a chance on me anyhow. Now I’m in my own place, but she still workin’ the system to help me get Andy back. So on her birthday I just wanna say, I love ya, Stu girl.” Becky Wallace grabbed Stu in a bear hug while we all clapped.

  Flo spoke up. “Yeah, well, Stu found Carla, when DCFS lost track of my baby. An’ she treated my man like a man, asked him ta help her move, let him know she needed him, trusted him with the job. Men like Carl, they need ta be needed. So I thank ya, too, girl.” Another big hug.

  “I wasn’t sure if I wanted Stu to move into the apartment above us,” I admitted. “Even though I’m older than Stu, I always felt like a little kid around her, she’s so . . . so good at everything.”

  A chorus of “Hear, hear!” went up, laughter and clapping.

  “But I have to say, Stu is nothing if not a loyal friend. She might make me feel like a dork”—more laughter—“but, frankly . . .” I stopped, realizing that what I was about to say was actually true. “Frankly, she’s more like the sister I never had growing up.” I stepped over to Stu and gave her a tight hug, amid more clapping. “I love you, Stu,” I whispered in her ear.

  “I love you, too, Jodi,” she whispered back. She looked around at all the Yada Yadas sitting all over Chanda’s living room. “Frankly, you all have been the family I didn’t have for so many years—and you still are, even though God’s starting to give my natural family back to me. Now that God and I got honest.” She took the tissue Hoshi handed her and blew her nose.

  Avis smiled. “Looks like we have a lot to give thanks for tonight. Why don’t we continue with our thanksgivings?” Her glance fell on her daughter Rochelle, perched on the arm of Chanda’s leather couch. “I want to praise God and thank Chanda for offering her home to my daughter and grandson.” Now she got teary. More tissues. “In the midst of a tough time for Rochelle, God is also pouring out His blessings. Mm!” Avis raised a hand in the air. “Thank You, Jesus! You are so good! So good!”

  Rochelle smiled shyly at her mother’s spontaneous praise. “I’m thankful to Chanda too. But I also want to say I’m grateful to Nonyameko, who is helping me see that HIV isn’t something to be ashamed of. Fear and silence will only keep me from getting the help I need. Many women and children are suffering from this disease through no fault of our own. Though some people . . .” A flash of anger burned in her eyes.

  Whew. That’s deep, I thought. I had never heard Rochelle speak so boldly.

  The moment of anger passed. “One more thing I am thankful for. My stepfather, Peter Douglass”—Rochelle used the word deliberately, tossing a teasing smile at her mother—“is starting a Manna House Foundation to raise money to rebuild the shelter.”

  I heard a gasp from Edesa. “Oh! Es verdad? It is true?”

  Avis smiled. “Yes. Peter came home from the men’s breakfast at SouledOut yesterday with this great idea. The last few months, some of our husbands have been meeting before the monthly breakfast to pray for one another, that God would use them in new ways. For Peter, starting a foundation to rebuild the shelter that had taken in our own daughter seemed like a way to give back.”

  “Gloria al Dios!” Delores Enriquez beamed. “Ricardo came home and told me about the foundation.” She grimaced apologetically to Edesa. “I knew you would be so happy, mi hermana. But I did not know if the news was mine yet to tell.”

  Excited comments flew. I wondered if that was the news Denny had wanted to tell me. Nony clapped her hands together, then burst out laughing, like a little girl dying to tell her secret. “Has a holy fire baptized our men, sending them into the marketplace like on the day of Pentecost?”

  “Hm. Don’t know about that,” Florida murmured. “Ain’t heard Carl speak in no tongues and don’t think I will.”

  We joined Nony’s laughter, but Adele always could read between the lines. “You got more ‘holy fire’ to tell us about, Nony?”

  Nony nodded, pressing her hands flat together in front of her smile. “Yes . . . yes. Mark also came home from the men’s breakfast yesterday and asked me to go out for coffee so we could talk. Sisters . . .” She blinked back sudden tears, but her smile stayed fixed. “It has been many months since my husband did that. He said he had not planned to tell me yet, not wanting to disappoint me if he failed, but the brothers encouraged him to include me in his plans.”

  Adele rolled her eyes. “What plans? Girlfriend, you better tell us quick.”

  Nony’s smile widened. “He decided—no, we decided—we should move forward with our plans that were so viciously aborted last summer, unless God shuts the door.”

  A universal gasp greeted this announcement. “Ya mean, like, you guys goin’ to South Africa again?” Yo-Yo asked bluntly.

  Nony nodded. “Mark has decided to apply once more to the University of KwaZulu-Natal as guest instructor. Yes, he is afraid—afraid they will reject him because of his recent medical history. But Carl and Peter and Denny told him—how do Americans say it?—to ‘get off his duff ’ and live again.” Now the tears spilled over, but Nony lifted her face in praise. “Oh, Lord God, thank You! You are making a way out of no way, a stream in the desert, a path over the mountain!”

  For several minutes, the rest of us joined Nony’s praise, which became prayers for God’s favor on Mark Smith’s application and the birth of the Manna House Foundation. But as we praised and prayed, I struggled inside. Mark Smith “getting off his duff ” was a huge answer to our prayers. But if the Sisulu-Smiths did move to South Africa, we might be saying good-bye to them for . . . for who knew how long!

  Oh God! How can it be good news and hurt so much at the same time?

  The Voice in my spirit nudged me. Your Yada Yada sisters are a gift, Jodi Baxter—not a possession. You know how Nony has longed to return to her homeland, how her heart aches for the suffering caused by HIV and AIDS. Would you keep her from My plans for her and Mark?

  Well, of course the answer was no—but that didn’t help my feelings any.

  Besides, the Voice within continued, I have plans for you, too, Jodi—but you must keep your heart and your mind open. My plans are not your plans. Be alert; My Spirit is moving. Think of the possibilities . . .

  “Hey. Earth to Jodi. You collecting the money for Sara’s makeover?” Becky Wallace stood in front of me, trying to give me a wadded-up bill.

  With a start, I realized the prayers were over and people were starting to leave. “Oh, yeah, sure. Thanks, Becky.” I stuffed the bill in my pocket along with Chanda’s twenty and started to put on my jacket.

  “Sister Jodi?” Edesa pulled me aside. “Does . . . do you think Josh knows about the Manna House Foundation?”

  I thought a minute. “I don’t know. He didn’t go to the men’s breakfast yesterday. Denny might have told him, but I don’t think so. The first I heard about it was tonight.” Her eyes seemed imploring. What is she really asking me? “Estelle did tell him about the advisory board. He . . . wasn’t interested. But that was before . . .” I hesitated. What happened last night was probably not my news to tell.

  But she nodded. “I know. He came to my house last night.” She looked up at me, her dark eyes huge, black diamonds in her sweet mahogany face. “He asked me to forgive him for his part in the Manna House fire.”

  So. That was what Josh did after taking Precious and Sabrina home! “And?” I asked gently.

  “I forgave him. I was glad! You see, I had been blaming him in my heart, holding it against him. We are very traditional in my country. To me, he is a man, even though he is young. And a true man always protects the women and children, but his carelessness put us all in danger. Those women had nothing but lost everything. But . . . I, too, asked him to forgive me, for hol
ding blame in my heart. I was not honest with him; I only held him away.”

  She sniffled, and I found a clean tissue to give her. As she wiped her eyes and blew her nose, I felt a tenderness toward this young woman I’d never felt before. God’s Spirit had told me to be alert, that His Spirit was moving. That His plans were not my plans. To think of the possibilities . . .

  “He loves you, you know.”

  I don’t know who was more startled by my murmured words—Edesa or me. She stared at me, eyes rounded. And then her chin quivered beneath a small smile. “I know,” she whispered.

  32

  Whew. So much had happened over the weekend, I felt like an amateur juggler, trying to keep all the prayers in the air but dropping half of them in the hurry-scurry of a muddy school week. I was a tad jealous of Hoshi’s week off from classes between her winter and spring quarters. What I wouldn’t give for even one day off, just to catch up with myself!—not to mention the weekend laundry that still needed folding. But Chicago schools still had three weeks to go before our spring break.

  On the other hand, I told myself that Thursday, while navigating a chain of sidewalk puddles and trying to keep dry under our old black umbrella, it’d been raining most of the week, even though the temperatures had finally climbed into the sixties. Maybe having spring break after Easter would give us some warm, sunny days to enjoy, time to plant some flower boxes for the back porch . . .

  Unfortunately, another puddle in the kitchen greeted me when I got home from school. My initial frustration evaporated when I saw poor Willie Wonka, curled up in a corner, looking at me miserably. “Aw, it’s all right, Wonka,” I murmured, getting out the bucket and disinfectant. I mopped up the mess with a rag and dried the floor, then lowered myself beside Wonka and pulled his head into my lap. The tip of his tail patted quietly as I stroked his head and scratched behind his ears. “Guess it’s time for another trip to the vet, eh, old boy? Don’t worry,” I crooned. “The vet’s our friend, remember? Maybe she can help us with this problem.”

  A thunderclap rattled the windows. I decided against trying to take the dog out, and just sat on the floor with my back against the wall, petting his once silky brown fur that had grown dull and thin, showing his ribs—until the phone rang. I scrambled to my feet and caught it on the third ring. “Mom?” Amanda sounded desperate. “Can you call Dad and ask him to pick me up at school on his way home?”

  I looked at the clock. “You’re still at school? I was expecting you any minute.”

  A loud crack of thunder drowned out her next few words. “—language lab, but I can’t go outside now to wait for the bus. It’s raining buckets!”

  I squeezed my eyes shut. “Sorry, honey. Tonight’s the night Dad goes to the JDC. He’s probably on his way downtown already.”

  “But Mo-om! I’ll get soaked standing at the bus stop!”

  “Oh . . . ask the school office for a phone book and call a cab.”

  “Really?” She sounded interested. “A cab?”

  Well, why not? What could it be—five dollars? Ten?

  “FIFTEEN DOLLARS!”

  Amanda, casting anxious looks out the front door at the blinking hazard lights of the Yellow Cab, rolled her eyes. “Mo-om. You told me to call a cab. The meter said eleven-something—almost twelve. And you’re supposed to give a tip, you know.”

  Somehow, I scrounged up the money, thinking ruefully that fifteen dollars was half a night out for Denny and me—maybe a whole night out if we went to CrossRhodes Café where we could split a large Greek salad with gyros slices and a large order of lemony Greek fries and still have enough left over to rent a video. On the other hand, I thought, as Amanda grabbed an umbrella and ran out to pay the cab driver, she’s home safe and dry. That’s worth a lot, thank You, Jesus.

  Josh called to say he was working late to get a big software shipment out before the weekend, and not to wait supper for him. So I served up two plates of Pad Thai from a box, saving a plate for Denny, while Amanda tried to coax Willie Wonka into the dining room for a half-hour reprieve from his kitchen jail cell. But the dog just wagged the tip of his tail, sighed, and laid his head down on his paws.

  “Mo-om! What’s the matter? He won’t come!” The next moment, she took her plate and flopped on the floor beside the brown Lab. “I’m gonna eat in the kitchen with Wonka.”

  I shrugged. “Huh. Guess it’s either eat by myself in the dining room or join the sit-in.” I sank to the floor beside my daughter and the dog with my plate, making Amanda laugh. “Say, got any ideas for Dad’s birthday next week?” April first, his birthday, was a week from today. “Oh, wait. That’s a Thursday! He won’t even be here for supper.”

  Amanda dug into her Pad Thai noodles. “Don’t sweat it, Mom. Just celebrate on Friday. Dad won’t care. He probably gets tired of April Fool’s jokes on his birthday anyway.”

  DENNY WAS PUMPED when he got home from the JDC, as usual. He leaned against the counter, eating his plate of Pad Thai standing up, while he related the latest saga of the Bible study in Unit 3B. “Two of our regulars weren’t there tonight. Found out one was found guilty of first-degree murder at his hearing and has been shipped out to the Joliet Youth Center. Makes me sick, Jodi. I don’t think he was the shooter, but because he was present at the time of the shooting, they got him on the accountability law. He cooperated, told what he knew, but they used it against him. The shooter, on the other hand, had enough street smarts to keep quiet—and he was acquitted for lack of evidence.” He shook his head and fell silent, eating his microwave-warm noodles.

  Oh God! Is that what will happen to Chris Hickman? No, Lord, please . . . I swallowed. “How do you know this? I thought you weren’t supposed to talk to the kids about their cases.”

  “Oscar Frost, mostly. He’s been trying to follow the cases as they’re reported in the newspaper, buried somewhere in the Metro pages, and online.”

  “What about Chris? Was he there tonight?”

  Denny nodded. “Yeah. He looks good. Has lost that sullen look he’d been affecting, and from all I can tell, doing good in his schoolwork too . . . though, man!” He waved his fork. “The kids can’t take any textbooks out of the school area. They’re not even supposed to have pencils in their cells—anything that could double as a weapon. So much for homework and studying. But . . .” Denny chewed thoughtfully. “Don’t think school is uppermost in his mind. His disposition is coming up at the end of the month. He asked me to pray.”

  Definitely. I really needed to check in with Florida and find out how she was doing. Funny how easy it was to forget that her mother-heart must be weeping every day Chris was in jail. She seemed so strong; “life goes on” and all that.

  “Hey. Almost forgot.” Denny pulled a sheet of paper from his briefcase. “Don’t know if you’d be interested, but the school at the JDC is looking for a volunteer English teacher to help the boys produce a play for their parents. Their regular teacher got mono and won’t be back for several weeks. I thought of you.”

  “Me?” Was my husband crazy? “I have a full-time job, Denny. And I teach third graders. What do I know about teenagers?”

  He chuckled. “You’ve got two of your own. And half your friends have teenagers—Florida, Yo-Yo, Delores. These boys aren’t that different. Well, yeah, true, they’ve come from some tough situations, made some bad choices. But under the skin, they’re just kids. Just kids . . .” He squatted down and scratched Willie Wonka behind the ears. “Hey, old buddy. I hear you’re going to see the vet this weekend.” He ran his hand thoughtfully over the dog’s thin body. “Anyway, think about it, Jodi. You’re a teacher—a good teacher. This would be something different, a way to reach out. It could be a lot of fun. You might have to do it during spring break, though.”

  Give up my spring break?

  Think of the possibilities, Jodi . . .

  “Man, I don’t know, Denny.” I held out my hand for the sheet of paper. “Is that some information about what they want?”
>
  He grinned up at me. “Uh, not exactly. It’s a form from the Sheriff ’s Department for a background check.”

  THE RAIN WOKE ME up just minutes before the alarm. “Ohh,” I groaned. More rain! Four days in a row! And it wasn’t even April yet. That would make taking Willie Wonka outside miserable for me and the poor dog. But—I swung my legs out of bed—it had to be done, or we’d have another puddle in the kitchen before school.

  I pulled Denny’s bathrobe around me and stuck my feet into my slippers, shuffling toward the kitchen. I missed my “Wonka alarm clock,” snuffling his nose into my face, letting me know he had to go out. But since he’d started to have bladder and bowel problems, we couldn’t let him sleep in our bedroom anymore.

  “Wake up, sleepyhead,” I said, swinging one leg over the safety gate in the kitchen doorway, then the other, and turning on the light. I sleepily filled the coffeepot with cold water, scooped coffee into the basket, and punched the On button. The coffee might as well be dripping while Wonka and I had our big adventure into the wet-and-wild outdoors.

  The dog hadn’t moved, curled up on his doggy cushion near the door. “Hey, c’mon, Wonka,” I said, shaking him gently. “Let’s get this over with.”

  He still didn’t move.

  Suddenly, fear grabbed my throat. My heart started racing. “Wonka!” I yelled, this time shaking him roughly. No response. “Oh God, Oh God, oh nooooo . . . ” I fell backward, as if I’d been shocked with an electric current. “Denny!” I screamed, scrambling to my feet. “Come here! Quick!”

  Footsteps thudded from the bedroom. Doors opened, more footsteps. Within seconds, Denny, in sleep shorts and T-shirt, had yanked the safety gate from the doorway and was at my side. Josh and Amanda, their hair tousled, their eyes wide, were right behind him.