The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Rolling

by Neta Jackson

  “But Edesa and I, we’ve been talking, and she kinda showed me God takes things away sometimes, so all we have left to lean on is God. Funny thing, though, those women and kids at the shelter—they lost a lot more in that fire than I did. But women like Estelle and Precious, they still had something I didn’t . . . confidence in God. Ya know?”

  My eyes blurred. Amanda was watching her brother with her mouth half open. Denny pulled out his handkerchief.

  Josh threw out his hands. “But I think God’s telling me He can guide a rolling stone better than a stick-in-the-mud. So I went ahead and enrolled at UIC for the fall semester, you know, the Chicago Circle campus. Maybe international studies, not sure yet. Relating across cultures, that kind of thing. But staying in Chicago means I can get involved with the youth outreach at SouledOut on the weekends—maybe even sit on that advisory board for the new Manna House shelter.” He cast an impish look at me. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’m gonna look for an apartment or somethin’.”

  “Sounds good, Josh. Real good.” Denny lifted an eyebrow. “But you were going to tell us this . . . when?”

  Josh grinned. “Hey. Happy birthday, Dad.”

  I CRAWLED INTO OUR QUEEN-SIZE BED, propped myself up with both pillows, and watched Denny pull off his tie, then his belt, then his shoes. He saw me watching him and grinned. “Best birthday I’ve ever had.”

  I nodded. It had been a magical night—the kind of magic created when God breaks into our everyday world with angels making announcements and stars bringing wise men. The kind of magical night when you’re just grateful you were present to see God at work, even though you didn’t have anything to do with it.

  Well, maybe the chocolate cake helped. Got us together, anyway, unplanned and unrehearsed.

  “I’ve been thinking,” I said. “What you said about life keeps rolling. So when stuff happens, we have to roll with the punches and keep going with God’s help.”

  He raised a quizzical eyebrow at me as he finished undressing and pulled on his sleep shorts and T-shirt.

  “I mean, not just ‘keep going,’ but moving outward. You know, like Mark Smith applying again to that university in KwaZulu-Natal. Nony is so excited—not just about the possibility of going back to South Africa, but because Mark is ‘rolling’ again, moving forward, instead of telling himself he can’t.”

  Denny crawled into bed beside me and stole his pillow back. “Yeah. God is good. Real good.”

  Which was true, though I could hardly imagine Yada Yada without Nony. She was the one who taught us about praying the Scriptures right back to God, claiming His promises, something I was still learning. But . . . I couldn’t let myself think about losing Nony right now.

  I propped myself up on one elbow and faced Denny. “But that’s going to be a big change for Yada Yada. And it’s not the only one! Hoshi graduates in June. What’s she going to do? Especially if the Sisulu-Smiths leave and sell their house. That’s been her home for the past year. And our family is facing big changes too. Like you said, in a way Wonka’s death marks the end of an era for our family. Our kids are growing up. Josh will be moving out, Amanda graduates next year . . . that whole empty-nest thing.”

  “Mm-hm.” Denny breathed out a sleepy sigh. “And your point is?”

  I hesitated. Was I really ready to take the plunge? But wasn’t that what God had been saying to us tonight? Time to uncircle the wagons. Time to get rolling!

  “The point is . . . I think I want to do that drama thing with the kids at the JDC. If the position is still open.”

  “YOU GONNA DO WHAT?” Florida said before worship started on Sunday morning. Daylight Savings had dragged us out of bed an hour earlier that day, but the fact that it was Palm Sunday and the beginning of Holy Week helped ensure that the majority of SouledOut members made it by the new time.

  “I’m applying to the Nancy Jefferson School at the JDC as a drama coach volunteer.” I grinned. “The English teacher got mono or something.”

  Florida stared at me. “Since when you a drama coach? I thought you taught third grade. An’ one thing I know, they ain’t got no third graders at the JDC. Huh. Not yet, anyway.” She wagged her head. “But I tell ya, Jodi, they got some kids up in there young as ten. Breaks my heart.”

  Now it was my turn to stare. “Ten!” Ten was fifth grade.

  “Yeah,” she said glumly. “Those gangs are recruitin’ shorties at a younger an’ younger age—then these babies end up holdin’ drugs for the big dudes, or smugglin’ weapons, or even usin’ ’em to make themselves feel big an’ bad. Maybe it’s good they get caught; keeps ’em off the street for a while anyway. But I dunno, the JDC ain’t all it s’posed ta be—oh! Hey there, Nony. Hey, Mark.”

  We both got warm hugs from the Sisulu-Smith family, who had just come in. “Yada Yada tonight at my house, sisters?” Nony shrugged off her coat. “Help me pass the word that we are still collecting money for that gift certificate for Sara. Hoshi found out Sara just had a birthday in March—but thinks our idea would still work as a belated birthday gift.”

  Carla Hickman’s age group was busily handing out palm fronds, and Avis set her big, falling-apart Bible on the small wooden stand that served as a pulpit, ready for the call to worship. “Talk to you later,” I whispered to Flo, then took a palm frond and scurried to my seat beside Denny. But my mind was backpedaling. What did Flo mean, the JDC isn’t all it’s supposed to be? What am I getting myself into? Have I leaped before I looked?

  But Avis’s strong voice pulled me into the reason we had gathered that morning. “Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord!”

  We all repeated her words: “Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord!”

  Little Andy’s voice piped up, “She s’posed to say, ‘Good mornin’, church.’ ” Becky Wallace’s face turned a bright pink as the other children tittered.

  Avis smiled. “Imagine for a moment that we are worshipers on our way to the temple in Jerusalem. And then the whispers start. ‘Jesus of Nazareth is coming!’ . . . ‘You mean the Healer?’ . . . ‘Could He be the Messiah?’ Excitement mounts. And then they see Him coming down the road, riding a humble donkey. ‘He’s coming! He’s coming!’ Suddenly people are breaking off palm branches to wave.” Avis began to wave the palm frond she held in her hand. “Others take off their cloaks and lay them in the road. The children began to sing; soon the cry was heard all along the road into Jerusalem—”

  As if on cue, the praise team and instruments launched into a song: Hosanna! Hosanna! Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord! Palm fronds waved all over the blue-and-coral-painted room. I hadn’t heard this particular song before, but it was easy to pick up.

  As we repeated the “Hosanna” lines at the end of the song, Oscar Frost put down his saxophone and picked up a pair of maracas. The drummer laid down his sticks and began a thudding beat with his hands on a set of congas. Suddenly the praise team was singing the song again—in Spanish:

  Hosanna! Hosanna! Bendecido es Él que viene en el nombre del Señor!

  I saw Amanda’s face light up. Hosanna! Hosanna! Bendecido es Él que viene en el nombre del Señor! Children jumped up and down, waving their palms. In fact, it was impossible to stand still. People began moving away from their seats, forming a processional around the room. The waving palms, throbbing drums, and joyful words did seem as if we were welcoming the One we’d all been longing for—the Messiah, the Savior, the Son of God who came to live among us.

  But even as we sang and waved our palms, we passed the plain wooden cross on the wall of our storefront sanctuary. And it hit me with renewed clarity: between two joyful Sundays—Palm Sunday and Easter—came the Cross.

  35

  Whoa. That whole Cross thing stayed on my mind all afternoon. Hope and joy. Suffering. Resurrection. Jesus said, “Take up your cross and follow Me.” That meant we went through that cycle too. Hope and joy. Suffering. But never despair, because then came the promise of resurrection.

  B
ut at least I remembered to bring the money we’d already collected for Sara’s “belated birthday present” as Yada Yada gathered at Nony’s house that evening. To my delight, Hoshi was still at the house since the ReJOYce campus meeting she and Sara attended started an hour later. Hoshi beamed as others added to the collection.

  Ruth was the last one to arrive, lugging a baby carrier. “A cold her brother has,” she announced, lifting a pink-cheeked Havah out of the swaddled blankets, leaving us to figure out whether that was the reason she didn’t bring Isaac, too, or whether leaving one fussy baby with Ben was more than enough. Seeing what Hoshi was doing, Ruth dug in her purse, stuffed several bills into Havah’s tight baby grip, and cooed, “See? Havah wants to help Sara too . . . okay, sweetie, let go now . . .”

  Finally, Hoshi shyly handed the basket of bills to Adele. “Will this be enough for—how do you say—a ‘makeover’?”

  Adele pocketed the money without even counting it. “Just right.” She handed a gift certificate to Hoshi in exchange. “Tell Sara to call that number for an appointment.”

  Nony, her sculpted braids freed from the African headwrap she’d worn that morning, poured tea and passed a plate of sugary lemon bars as the conversation drifted to Holy Week celebrations.

  “Easter sure was the biggest day of the year when I was comin’ up Baptist,” Florida said. “Didn’t matter how poor we was, my mama decked us out in lacey anklets, patent leather shoes shined with Vaseline, ruffled dresses—and new underwear in case we got run over. And an Easter hat! Mm-mm. I felt so grown-up wearin’ a big ol’ Easter hat like all the big mamas.”

  Adele fanned herself with a small paper plate. “You forgot hair. Mama pressed mine—first straightened it with Vaseline and a hot iron comb, then curled it with iron curlers heated on the stove. Ouch. I think that’s when I decided I wanted my own salon, to save little girls from all that torture.”

  Florida was shaking with laughter now. “Same, same. But first, we had to make it through Good Friday. Always had seven different preachers, preachin’ the Seven Last Words of Christ. Sometimes lasted till midnight!”

  Stu grinned. “And I thought our Good Friday service was long. In the Lutheran church, we prayed the fourteen Stations of the Cross. We walked solemnly from station to station around the church, where somebody read the relevant scripture: Jesus condemned to death . . . Jesus carrying His cross . . . Jesus falling under the weight—all the way to His death and burial. After each station, everybody said, ‘Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy, Lord have mercy,’ and someone blew out the candles at that station, until the whole church was dark.” She twisted a strand of long hair around one finger. “Easter, of course, was full of light and joy, lots of banners and big organ music.”

  Yo-Yo rolled her eyes. “Huh. Only time I ever remember goin’ ta church with my mama was Easter. Oh, yeah. Couple of times we went at Christmas. Kinda got the idea if you showed up on Easter and Christmas, you could forget it the rest of the time.”

  “At least you went to church,” Becky said. “I thought Easter was Easter eggs and Easter bunnies. My dad took me to an Easter egg hunt once when I was little. A couple of months later he split, an’ I don’t remember ever seein’ him again.”

  Florida squeezed Becky’s hand. “That’s why Jesus came, girl, to heal all that.”

  “At least the Easter bunny has not made it across the border into Mexico!” Delores huffed. Then her eyes got wistful. “But the whole country celebrates from Domingo de Ramos to Domingo de Gloria—Palm Sunday to Easter. Every year on Viernes Santo, Holy Friday, there is a big procession through the streets in every town. A man wearing a bloody crown of thorns carries a cross, escorted by men dressed as Roman soldiers. Everyone ends up at the Catholic church to repent of our sins that sent Jesus to the cross.”

  Chanda shook her head. “In Jamaica, Easter just a big party, like a carnival. Mi remember mama looking so sad, down on she knees, praying for all dem heathens, not even know what dey do. But she not so sad she not make Easter buns and cheese!” Chanda closed her eyes and sighed. “Mm. Dem buns so sweet and spicy and full of raisins! Mm-mm.”

  “Sounds like hot cross buns,” I said. “My mother used to make them—sweet rolls with a cross of white frosting. You can get them in the grocery stores, but they don’t taste anything like homemade—not that my kids have ever had the homemade version.” Everyone laughed. “But what I remember most is sunrise services. I always thought that was so exciting—getting up while it was still dark on Easter morning, going to a local football stadium, a bunch of churches all together usually, and watching the sun rise, then singing some glorious hymn, like ‘Christ the Lord Is Risen Today!’ ”

  Heads nodded. Several had been to at least one sunrise service.

  Yo-Yo squinted thoughtfully. “At the Bagel Bakery, we’re makin’ a lot of foods for Passover. Funny that the Jewish folks have a holy day same time as the Christians.”

  Ruth, who was jiggling Havah over her shoulder, practically choked. “Same time as . . .!” She rolled her eyes. “Oy vey.”

  “What? What’d I say?” Yo-Yo threw out her hands.

  “Here.” Ruth handed the squirming baby to Adele. “What? You don’t read your Bible?” She tapped her noggin with one finger. “What feast was Jesus celebrating with His disciples the night Judas betrayed Him?”

  “Huh. Passover, of course,” Florida said. “But that’s Old Testament stuff, Ruth—pardon me sayin’ so. We ain’t under the Law an’ all that anymore, thank ya, Jesus!”

  Yo-Yo snorted. “You said it. I have a hard enough time keepin’ the Ten Big Ones, much less all them itty-bitty rules in the Old Testament.”

  Ruth tsked-tsked through her teeth. “Oy, oy, oy. It’s time all you New Testament Christians celebrated a Seder, along with Jesus, who seemed to think it was important to show His disciples the hidden meanings in the ancient Passover meal.”

  Most of us looked blank. “Seder?”

  “Seder—the Passover ritual celebrated in Jewish homes all over the world to remember God’s deliverance from Egypt.” Ruth’s exaggerated patience sounded like she was talking to my third graders. “For Messianic Jews, the Seder takes on a deeper meaning, foretelling the coming of the Messiah.” Ruth got up and paced around Nony’s family room. “Hm. Hm. How could we do this? . . .”

  Hoshi glanced at her watch and started to slip out of the room.

  “Hoshi, wait one moment,” Nony said quickly. “Let us pray with you before you go to meet Sara.” Nony turned to Ruth. “Please forgive the interruption, my sister. But Hoshi must leave.”

  Ruth nodded, still deep in thought, murmuring to herself.

  Nony stood with an arm around the slender Japanese student and prayed that Sara would receive our gift as an offering of our love. Adele, still holding Havah, who had fallen to sleep over her shoulder, added a prayer of blessing over Hoshi for “walking her talk” by loving Sara.

  Hoshi whispered, “Thank you” and slipped out . . . but the prayers just kept coming. Florida asked God for mercy at Chris’s final hearing later that month, when his fate would be decided by a judge in the juvenile court.

  “Thank you, God, that he wasn’t sent to adult court,” Stu murmured.

  “Yes! Thank ya, Jesus.” Florida had to blow her nose.

  “Nony?” I heard Avis ask quietly. “Has Mark heard from the university yet?”

  Eyes opened. Nonyameko shook her head. “Not yet. We are trusting God to do what is best.”

  But Avis prayed that Mark would receive favor from the University of KwaZulu-Natal, and that we could send out this couple with gladness in our hearts.

  Well, that last part might be a stretch, I thought with a pang.

  “And bless de whole Baxter family,” Chanda said suddenly, “feeling so sad wit’ losing dey sweet dog.”

  She took me by such surprise, a lump grabbed me in the throat. I reached over and squeezed her hand. But it reminded me that I had something to share. “Um, siste
rs? I’d appreciate your prayers, because I volunteered to help the school at the JDC put on a play. The regular English teacher got mono and had to take a leave. Denny told me they were looking for a substitute, so . . .” I sucked in a big breath. “That’s how I’ll be spending my spring break. It’s a big stretch for me, but with one of our own children at the JDC, seems like a responsibility I need to own too.”

  “Jesus, Jesus . . .” Florida grabbed the tissue box.

  Adele chuckled. Couldn’t blame her. It was pretty funny. Me, Jodi Marie Baxter, taking on a classroom of juvenile delinquents—well, guess they were “innocent until proven guilty”—even if it was for a short time. But, still chuckling, Adele prayed for me. “Lord, don’t know who’s gonna learn more, the boys and girls at the JDC, or Sister Jodi here. But it’s so unlikely, it’s gotta be one of Your ideas. And whatever comes out of this drama thing, Lord, wash it all over with Your love.”

  Avis wrapped up our prayers, and we started to break up the circle when Ruth said, “All right. Gonna be tight but we’ll do it.”

  We all looked at her. What in the world was she talking about?

  “Seder. At our house this Thursday, the night Jesus celebrated Passover with His disciples before Judas betrayed Him. Six o’clock. Bring your children. It is very important that the children understand—that is the Jewish way.”

  “At your house?” I blinked. “What about Ben? I mean, how is he going to feel about a bunch of Christians celebrating a traditional Jewish feast?”

  “That,” Ruth said, a puckish gleam in her eyes, “might be the whole point.”

  36

  Ruth had bustled out to her car with Havah snugly strapped into the carrier before what she’d said sunk in. Thursday night? With kids? That was a school night!