The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Rolling

by Neta Jackson

  But today it was just me and God. Cuddled in the afghan, I found where I’d last stopped reading—Paul’s letter to the Philippians. I needed an encouragement for today. Had to admit I was nervous. This whole thing wasn’t my idea. But seemed as if God had dumped it in my lap and nudged me to say yes. Wasn’t I learning that if God was in it, I didn’t have to be afraid? All I had to do was be faithful, and God would take care of the rest . . . right?

  I tried to focus on my reading. In chapter three, the apostle Paul said if anyone qualified for bragging rights about how “religious” he was, he was the man. But then he said none of that self-important religious stuff counted. Only knowing Jesus Christ and what He could do in our lives—that’s what counted.

  Kinda like me, when I let my “good Christian girl” pride get in God’s way.

  “But one thing I do,” he wrote. “Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal . . .”

  Press on. Wasn’t that what Denny was trying to tell our kids the night of his birthday, that sometimes we had to let go of what was behind us and press on? Well, he said, “get rolling,” but same difference. My old King James Version used the phrase, “press toward . . . the high calling of God.”

  I closed my Bible and stared out the window. Suddenly I realized that the limbs of the trees along Lunt Street were no longer bare. I brought the recliner’s footrest down with a bang—a move that used to send Willie Wonka scrambling—and pressed my nose to the window. Thousands of swollen buds created a shimmering green fuzz along each limb, ready to burst into life. The old leaves were dead; the new ones were waiting in the wings, eager to dance along every branch, catching the wind.

  A funny joy bubbled up in my chest. Today is full of possibilities. Press on, Jodi, press on. Do it for God and His children at the JDC.

  DENNY AND I GOT HOME from the JDC in time to eat a bowl of soup out of the Crock-Pot and make it to the Good Friday service at SouledOut that night. It was a simple service, not long, with various “readers” reading the story of Jesus eating the Passover meal with His disciples for the last time . . . the prayer of agony in the Garden of Gethsemane . . . Judas’s betrayal . . . the desertion by the other disciples . . . the trial of Jesus . . . and His execution on a Roman cross. Throughout, the music group wove songs—mostly old hymns—about “the blood of Jesus.”

  I have to admit I had a hard time keeping my mind focused on the service. My mind was still so full of the Seder service the previous night, with all its prophetic symbolism, pointing to these very events we were singing about—the saving “blood of the lamb” splashed on the wooden doorposts . . . the broken matzo, hidden, and then “resurrected” . . .

  And then there was my visit to the juvenile detention center just a few hours ago. I hadn’t realized it was just a few blocks from the Cook County hospital where Delores worked. Denny and I had to take the Red Line el all the way past the Loop to the Roosevelt Road station, then catch the westbound Roosevelt Road bus. Took over an hour! It wasn’t so bad doing it with Denny, but I couldn’t really imagine doing it by myself five days a week next week.

  Glancing at Avis and several of my other Yada Yada sisters soaking up the Good Friday service, I thought of the Yada Yadas who did not have cars. Oh God. Is that what it takes for Delores and Edesa to come to Yada Yada every time? Neither one has a car . . . and they’re so faithful. I squared my shoulders. Suck it up, Jodi. Press on. If they could do it, so could I.

  As we sang, “What can wash away my sin? Nothing but the blood of Jesus . . .” my mind drifted to my interview with the school principal at the JDC that afternoon. After we’d gone through a metal detector and taken the elevator up to the second floor, we sat in a waiting room with molded plastic chairs until the principal came out to greet us. She gave us visitor tags, then we were buzzed through the glass-paneled security area—not one, but two doors, where security personnel could see all directions—into the main part of the second floor, which housed the school.

  The principal had given us a short tour of the school, which wasn’t in session, since it had the same holidays as any other Chicago public school. The windowless rooms had the regular stuff of classrooms—desks, marker boards, maps, textbooks. “Classrooms for boys and girls are separate. Each residential floor is color-coded,” our host explained, “so your students will be wearing purple, green, or blue DOC uniforms. Our youngest residents and the girls occupy the top floor.”

  Our last stop had been the large, all-purpose room where “school events” were held. No stage. No lights. Not what I’d imagined when I volunteered to supervise a school play. “What about props? Costumes?” I ventured.

  The principal shrugged. “You can ask. Not making any promises, though.”

  Then we sat in her office, while she explained basic rules (“Do not ask your students about their case”) and my temporary responsibilities. I was bursting with questions about the children and teenagers within these walls, but did my best to listen to my volunteer assignment.

  “We do two or three drama or musical presentations for parents and staff every year. This year, our English teacher was trying to introduce the kids to some classic literature through drama. Then she came down with mono! The other teachers are covering her classes, but no one had time to take on the drama too.” The principal gave me an encouraging smile. “We’re happy you’ve volunteered, Mrs. Baxter.”

  “Will I meet the students today who are doing the drama?” I’d asked.

  She shook her head. “But I will give you a copy of the scripts she was going to introduce. There are a couple you can choose from. Next week is spring break, so the students who signed up to do the drama don’t have classes next week. We can give you three hours, nine to twelve, each morning.”

  “And if we need more time?”

  The principal shrugged. “You’d probably lose half your kids if they had to give up afternoons. They like to play softball or basketball outside, now that the weather’s getting warmer.”

  I’d blinked at her. “Outside?”

  Denny grinned. “Oh, yeah. Forgot to tell you. The top three floors are built like a square doughnut, with the residential units around the outer ring and an open recreation area in the middle.” He pointed to the ceiling of the second floor. “Right up there.”

  I’d tried to picture it in my mind—and got the picture. Open to the sky—but completely surrounded by the building. Whatever way one looked at it, this was a jail for juveniles, kids, waiting for their hearings, waiting to hear whether the state judged them guilty or not guilty, waiting to hear their “dispositions” or sentences.

  Kids like Chris Hickman . . .

  I’d been able to walk away today. But not Chris. Now, as I sat in the “sanctuary” of SouledOut Community Church singing the closing song, “At Calvary,” I glanced over at the Hickman family, sitting together in the dimly lit room. Wet streaks glistened on Florida’s face as Oscar Frost’s saxophone rode under the words of the chorus . . .

  Mercy there was great, and grace was free;

  Pardon there was multiplied to me;

  There my burdened soul found liberty,

  At Calvary!

  How would I hear those words if I were in Florida’s and Carl’s shoes? Would their son be “pardoned” for his sins? Would he be given liberty?

  Oh Jesus! my heart cried. Your mercy to me was great when I was accused of vehicular manslaughter in the death of Jamal Wilkins. Please have mercy on Chris. He says he had nothing to do with the holdup of that 7-Eleven, and . . . and I believe him. His only crime was bad judgment in the friends he chose. Oh God, please, let Your blood cover his transgression and bring him home to his family.

  WHEN THE GOOD FRIDAY SERVICE WAS OVER, the pastors encouraged us to leave quietly, reflecting on our Savior’s death. But outside in the parking lot, I saw Hoshi getting into the Sisulu-Smith minivan. I ran over and poked my head inside. “Hoshi! Did you give our gift certificate to Sara? Did
she accept it?”

  A smile lit up Hoshi’s long, thin face. “Oh yes, Jodi. She was much flustered, but we met at the student center for lunch yesterday, and she said she’d made an appointment at Adele’s Hair and Nails for Saturday.”

  Saturday! That was tomorrow—and Adele’s Hair and Nails wasn’t that far from our house. Did I dare “just drop in”? I’d been praying for Sara so long, ever since that fateful day our eyes had met at the plaza on Northwestern’s campus. I wanted to tell her how God had changed my heart when she went from “that girl in the sundress” to “Sara” . . .

  Which gave me an idea.

  38

  The bell over Adele’s shop door tinkled as I pushed the door open. Was I doing the right thing? Or was this another one of my “brilliant” ideas that could blow up in my face? I’d felt a little sneaky, calling the shop first thing this morning to find out what time Sara’s appointment was, hoping Takeisha or Corey would answer the phone. But wouldn’t you know it—Adele picked up.

  “Jodi Baxter,” she’d said suspiciously. “You want to know Sara’s appointment time . . . why?”

  I blew out a breath. With Adele, honesty was always the best policy. “Because I made something for her—a small gift. I want to give it to her.”

  Silence. Then, “Suit yourself. Ten o’clock.” And she hung up.

  I waited until ten-thirty to give plenty of time for Sara to get in the chair. I’d had too many trauma-dramas at Adele’s Hair and Nails to want to precipitate another one. But the last time I’d seen Sara—when Hoshi had tried to bring her new friend to Yada Yada when we’d met at the Sisulu-Smith home near the NU campus—Sara had taken one look at the house, at Nony and Mark, and run the other way.

  The bell tinkled again as the door wheezed shut. Adele glanced up and acknowledged me with a nod—a nod that seemed to say, Just sit a while. So I did. I sank onto the couch by the front window, picked up a copy of Essence magazine, and flipped through it, my eyes not on its pages but on the young woman in the chair.

  Adele snipped and shaped. Sara watched the process in the mirror with sober eyes. When should I talk to her? I wondered. But I felt a check. Not yet. The not-quite-wedgie cut—shorter in the back, a little longer in the front, sweeping forward, bangs brushed to the side—already freshened her plain features. But she was so . . . colorless. A touch of lip gloss, some plum blush on her cheeks, and mascara to darken her pale lashes would—

  Ha! Listen to yourself, Jodi. A lot you know about makeup.

  Adele handed Sara a hair-color chart, which Sara studied while Adele swept up the dishwater-blonde hair on the floor. Finally, she pointed, and Adele mixed the color chemicals, shaking the rubber bulb while running her fingers thoughtfully through the girl’s hair. Adele chatted with other customers and staff—though she ignored me—while she saturated the girl’s hair with the color mixture, as though allowing Sara a reprieve from being the center of her attention.

  Finally, Adele piled Sara’s wet hair on her head, covered it with a breathable cap, and pointed to a plastic chair in the hair dryer section. “Sit there,” she said. “No, not under the dryer. We need to leave that on for twenty minutes.” As the young woman moved to a chair behind the partition, Adele gave me the eye and tipped her head.

  I picked up the plastic bag I’d brought with me and peeked around the partition. “Sara?”

  Her head jerked up at her name. “Do I know you?”

  I pulled over an empty chair. “My name is Jodi Baxter. We have a mutual friend, Hoshi Takahashi.”

  She reddened. “Oh. Yes, I’ve seen you before. Your p-prayer group . . .” She touched the cap on her head. “You all g-gave me this gift certificate, Hoshi said.”

  I smiled and nodded. “Yes. It’s our way of saying thanks.”

  Her color deepened. “Don’t know what for.” Her eyes found her lap.

  I tried to keep my voice easy. “All of us are deeply grateful for your courage, for going to the police, and—”

  “Don’t want to t-talk about that.” Her hands clenched, and her mouth pinched into a thin, straight line.

  “No problem. Actually, that’s not why I spoke to you. I wanted to give you this.” I laid the plastic bag in her lap.

  She stared at the bag. “What is it?”

  “Before you open it, I want to tell you something. It’s not my intention to drag up painful memories, but—”

  “Then don’t.”

  “All right. But after the, um, first time I saw you”—I didn’t mention it was at the so-called freedom of speech rally on the NU campus where the leader of the White Pride group she’d been part of proceeded to insult “mud races” and everyone else who wasn’t white—“God told me to pray for you. But I didn’t know your name. So for a long time, I just prayed for ‘that girl in the sundress.’ Not very polite, I know, but I kept praying for you anyway.”

  She said nothing, but seemed to be listening.

  “And then Hoshi told us about meeting a new friend named Sara. Of course, I didn’t know it was you, not until, uh . . . later.” Again, I deliberately didn’t mention the day she came with Hoshi to the Sisulu-Smith home, which had ended in such disaster. “But God kept telling me to pray for you, so now I could pray for you by name. Sara.”

  I pointed to the package. “Now you can open it.”

  At first, I thought she wasn’t going to. But after a moment’s hesitation, she pulled the bag off and held the eight-by-ten-inch frame in her hands. I had used the computer to write her name, “Sara,” in a beautiful script on some fancy vellum paper, and right beside it the meaning of her name. “Princess.”

  She snorted. “What is this, some k-kind of joke?”

  “No, no. That’s what the name Sara means—‘Princess’! In our prayer group, we like to find the meaning of each person’s name. Hoshi’s name means ‘Star.’ Mine means ‘God is gracious.’ ”

  She frowned. “Well, somebody g-got it wrong somewhere, because I’m certainly no p-princess. Cinderella, maybe.”

  I almost laughed. Maybe she meant Cinderella sitting in the ashes while her nasty stepsisters went to the royal ball. But Cinderella became a real princess. Well, as real as it gets in a fairy tale. “No, I don’t think the meaning of your name is wrong. Because that’s how God sees you. His princess. His royal daughter.”

  To my surprise, tears suddenly dripped down her cheeks, and she fished in her pockets for a tissue. She blew her nose. Then, she peered closely at the smaller words within the frame. “What’s this?”

  Thought she’d never ask! “It’s from the Bible.” I reached out and turned the frame slightly so I could see the words. “I paraphrased it just a little, but you can read it yourself in the book of Isaiah, chapter forty-nine: The Lord called me before my birth; from within the womb He called me by name. . . . [I said], ‘The Lord has deserted me; the Lord has forgotten me!’ [But God said,] ‘Never! Can a mother forget her nursing child? Can she feel no love for a child she has borne? But even if that were possible, I would not forget you! See, I have engraved your name on the palm of my hand.’ ”

  As I read the words aloud, I momentarily forgot about Sara. That last phrase! When I chose those verses, I just wanted to let Sara know that God knew her personally, by name. But suddenly it seemed like another prophecy in the Old Testament about Jesus! God told Isaiah He’d written his name—and mine, and Sara’s, and everybody’s—on the palms of His hands. And just yesterday, Good Friday, we’d all been reminded that His Son, Jesus, stretched out those hands, the ones with our names on them, on the cross, taking the punishment for our sins—

  “How d-did you know?” Sara’s tight whisper broke into my thoughts.

  “What? Know what?”

  “About my mother. I never t-told Hoshi.” She looked at me accusingly. “Have you been d-digging up stuff about me?”

  I was stunned. “No! I don’t know anything about you. Except . . . I know that God loves you. And I’ve been praying for you almost a whole year.�
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  Adele’s large form loomed above us. “Time’s up. Need to rinse that color out ’fore it takes you someplace you don’t wanna go.”

  Sara stood up and put the frame back in the plastic bag. I gave Adele a look, which, properly interpreted, told her to go jump in the lake. Didn’t she realize something important was happening here?! Adele gave me a look right back that said not even the end of the world was going to stop her from rinsing out her customer.

  But Sara held the bag close to her chest as she followed Adele to the sinks. Halfway there, she turned back and mouthed silently: “Thank you.”

  I SAT IN THE CAR a full five minutes before I turned on the ignition. Half of me wanted to whoop and holler, “Praise Jesus!” that Sara whatever-her-last-name had received my gift. I was glad, so glad, that I’d obeyed the prompting of my heart to research the meaning of her name for her and to frame it, glad that God had given me those verses in Isaiah to include.

  The other half of me was dying of curiosity. What in the world did she mean, did I know about her mother? What about her mother? Something in those verses, the part that said, even if a mother did forget her child, God never would . . . Had Sara been abandoned by her mother? Didn’t she live up on the North Shore somewhere, in the hoity-toity suburbs north of Chicago?

  And, I had to admit, I wanted to see the final transformation of Sara’s makeover. All I’d seen so far was the haircut and color application—and even then, her hair had been wet. Hadn’t been set, dried, or combed out. No makeup, no manicure or pedicure. Should I go back in? Offer her a ride home? I had no clue how she got here. Maybe she had her own car.

  Just go home, Jodi. The Spirit Voice within seemed to put a quiet hand on my shoulder. You gave your gift. Now give Me room to work.

  A knock on my window made me jump. A Chicago police parking enforcement uniform made a circular motion with her finger. I rolled down the window. “You plan to sit here all day, lady? Because your parking meter has run out, and if you don’t move or feed the meter in the next thirty seconds, I’ve got to give you a parking ticket.”