The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Rolling

by Neta Jackson

  “Yeah, I can do that gangbangin’ stuff, Mrs. B., long as I don’t hafta give one o’ them long speeches.”

  “Sure. You’ll do fine in the action scenes. But that’s not the main part I have for you.” I pulled out some drawings and photographs and gave them to him. “Think you could paint these characters?” My arm swept from one end of the wall behind me to the other. “Big as a wall?” I grinned. “I’ve actually seen your work on a wall before.”

  His eyes nearly popped. “They’d never let me do that here! Man! I’d be in so much troub—”

  “Whoa, whoa!” I laughed. “I don’t mean actually on the wall. I mean a backdrop for our play. You’ve heard the idea. Work with it. Include these characters somehow.”

  He looked at me sideways, frowning dubiously. “You could do that? Get me stuff to paint with, I mean? Stuff to paint on?”

  Good question. I was going out on a limb here . . . way out. “To be honest, Chris, I don’t know. But I’m going to try. But there’s something you can do.”

  “Me! What?”

  “Pray about it. Let’s leave it to God to move the mountains.”

  A slow smile leaked over his features. He balled up his fist and held it out. I balled up mine and we touched, fist to fist. “I’ll do that, Mrs. B.”

  I SPENT ALL AFTERNOON trying to get permission from the “powers that be” at the JDC to allow Chris Hickman to use spray paint and airbrushes under strict supervision. No dice. Chalk. That was their compromise. Colored chalk. Did they have a budget for this play? No budget. Okay . . . I wasn’t going to let a little thing like money stop this production, even if my husband and kids had to eat rice for the next few weeks.

  Once I arrived home, I got on the phone with Josh in the mail-room at Peter Douglass’s business. Could he rustle up some very large cardboard boxes that could be flattened and taped together with duct tape to make a wall?

  “Sure, Mom. Whatcha doin’? Putting me out in the doghouse?”

  “Hm. Good idea. But, sorry. This doghouse isn’t for you.”

  To my delight, a trip to Goods, the huge art store in Evanston, yielded big, fat colored chalk, and a whole palette of smaller poster chalks in intense colors. Who needed spray paint? Almost giddy, I drove our minivan on Wednesday to lug everything down to the JDC. Even got those two bored guards involved in flattening and taping.

  Chris’s eyes popped again when I handed the various chalk sets to him. “Really? Really? I can use these? I mean, legal-like?”

  I couldn’t help it. I gave him a hug. They could lock me up, for all I cared.

  “WHAT? You’re going to spend Saturday at the JDC too?” Denny asked me Friday evening. We were in the backyard grilling steaks to celebrate the last day of spring vacation, which had finally shaken off the doldrums and hit the eighties. “You fly out of here every morning like you’re meeting a secret lover.” He stuck out his lip. “I’m jealous. Spent all week by myself working on tax forms.”

  “Denny Baxter!” I swatted his backside with the barbecue tongs I held in my hand. “You’re the one who took the kids to New York last year and left me home during spring break.” Well, I’d had doctor’s orders not to travel, but hey, I could use guilt too.

  Denny stuck a fork in the sizzling steaks and turned them over. “So it’s going good? You seem excited about the whole project.”

  I was bursting to tell Denny what we were doing. But on the off-chance he might be able to attend the performance along with other “staff,” I wanted him to be surprised.

  “I am! It’s going great—I think. Not sure I know what I’m doing, but I’m having fun.” I turned a big grin on Denny. “Best part, I think the boys are having fun too.”

  Denny sat down beside me on the steps. “So what now? School starts next week.”

  He wasn’t going to like this part. “Uh, I’d like to go down to the JDC after school a few days, maybe Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, to make sure the performance holds together. The boys are putting it on for family and staff next Saturday. If I could, um, take the car, maybe I wouldn’t get home too late.”

  He frowned. The silence was filled by a dozen sparrows happily flitting about the back yard. Finally, he said, “Guess so. You taking the car tomorrow? Can you wait till I pick up Ricardo for the men’s breakfast? And what time are you getting back? I have some errands I need to do.”

  Irritation nibbled at the edges of my peace. Don’t feel guilty, Jodi. He’s had all week to do his stupid errands! But I bit back the smart remark. “Sure. I can wait. And I’ll be back by two or three. Earlier if it’s really important.”

  He shrugged. “No, that’s okay. Just so I know—oh, heck!” He leaped for the grill. “The steaks!”

  I WOULD’VE LET Denny drop me off at the JDC when he drove to Little Village to pick up Ricardo Enriquez the next morning, and taken the train home, but I was sure the JDC didn’t want me coming in at six-thirty. But I got there at ten, and we did a run-through of the whole performance. It was rough, but we still had a week to smooth it up.

  What pleased me most, though, was Chris’s backdrop. One hardly noticed that it was done on cardboard boxes that had been flattened and taped together. “It’s beautiful, Chris,” I said, watching him work on the four scenes that blended into each other.

  Chris grinned. “Thanks, Mrs. B. But don’t tell my folks about it, okay? They’re comin’, ain’t they?”

  “You bet.” They’d better.

  As I drove home via Lake Shore Drive and Sheridan Road, windows open, enjoying the balmy weather in spite of the thunderstorm building up over the lake, I tried not to think about all the stuff I didn’t do during spring vacation—like putting away winter clothes, doing spring housecleaning, filing all the bills and tax forms. But for some reason I didn’t care. I doubted I would say fondly in my old age, “Oh yes, that was the spring I cleaned out the closets.” But I didn’t think I’d ever forget the spring break I spent putting together a drama at the JDC.

  Pulling into the garage, I felt half-giddy with the warm weather, imagining how surprised the Hickmans would be next week, and—finally—realizing I did need to spend the rest of the weekend working on lesson plans for the next two months and grading papers. I was halfway up the walk to the house before I noticed my family clustered on the back porch watching me. Denny had a silly grin on his face.

  “Oh! Hi guys. Uh, what’s up?”

  “Mo-om!” Amanda rolled her eyes. “Look!”

  I looked. And then I saw. A row of solid wooden flower boxes, painted a deep forest green, ran the length of the back porch railings. Sprays of cheerful white daisies decorated each one. My mouth fell open. “What . . .? When . . .?”

  “That’s not all, Mom.” Amanda ran down the back steps and pulled me around the side of the house to the front. More flower boxes ran the length of the front porch.

  My men followed. “Dad figured if we were going to get any flowers this year, we better get you some flower boxes,” Josh said. “After all, we don’t have anybody on house arrest this year to tackle the flower beds.”

  “But . . . but . . .” I ran up onto the porch and examined the boxes closely. “These are handmade!”

  Denny’s grin widened. “You were kind enough to abandon us completely this week. We had plenty of time to make them. Amanda stenciled the daisies.”

  Amanda blushed. “The boxes needed something to look pretty till you can plant some flowers. Would’ve bought you some, but the greenhouses say it’s still too early.”

  “We got potting soil, though.” Josh jerked a thumb back toward the garage. “Bags and bags of it.”

  I was speechless. I’d barely thought of my family all week—and all week they’d been plotting and making something special for me. I threw my arms around Denny, then hugged my kids. “Thank you so much,” I finally managed. “All of you. Really. It’s the best gift you could’ve given me—and it’s not even my birthday, or Mother’s Day, or anything!”

  “Sure, Mo
m.” Amanda and Josh each gave me a quick peck and disappeared inside. But Denny walked me hand in hand around to the back again and sat us down in the porch swing.

  “Not quite the best gift,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  His side dimples deepened. “Well, thought you might like to know. This morning, Ben Garfield came to the prayer time we’ve been having before the men’s breakfast, and asked about coming to church at SouledOut. I think his exact words were, ‘Would they accept a crusty old Jew like me?’ ”

  Now my mouth really did drop open.

  “According to Ben, he was pretty upset by all of the ‘Jesus questions’ at the Seder last week. But he started to read the New Testament to see if all that stuff was true—something he’d never done. Then he started in on the Old Testament. And a lot of things started to make sense, just like Yo-Yo and others were pointing out.”

  Oh, that was funny. Yo-Yo, of all people, teaching Ben Garfield a thing or two. “But doesn’t he go with Ruth to Beth Yehudah sometimes? That’s a Messianic congregation. Hasn’t he heard that stuff before?”

  Denny shrugged, still grinning. “All I know is, the brothers prayed with Ben Garfield this morning, who said he wanted to stop messing around the edges of faith and really believe that the Messiah has come.”

  41

  The best gift, indeed! Ben Garfield had become a Christian?! I was so excited I wanted to call all the Yada Yada sisters and tell them. Then I realized Yada Yada was meeting this weekend . . . somewhere. I checked the list taped to a kitchen cupboard door. At my house, yikes! They’d find out tomorrow anyway. Let Ruth tell them.

  If Ben told her. Communication between those two was weird at best.

  But when we got to church the next morning, sure enough, Ben and Ruth’s pearly green Buick was already in the shopping center parking lot. And there they were, taking up half a row with two baby carriers, two diaper bags, and the twins, dressed in—what else?—matching knitted sweaters and caps, though Havah’s was yellow and Isaac’s blue.

  But what I noticed most was that Ben was wearing his yarmulke. What was that about? By his own admission, Ben hadn’t been a very religious Jew. But maybe his Jewishness made even more sense now that he saw the fulfillment of the Old Testament prophecies about a coming Messiah.

  I was so moved that Ben and Ruth had come to church together, all I could do was give Ben a big, long hug. “Welcome,” I whispered in his whiskery ear. And I didn’t just mean welcome to our church. By the look he gave me, I think he understood.

  Chanda and her kids showed up, too, along with Rochelle and little Conny, the cutie. What was going on? Chanda was a member of Paul and Silas Apostolic Baptist, like Adele. On the other hand, Rochelle’s parents were members here. Maybe Chanda’s household was taking turns at both churches, since Rochelle had moved in. Or—

  Sheesh. I sure hoped Chanda wasn’t chasing that fine Oscar Frost.

  Avis led worship that morning. Peter must have told her about the “Bada-Boom Brothers” praying with Ben yesterday, because she couldn’t stop smiling, couldn’t stop praising. The call to worship was from Psalm 125: “Those who trust in the Lord are like Mount Zion, which cannot be shaken but endures forever!” she cried. “As the mountains surround Jerusalem, so the Lord surrounds his people both now and forevermore.”

  Beautiful, I thought. Let Ben know our faith is rooted in his.

  The praise team followed with the spiritual, “Tell me, how did you feel when you come out the wilderness? . . .” The whole congregation leaned into the song, clapping and singing it again and again. I snuck a glance at Ben and Ruth, each bouncing a five-month-old on their hips in time to the rhythmic music. “Did your soul feel happy when you come out the wilderness? . . .” Neither one was singing the words, but both had the kind of wobbly smile that betrayed a well of happy tears.

  Between clapping, singing, the sunshine streaming in through the wall of windows, and temperatures predicted in the high eighties—hot for April—a lot of handkerchiefs came out to mop sweaty faces, and a couple of men propped open the glass double doors. During the lengthy service, several of us walked and jiggled the babies in the back of the room when they got fussy, since we didn’t have a nursery yet.

  Afterward, the Garfields were mobbed by greeters, both friends and strangers. Ruth took me by surprise when she sought me out and pulled me aside. “You prayed; God answered, Jodi. Toda raba . . . thank you.”

  I flinched. “Um, to be honest, Ruth, I forgot to pray for Ben until the middle of the Seder. Worse, I forgot to tell the other Yada Yadas to pray like you asked.”

  She patted my arm. “Do not worry. God answered, yo? My prayers, your prayers, all the Yada Yada prayers that have gone up for my Ben. God is faithful.”

  I grabbed her in a hug. “Yes, God is so faithful,” I murmured as Stu and Estelle joined us. “Uh . . . hi guys. See you all tonight? Yada Yada’s at my house. Pass the word, will you? I’ve gotta zip home and clean house”—I groaned—“not to mention finish lesson plans and grade a zillion more homework papers.”

  Estelle wagged a finger in front of my face. “Slow down, Jodi Baxter. Stu and I will bring snacks tonight, won’t we, Stu?” She elbowed Stu in the ribs. “An’ I’ll be down an hour early to run yo’ vacuum cleaner or whatever else you think needs doin’.” The finger wagged some more. “An’ don’t you be oh-no-ing me. You should know by now I’m a stubborn old woman. Now”—She eyed the room from side to side—“where are them babies? I’m not leavin’ till I get me some sugar.”

  BY THE TIME the Yada Yadas started arriving at five o’clock, I had finished the stack of papers I had to grade, my lesson plans would at least get me through the next two weeks, and Estelle had swept through our house as if her hair were on fire. Stu brought down her homemade cranberry bread, still hot from the oven—though Josh and Amanda sweet-talked her out of two whole slices on their way out the door to the SouledOut youth group at the church. “Your cranberry bread is my favorite, Auntie Stu,” Josh teased.

  “Don’t you ‘Auntie Stu’ me, you overgrown sheepdog,” she grinned, flicking his shaggy hair out of his eyes.

  I was surprised to see Hoshi come in with Nonyameko. I peered behind them. “Is Sara with you?”

  Hoshi shook the silky black ponytail at the nape of her neck. “No. But she wants me to tell all of you thank you very much for the gift certificate.”

  “Mm-hm. That Adele sure did work wonders on that girl,” Florida murmured, her mouth full of crumbly cranberry bread.

  Hoshi laughed. “Yes. It has given her more self-confidence. So, today I tell her, ‘Sara, you will have to go to ReJOYce tonight without me. I cannot come.’ It will be—how do you say?—good for her.” Hoshi winked impishly.

  Nony slipped an arm around the girl’s slender waist. “The truth is, sisters, Hoshi misses Yada Yada more than she lets on. And tonight she needs prayer for her future, after graduation. But we will share later, yes, my sister?” She gave Hoshi a tender kiss on her long, smooth cheek and sat down in our overstuffed chair.

  Whoa. I kinda sorta remembered that Hoshi was scheduled to graduate from Northwestern University this year, but I hadn’t given any thought to what came after. Would she return to Japan? Or . . . what?

  Ruth bustled in without any babies, but we mobbed her anyway. Those of us from SouledOut knew the good news already, and everyone else found out soon enough that Ben had prayed with “the brothers” to receive Jesus as his Messiah. I waited until the hugs and hubbub died down to satisfy my curiosity. “Um, Ruth, why did Ben want to come to SouledOut? Don’t get me wrong—I’d love to have my favorite grouch at our church.” Ruth and I both laughed. “But, what about Beth Yehudah? I mean, that’s Christian and Jewish. I’ve learned so much about my own faith from you two.”

  Ruth rolled her eyes. “Beth Yehudah yesterday, SouledOut today. A church marathon we did this weekend!” She thought a moment. “But for Ben, he considers Denny and the other Yada Yada husband
s as true brothers, who accepted him, even valued him, for who he was. He wants to worship with them for a while . . . or ‘hang,’ as Yo-Yo would say. Oy-oy-oy.”

  By now, most of the group had arrived, and Avis rounded us up, encouraging us to start our praise and worship time. Chanda slipped in scowling as we sang one of our old favorites: “Hold to His hand, God’s Almighty hand . . .!”

  “Are you okay?” I whispered to her.

  She muttered something dark about the terrible parking. I wanted to guffaw. Well, yeah, Chanda, if you’re going to insist on driving that monster SUV. But I didn’t. She’d bought the thing so she could haul kids and families around, bless her. So I just gave her a hug and brought in another chair from the dining room.

  As I sat down again, Avis was opening her Bible. “I want to share a scripture from Hebrews, chapter twelve,” she said. “ ‘Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a huge crowd of witnesses to the life of faith, let us strip off every weight that slows us down, especially the sin that so easily hinders our progress. And let us run with endurance the race that God has set before us. We do this by keeping our eyes on Jesus, on whom our faith depends from start to finish.’ ”

  My ears perked up. Whoa. More verses about running the race, moving forward, like the ones God had showed me in Philippians last week.

  Avis closed her Bible. “It occurred to me as I read these verses that they speak both to the one running the race of faith, and to the ‘crowd of witnesses’ urging the runner on. Each one of us in this room finds herself in both roles—running the race of faith, and encouraging each other when we falter.” A gentle smile bathed Avis’s face as she looked around the circle. “I just want to say thank you, my sisters, for being there for my family this year. It has been so hard to see my precious daughter suffer abuse in her marriage, and now have to deal with HIV. Thank you especially, Chanda, for taking Rochelle into your home.”