The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Rolling

by Neta Jackson

  Denny took my hand and squeezed as Rashad said, “Thank you,” and started to walk off. I heard an “Oh no!” behind me as the shadowy figure appeared, pulled out the fluorescent green water gun and—“Bam! Bam!”—“shot” him in the back. “Medgar Evers” fell to the floor. The spotlight moved to Chris’s drawing of the civil rights leader on the backdrop. In the strong light, the ugly gash across the drawing stood out even more glaringly.

  David moved into the spotlight. This time he threw his hands up. “Why do we kill our brightest and our best? Won’t we ever learn?”

  The third scene featured Ramón wearing a white shirt and tie. No one would have guessed who he was supposed to be, except that he stood next to Chris’s drawing of President John Kennedy for a moment before he moved to center stage. “My fellow Americans.” He didn’t quite make the stretch from Latino accent to Bostonian inflections, but he tried. “The oath I swore before you and Almighty God—as the thirty-fifth president of the United States—is the same solemn oath our forefathers prescribed nearly a century and three-quarters ago.” People were leaning forward. “The world is very different now . . . yet we hold the same revolutionary belief—that the rights of man come not from the generosity of the state, but from the hand of God.”

  I was so proud of Ramón. Amazed that he had dropped all his S-words and F-words for the stirring words of this inaugural address. “. . . And so, my fellow Americans: ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for your country.”

  But noone clapped. The audience tensed. Sure enough. Out came the shadowy figure and the water gun. “Bam! Bam!” Ramón dropped to the floor. And David repeated his sorrowful line: “Why do we kill our brightest and our best? Won’t we ever learn?”

  By the time T.J. took the stage, even Denny’s grip on my hand was tight. T.J., too, had on a shirt and tie. The spotlight followed him as he paused by the drawing of Abraham Lincoln, looked up into that craggy face, then moved to center stage. When he spoke, I was amazed how he deepened his voice, rolling his words, sounding very like Dr. Martin Luther King. “Five score years ago,” he started, “a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation. . . . But one hundred years later, the Negro still is not free.”

  I held my breath. But T.J. had spoken the truth; he knew this speech backward and forward. “I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal.’ I have a dream . . .” At the end of Dr. King’s “I have a dream” litany, T. J. finally raised his arms proudly. “When this happens, when we allow freedom to ring from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God’s children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, ‘Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!’ ”

  The audience couldn’t help it. They burst into applause. But once more, the shadowy figure appeared with that evil water gun. “Bam! Bam!” T.J. crumpled to the floor. The spotlight moved to Chris’s drawing of the great man, with its ugly gash.

  But this time the original “gangbangers” of the cast (minus T.J.) came slowly out of the shadows from both sides, once more in their purple and green uniforms, and stood sorrowfully on either side of the “body” of Dr. King. They looked at one another across T.J.’s crumpled form. The Purples said, “Why do we kill our brightest and our best? Won’t we ever learn?”

  The Greens replied, “Maybe it could start with us.” Hands reached out. Purples and Greens touched fist on fist, up, down, then slapped open hands in the familiar street greeting, friend to friend.

  The lights dimmed. The actors slipped to the back of the room. Now I expected the lights to come on, and the audience would clap for the wonderful job the boys had done. But the lights stayed dim; no one clapped. The audience sat silently, as if stunned. And then I heard a sound coming from the second row where Florida was sitting.

  The sound of someone crying.

  43

  I got teary myself the next few days, every time I remembered how Florida and Carl had walked slowly along the backdrop after the performance, whispering together, as if seeing Chris’s talent for the first time. I don’t know what she said to him, but I saw her hug her boy a long time, and he had to brush the back of his arm across his eyes.

  But the next day at church, she planted herself in front of me. “Hate to admit it, Jodi Baxter, but you was right about Chris. I didn’t see no use for all that scrawlin’ he was doin’, but after seein’ what he did for that play? Now I know God got His hand on my son, an’ He gonna raise him up to be somebody. I’m thinkin’ it’s time I quit tellin’ God what He’s s’posed ta do, and just start askin’ God to work out His own purpose for my boy, no matter what happens next Wednesday!”

  Had to laugh, though, at the message she left on our answering machine on Monday. “I meant what I said yesterday, Jodi, ’bout trustin’ God for Chris no matter what happens at the hearing Wednesday. But that don’t mean you ain’t s’posed to keep prayin’ that the judge do right by my boy an’ send him home!”

  I did pray—as I walked to school, every time I saw Carla, every time I saw Chris’s name on the sticky note I’d stuck to the bathroom mirror. But I was also having withdrawal pangs after spending two weeks with “the boys” at the JDC, and now suddenly . . . nothing. It seemed like a dream. God? What was it all about? Will I ever see those boys again? What’s going to happen to T.J. and Ramón and David . . . and Chris?

  As Wednesday’s hearing approached, my anxiety level heightened, as if Chris were my own son. What if he was sent away to Joliet, like Jeremy? Oh God! . . .

  I tried to be a reassuring presence for Carla, offering once more to take her home with me after school if Florida and Carl were delayed for some reason. When the dismissal bell rang on Wednesday, she hung around my desk after the other kids piled out of the room while I packed up my things. “Can I erase the board, Miz Baxter?”

  “Sure, honey. Just leave today’s homework assignments.”

  “Hey, Carla,” a male voice growled. “Ready to go home?”

  Both of us jumped. I hadn’t heard the door open. Nor did I expect to hear that voice in my classroom—

  “Chris!!!” Carla screamed, scattering papers, books, and stumbling over chairs as she threw herself into her brother’s arms. I was so astonished, I just watched in a daze as he swung her around and around, laughing so hard I thought both of them were going to fall over.

  When Chris finally did put her down, Carla kept hopping up and down and hanging on him, so that finally he dragged her along like a ball-and-chain to where I stood, my mouth hanging like it’d been propped open with a toothpick. “Hey, Mrs. B.” He laughed. “You glad to see me?”

  “Glad?!” Now I laughed, grabbing him in a hug. All that fear and worry and prayer and hoping came blubbering out of me all at once. Then I held him at arm’s length. “But . . . you’re out? Home? Free? Just like that? No sentence?”

  “Nope. Judge believed me, that I didn’t know nothin’ ’bout that robbery till after it happened. Dropped the armed robbery charges. But she tol’ me I was headin’ for big trouble if I hung out with them gangbangers anymore. Said if I got picked up again, she’d put me in the slammer so fast, my ears would be ringin’.” He made a face. “Man, felt as if she’d blistered my behind by the time she got through.”

  Carla tugged on his arm. “C’mon, Chris! Let’s go home!”

  “Yeah. My folks are waitin’ outside for us. Come on out, Mrs. B, say hi.”

  I walked down the hall with Chris and Carla and out the school’s double doors, once again wondering why I was so surprised when God answered our prayers. I’d told Florida, “Have faith, sister” . . . but when it came to my own—

  “Hey, Jodi!” Florida waved out the passenger-side window of a navy
blue Toyota Corolla. “Ya like it? Tol’ ya God was goin’ ta put a car in that garage of ours. One of Carl’s coworkers sold it ta him. Only ninety thousand miles—pretty good for a ’97.”

  “Is it ours, Mama? Really, truly?” Carla pulled open the backseat door and hopped in. Chris slid in after her.

  Carl waved at me from behind the wheel and the car started to move. Florida just laughed. “God is good, Jodi!” she yelled back at me. “All the time, God is good!”

  THE WEATHER FORGOT TO LOOK at the calendar that weekend. May Day—the first of May—fell on Saturday, but the warm temperatures of April had fallen once more into the forties, along with a chilly rain.

  Who cared! We were going to La Fiesta Restaurant that evening with the rest of Yada Yada and our families to party our socks off.

  “Where’s Josh? Isn’t he coming?” Stu asked as she and Estelle piled into our Caravan with Denny, me, and Amanda.

  I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, I think so. He disappeared around noon today, said he’d meet us there.”

  “I hope they don’t put us off in some party room an’ make us listen to Mr. Enriquez’s band piped in or somethin’,” Amanda grumped.

  “That’s why we didn’t say we were coming as a group. Ricardo told us to come early and just fill up the place!” I glanced at Denny. Sure hoped that worked. The whole point was to listen to Ricardo’s mariachi band, dance, eat, laugh. Celebrate!

  Because we sure had a lot to celebrate that night—not the least of which was that the whole Hickman family would be there. All five of them.

  Most of us arrived around five-thirty, give or take fifteen minutes. By the time Ricardo arrived with his band at six o’clock—an hour earlier than usual, his “gift” to the restaurant, but really to us—we had filled up half the main room of the restaurant with its festive magenta walls, orange stucco ceiling, and terra cotta tiled floor. The wait staff, attired in white shirts, black pants or skirts, and black string ties, rushed about getting menus, water glasses, and silverware for everyone. When a young server spilled water all over Delores’s lap, Delores patted the air in a calming gesture. “Ninguna prisa. Estamos muy bien.”

  “What’d she say?” I murmured to Amanda.

  Amanda shrugged. “ ‘No hurry. We are fine’ . . . something like that.”

  By the time most of us had our food—plates heaped with flautas, enchiladas, burritos, quesadillas, and more, along with the necessary rice and beans, tortilla chips, and salsa—the band was well into their first set, a string of mariachi favorites such as “Tú Sólo Tú” and “Volver, Volver.” José was playing a mandolin in the band tonight, and brought the house down with a mandolin solo on “Dos Arbolitos”—“Two Little Trees.” Amanda clapped so hard I thought she was going to break her chair.

  Chanda and her kids arrived late, as usual—though parking her monster SUV couldn’t be the excuse tonight, since the restaurant had a good-size parking lot in back. I was happy to see that Rochelle and Conny came too. I craned my neck and skimmed the tables nearby. Was everyone else here? The five Hickmans and Becky filled one table, with Little Andy climbing all over Chris . . . Delores and her four dark-eyed niños sat with Avis and Peter . . . Ruth and Ben noshed with Yo-Yo and her brothers, who each held a twin . . .

  My eyes lingered on the Sisulu-Smith table, where Mark and Nonyameko and their boys laughed and talked with Hoshi and Adele. Would we ever gather like this again, all the Yada Yadas with our families, to celebrate what God had done for us? What would the next year look like for Yada Yada? Becky and Estelle had been added this last year—one saved from prison, the other from the fire. Sheesh, Lord. If You have new sisters for Yada Yada, couldn’t you send them in less dramatic fashion next time?

  I tackled my quesadillas. Well, at least we were all here right now. I should just be thankful for the moment—wait a minute! My head jerked up. Everyone was not here.

  Josh and Edesa were missing.

  I was so flummoxed that I almost missed Ricardo Enriquez at the mic, wearing the elegant charro suit of the mariachi band, introducing the next song. “. . . for my wife, Delores, who had a birthday this month.” He stepped off the small stage and stopped at Delores’s table with his large guitarrón, making her blush and sending the Enriquez children into giggles.

  Stu poked me. “Good grief! Yada Yada forgot Delores’s birthday!” Huh. Did she mean Yada Yada—or me? Whatever. We’d make it up to her.

  Ricardo’s serenade was beautiful. “What is he singing?” I whispered to Amanda.

  “It’s ‘Las Mañanitas’,” she whispered back. “Something about ‘the lovely psalms sung by King David . . . today we sing them to a loved one who happy will be.’ ”

  Delores was beaming when Ricardo rejoined his band on the stage. But once again, Ricardo leaned into the mic. “We have another special occasion to celebrate tonight. A young couple who have an announcement to make, but I don’t see them—oh, there they are. Ladies and gentlemen . . .” The entire band began strumming their guitars and violins like a stringed drum roll. “. . . may I present Joshua Baxter and Edesa Reyes.”

  I clutched Denny’s arm. Young couple? Announcement? My heart nearly stopped as Josh and Edesa walked into the room hand in hand, as if they’d been waiting in the wings of a stage. Edesa, wearing a lovely white eyelet dress and fringed black-and-rose shawl, smiled radiantly beneath a halo of tiny black ringlets framing her mahogany skin. An audible gasp traveled around the tables. Amanda squealed.

  Josh, looking manly and grown up in spite of the sandy hair curling down over the collar of his open-necked shirt, quickly took the mic and grinned our way. “Hey, pipe down, sis. Don’t steal my show.” They stood together in the spotlight, my tall Caucasian son and the beautiful young black woman from Honduras. Josh put his arm around Edesa. “I asked her to marry me—”

  Edesa laughed and took the mic away from him. “And I said yes. In a year or two.” She held up her left hand. A simple diamond on her third finger flashed in the light.

  The entire room erupted in a volcano of cheers, clapping, squeals, and laughter. I was so stunned I could hardly breathe; Denny’s tight grip around my waist didn’t help.

  The band began to play. Ricardo took the mic. “Josh and Edesa have requested ‘Amar Es Para Siempre’—‘To Love Is Forever.’ For you gringos, the song says: ‘You’re my reason, my peace, my faith, my light . . . your smile is the sun of every dawn.’ ”

  The band began to play. Josh took Edesa in his arms and, grinning at each other, they danced. It looked like a combination of a waltz and a salsa, but what do I know? But in the midst of the sweet violins and the floating figures in the spotlight, I heard that still, small Voice in my spirit . . .

  Trust Me, Jodi. Trust My Spirit within these young people. Time for you to let go. And—think of the possibilities!

  Book Club Questions

  1. Have you ever attended a Jewish holiday celebration or ceremony, such as Rosh Hashanah (Jewish New Year), Yom Kippur (Day of Atonement), Purim (Story of Esther, Festival of Lots), Sukkot (Feast of Booths), Pesach (Passover), or Hanukkah (Festival of Light)? Or maybe a ceremony such as a brit mila (ceremonial circumcision), bar mitzvah (a boy’s coming of age), bat mitzvah (same for a girl), or a Jewish wedding? Share your experience. In what way might these celebrations enrich our own faith?

  2. How do you respond to the “blending” of Uptown Community and New Morning Christian Church? What do you see as the strengths/weaknesses of being a “homogeneous” church? What do you see as the strengths/weaknesses of being a “heterogeneous” church? How important do you think it is to reflect some of the diversity that is the body of Christ within a local body?

  3. What name for the blended church in this novel would you have voted for? Why? Have you ever been part of naming a church or group? Was it a good experience? How important is naming an organization? A new baby? Your own name?

  4. In what way do you identify with Jodi’s struggles with Old Jodi responses (worry,
stewing, acting first and praying later) and New Jodi responses (praying first, waiting on God, listening for God’s voice, seeking counsel from others)?

  5. Now that you’ve read Book 6 in the Yada Yada series, what growth do you see in the other characters (e.g., Chanda’s attitude toward money; Nony and how she handles her desire to return to South Africa; Yo-Yo and Becky, the “baby Christians”; Florida facing myriad challenges in her family; Avis’s seeming “perfection” becoming more “real”)? What character’s growth do you identify with most—and why?

  6. When the Holy Spirit speaks within Jodi, does that seem real to you? How is Jodi learning to hear the Holy Spirit? In what way does God’s Spirit speak to you? How can you discern between “God’s still, small voice” and your own thoughts and feelings?

  7. Denny tells his almost-grown kids that sometimes we have to let go of the past in order to go forward. Are there events or people in your past you are hanging on to that are keeping you from “rolling” with God?

  8. Two of the Yada Yada sisters are ex-cons. Both came to faith because someone visited them in prison. In Gets Rolling, both Denny and Jodi volunteer at the juvenile detention center and are surprised at the eager responsiveness of these young “criminals.” Read Matthew 25:34–36 and Hebrews 13:1–3. What priority do Jesus and Paul give “prison ministry”? Have you ever visited someone in prison? What do you think would happen if you did?

  9. In Gets Rolling, the Yada Yada Prayer Group begins to reach beyond their group in new ways. Is God nudging you to “reach out” beyond your own circle of family and friends? In what ways? What are the challenges for you? How can you support one another?