by Neta Jackson
The “Count” paused in mid-stride. “It was these Moravians who first coined the term ‘Watch Night’ in 1733 to thank God for His blessing and protection in the past year, and to dedicate them-selves to God’s service in the coming year.” Pastor Clark stepped off the stage, hands clasped behind his back,murmuring, “Yes, yes. I was very impressed.”
Pastor Cobbs reappeared and picked up the thread. “The Methodists adopted the idea of a Watch Night service, and it spread to other groups of Christians as a time of thanksgiving and rededication. But Watch Night had special significance to African slaves in the Confederate states on New Year’s Eve in the year 1862 . . . ”
Now a group of actors moved onto the stage at the front, all African-American members of SouledOut, adults, youth, and children, barefoot and dressed in rough and ragged clothing. They huddled together, except for Sherman Meeks, who stood, leaning on his cane. “Children!” His raspy voice quavered. “Pray tonight as n’er before. President Lincoln has issued an Emancipation Proclamation that all—I said all—slaves in the states of rebellion will be free by law at the stroke of midnight tonight!”
“Oh, bless Jesus!” one of the actors cried. I barely recognized Sherman’s wife, Debra, a rag wrapped around her head, a soiled apron covering a shapeless dress.
“It’s Freedom’s Eve fo’ sho’. Pray, children, that no hand will rise against this proclamation; nothing will stamp it out. Pray, children! Watch and pray!”
Those of us in our seats held our breath as the group huddled and prayed. Suddenly another barefoot teenager ran into the group, ringing a bell. “It’s midnight,” he cried. “We’re free! Free!”
Now the crowd joined in the rejoicing, standing to our feet, shouting “Hallelujah!” and “Praise God!” along with the group on the platform. I sneaked a peek at Hakim’s family sitting across the aisle from us. Even Geraldine Wilkins-Porter and her sister were clapping and smiling.
As all the lights came on and the “actors” disappeared, Pastor Cobbs took the mic. His face shone with sweat and he wiped it with a small towel. “Thanksgiving . . . Dedication . . . Freedom. Tonight we want to celebrate what a ‘Watch Night’ means in the twenty-first century as we, too, await a new year. First, our teens will help us reflect on the past year.”
Curious, we all craned our necks as a group of the teens brought in several aluminum baking pans full of sand. They set a large pillar candle on a stool to one side and lit it. Beside the stool, they set a box of small, skinny candles. Then, one by one, several of the teens took a small candle, lit it, and gave a verbal thanksgiving before sticking the lit candle in the sand. “I thank God for my mom, who works two jobs so she can support us” . . . “Praise God I passed my PSAT test” . . . “I thank God that my dad stopped drinking . . . ”
Pastor Cobbs then invited people from the congregation to come up and light a candle of thanks. Becky Wallace popped out of her seat, holding Little Andy by the hand. She lit a candle and stuck it in the sand. “I’ve got a whole long list to be thankful for, but mostly that God gave me a second chance to be a good mom to Little Andy.”
She lit another candle for Andy. “And I’m thankful ’cause I got a racing car for Christmas! It goes real fast!” he shouted. Laughter broke open the dam—and for the next fifteen minutes candle after candle was lit, and thanksgivings offered to God for health, bills paid, friendships, family . . . and the candles set into the sand, blazing cheerfully.
“Look at all that praise!” Pastor Cobbs cried. “The world can’t help but see our lights shining when we have a grateful heart.” His deep baritone launched into a lively round of “This little light of mine! I’m gonna let it shine!” The congregation got to its feet again, clapping and singing our hearts out. From time to time, the front doors opened and a passerby slipped in to see what all the joy was about.
As the hands of the wall clock inched toward midnight, Pastor Clark joined Pastor Cobbs at the front—our Mutt-and-Jeff pastors, I used to say—urging us to sit once more. “We have a lot of young people with us tonight, praise God,” Pastor Cobbs said. “I’d rather have them here tonight than out on the streets, getting drunk or high or shot—”
A chorus of “Amens!” and “Preach it, Pastor!” rang out.
“Young people, listen to me a moment. One hundred and thirty-three years ago, an enslaved people celebrated Freedom’s Eve. But Satan does not like a free people. He is tempting you every way he can to make you a slave. I don’t have to spell it out for you. Drugs, drinking, hookin’ up, guns, gangbangin’ . . . you know what I’m talking about. It looks glamorous for about a minute.”
A few snickers rippled among the youth.
“But slavery comes with a high price, people! That kind of slav-ery puts young men in jail or in the morgue. That kind of slavery robs our beautiful girls of their precious virginity. They end up used and abused, with three babies and no daddy to provide for them. That kind of slavery leaves homes broken, kids with no one who cares. Life feels like a dead-end street. Some feel so hopeless they commit suicide.”
He paused. The room was silent. Listening.
“There is only one true freedom, young man, young woman . . . and that is the freedom of forgiveness. Forgiveness that knows our sin and loves us anyway. Forgiveness that cancels the debt we owe. Forgiveness that gives us another chance to do it right—”
A movement across the aisle caught my eye. I turned slightly and saw Hakim leaning forward, looking my way. “Thank you,” he mouthed silently.
My eyes blurred.
“—That’s what Christmas and Good Friday and Easter are all about,” Pastor Cobbs was saying. “Jesus wants you to live! Jesus wants you to be free! He took the punishment for your sins so you wouldn’t have to. That’s forgiveness, and it’s God’s gift of love to you. Young man, young woman, make this a true Freedom’s Eve . . . Let Jesus take all those lies Satan’s telling you, all those bad choices, all the damage you are doing to your bodies—and exchange them for a clean heart and a second chance to live.”
Pastor Cobbs walked back and forth, making eye contact. “If you want that kind of freedom, come on up here and let Pastor Clark and me pray with you. Don’t be afraid. Don’t be embarrassed. Coming up here is a small price to pray for freedom.”
Several moments passed. Then a lanky teenage boy from the neighborhood who’d been coming to youth group lately walked to the front and knelt by the stubs of candles, still flickering. Then two girls. Another boy. And another. Pastor Clark and Pastor Cobbs began laying hands on the kneeling youth, praying,moving to the next.
Across the aisle, Hakim stood up.
My heart nearly stopped. Oh, Jesus. Yes! Why was I so shocked? Hadn’t Nony said, “God is at work, Jodi. I know it!”
He walked to the front and sank to one knee. Denny slipped out of his seat and knelt beside Hakim, his arm around the boy’s shoulder, praying for him. That’s when the tears came.
As the prayers continued, Pastor Cobbs spoke once more into the mic. “I’d like all the youth to come forward so we can bless them. You adults, you come, too, and lay your hands on these young men and young women. Pray that God will bless them and that they will be a blessing in this new year. And as you pray, rededicate yourselves to be the man or woman, the mom or dad, the grandparent or mentor, the employer or employee, or the neighbor that God has called you to be.”
The remaining young people and children joined the teens at the altar, while a good many adults also came forward to stand behind them. I joined Denny behind Hakim and laid my hand on his shoulder. “Oh, God,” Denny prayed, his voice joining dozens of others all around us. “Thank You for this beautiful young man! Pour out Your blessing on his life. You have redeemed him for a purpose—”
Someone else came up beside us and laid a hand on Hakim’s shoulder. A manicured brown hand. At the same moment, I felt the person’s arm go around my waist. I turned my head. Hakim’s mother . . . and she was crying. I slipped my free arm around her waist
, and we just stood together and cried.
22
Midnight came and went. Outside, we heard the poppity-pop-pop of firecrackers going off, the big booms and sizzle-whistles of fireworks lighting up the sky, and somewhere the crack! crack! crack! of illegal gunfire. Church bells rang in the distance, and cars squealed through the shopping center parking lot with horns honking and stereos blaring, the thump-thumpity-thump of the bass notes so loud it rattled our windows.
But nothing could compare to the explosion of joy going off in my own spirit that night. It was truly “Freedom’s Eve” . . . not just for a special eleven-year-old, though seeing Hakim at the altar was enough to make me want to shout. But I, too, had received the greatest of undeserved gifts: the forgiveness of Geraldine Wilkins-Porter.
If I doubted the significance of her embrace and the mingling of our tears, there was no doubt when we said good-bye. “You took one son away from me, Jodi Baxter,” she whispered. “But you and God have given another son back to me. Thank you.”
I could hardly sleep that night. My heart was so swollen with gratefulness to God, I wanted to put a praise CD on the player and dance all night. But I had to wait until Denny and Amanda got up. Patches and Peanuts, of course, thought praise dancing was a game invented just for them and kept attacking my stocking feet, getting stepped on and yowling in the process.
As far as I was concerned, we’d already had “church” . . . but New Year’s Day fell on Sunday that year, so we dutifully attended the shortened worship service at SouledOut, rescheduled for eleven instead of ten. But I begged off from watching the Polar Bear swimmers jump in Lake Michigan this year. By now, it had become a tradition among the youth and young adults—and a few diehards like Denny who would probably jump in until they were sixty. But the Yada Yada reunion was at my house tonight . . . not to mention that yesterday had been Chanda’s birthday, which we were going to celebrate along with everything else.
By the time the doorbell rang with the first arrivals, Denny had taken Amanda to a movie, the house smelled of pine cleaner, the kittens had been banished to Josh’s soon-to-be guest bedroom, and I had a lemon Bundt cake chilling on the back porch. Candles flickered on every available ledge in the living and dining rooms, and Christmas carols on the CD player lent a festive air. With each new arrival, the holiday goodies multiplied, until the dining room table looked like an illustration for Better Homes and Gardens magazine . . . or a warning ad about bad cholesterol.
Then I noticed something. Nonyameko was wearing a casual red dashiki with black-and-white embroidery around the neck and sleeves, almost a unisex African style. Hoshi had on a T-shaped cotton robe of indigo blue, with wide sleeves and a cloth belt, telling someone it was a Japanese yukata. Chanda’s turquoise Jamaican beach dress hung from her shoulders to her ankles, but had slits up to her midthigh.
I elbowed Stu, who was wearing designer jeans, boots, and her red beret. “I thought we weren’t going to get decked out for this party.”
“Didn’t you see the e-mail I sent yesterday? The committee said it’s optional, but if anyone wanted to wear something representing her ethnic background or just something that says ‘this is me,’ we said go for it.”
“Oh, great. What am I supposed to wear? A loaf of Wonder Bread on my head?”
Stu cracked up. “Don’t worry about it, Jodi. That apron you’re wearing will do. Or stick a pencil in your hair. Isn’t that what teachers do?”
I looked down. Sheesh. I’d forgotten to take off the dirty apron I’d been wearing all afternoon. I whipped it off . . . and found myself grinning. I could always clothe myself with “compassion and kindness,” like the scripture I’d read at Josh and Edesa’s wedding.
I had to admit, it was fun to see what people were wearing. Yo-Yo did what came naturally, wearing her favorite wheat-denim overalls. Becky Wallace—so gauche it was funny—came in a pair of tight jeans, tank top, jean jacket, wraparound sunglasses, and red bandana, similar to the one she’d been wearing when we first “met” her, to use the term loosely. High on heroin, she had burst into my house, robbed the prayer group at knifepoint, earning the name “Bandana Woman” . . . until God showed us she was a hurting per-son too.
Several sisters just wore their favorite, comfy clothes—a velour pants-and-top outfit for Avis, jeans for Florida, a roomy caftan Estelle had sewn for herself.
Ruth, however, came wearing a traditional Jewish snood made of soft, burgundy-colored velveteen, snug around her face but loose in the back, like a little bag covering her hair. “Three words describe all Jewish clothing,” she sniffed. “Modesty, modesty, modesty.”
Edesa and Delores wore brightly colored shawls from their respective countries. Delores’s was long—a rebozo, she called it. “Very useful for cradling a bambino on your hip. I’m giving it to Edesa after tonight.”
“I’ll take it!” Edesa laughed. “But this”—she twirled in the fringed black shawl with the red roses she’d worn the night Josh had given her an engagement ring—“is for dancing!”
“Well, then, let’s get this party started!” Avis turned off the CD player and began to sing an a cappella chorus of “What a Mighty God We Serve!” It was impossible to sit down while singing “Angels bow before Him, heaven and earth adore Him,” so we stood and clapped and lifted our hands in praise. As one song ended, someone else started another. We filled the room with “The Joy of the Lord Is Our Strength”; the spiritual, “Soon and Very Soon”; and “The Name of the Lord Is a Strong Tower.”
We finally fell into our seats, laughing and fanning ourselves. “Oh, sisters,” Nonyameko said, her smile large and her eyes bright with happy tears. “You do not know how much it means to me, to be worshiping and singing with my Yada Yada sisters once more. Oh, praise to the One who gives us a new song.”
“Amen to that!” Florida said. “But I need me some water, or the next song just gonna be a big croak.”
I hustled into the kitchen to get a pitcher of cold water and some paper cups. By the time I got back, someone had suggested we do our gift exchange to our Secret Sisters. “Aw,” I said, pouring water. “That’s the first time we’ve had gifts under the tree this year. I’d kind of like to look at them a while longer . . . okay, okay, just kidding.”
Edesa looked at me oddly. When I handed her some water, she whispered, “You feel badly, Jodi? About no Christmas gifts this year because of the wedding?”
I set down the pitcher and hugged her tight. “Oh, Edesa,” I whispered in her ear. “You are the best Christmas gift our family ever had. I’m sorry I said something so silly.”
“So how do we do this thang?” Florida was saying. “Hand ’em out all at once?”
“No, no, no,” Stu protested. “Here, let’s start with the beginning of the alphabet . . . that would be Adele. Adele, you give your gift to your Secret Sister, then she’ll give her gift to her Secret Sister, and we’ll just keep on like that. The person who gets a gift will be the next one to give one, got it?”
“All right.” Adele huffed to her feet, plucked a square envelope out of the tree branches, waved it a few times . . . and handed it to me.
I wanted to laugh. Adele got my name, and I got hers? Too funny. But I opened my envelope and pulled out a gift certificate from Adele’s Hair and Nails. “‘To Jodi Baxter,’” I read. “‘Good for the fol-lowing . . . ’Whoa! She has hair color, haircut, hair set and brush-out, manicure, and spa pedicure all checked. Wahoo!” I waved it in the air, then jumped up to hug Adele. “Thanks, Adele!” I put a finger to her lips. “Now, don’t you dare say how much I need all this!”
Everybody laughed.
I went to the tree and picked up my wrapped package. “Stu had a good idea for keeping our gift exchange moving, but . . . sorry. My Secret Sister is Adele, so the loop ends here.” I handed Adele the package. “Merry Christmas.”
Adele unwrapped the square box I’d used to disguise what was inside. “A candle,” she mused, reading the box. “How nice.” She sta
rted to set it aside.
“Open it, you ninny!” I said. “Don’t trust the box.”
She opened the box . . . and pulled out the necklace I’d made. She looked at it a long moment, then smiled, showing the little gap between her front teeth. “MaDear’s buttons,” she murmured. “I love it. Yes, I do.” She slipped it over her head, which was easy because I’d strung the multicolored buttons of all sizes and shapes on a stretchy cord. “Thanks, Jodi.” She seemed a little overcome.
Stu took over. “Okay, we have to start the loop again. Avis, you’re the next A.”
Avis picked up the largest package under the tree, which seemed rather heavy, and handed it to Delores. “It’s not very personal,” she apologized. “In fact, I was thinking mostly of your kids, but . . . ”
Delores opened the package. Her eyes widened. “A laptop computer? But Avis, that’s too much!”
“Don’t worry, Delores. I, um, didn’t exactly pay for it. Peter upgraded his laptop, even though this one is perfectly good.” She rolled her eyes. “That’s what happens when you’re married to a computer geek. He’s got to have the latest bells and whistles.”
Delores shook her head happily. “Oh! Ricardo and I have been praying about getting a computer for the kids, to do their home-work, to keep up with school. This is an answer to prayer! Gloria a Dios!” She clapped her hands. “Now, it is my turn.” She retrieved a flat package from under the tree and handed it to Hoshi.
Hoshi eagerly opened the gift, pulling out an oblong white cot-ton cloth edged in lace, which looked as if it could decorate the center of a table or dresser top. Something had been embroidered around the inner edges. “Sister and Friend in English,” Hoshi murmured, turning the cloth. “Then Hermana and Amiga in Spanish. Then . . . ” Her eyes widened. “It is here in Japanese too!” She held up the cloth, and we all saw the Japanese word symbols, completely unintelligible to the rest of us.