The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Tough

by Neta Jackson

  Healing. Didn’t Hakim’s name mean something about “healing”? I dropped the potatoes I was peeling and hunted up my lesson plan notebook. At the beginning of the school year, I’d made a welcome bulletin board with each child’s name and its meaning in colorful bubble letters. I had the list somewhere . . . there it is.

  “Hakim. Wise healer.”

  Hm. What could I do with that? He’d been pretty scornful last September when I told him what his name meant. I studied the list, trying to think.

  The back door banged. “Mo-om! Wonka’s digging up the flowers Becky Wallace just planted!” A split-second lull. “Why is there a pan heating on the stove with nothing in it?”

  “Ack!” I made a mad dash for the kitchen and pulled the empty saucepan off the burner. “Boiled dry,” I said lamely to my fifteen-year-old, who was holding Willie Wonka by the collar and wearing that I-can’t-believe-how-dumb-parents-are look. I glanced out the back door window; sure enough, a freshly dug hole decorated with topsy-turvy marigolds had materialized in the newly planted flowerbeds along the fence.

  Grabbing a rag from the bucket under the sink, I got it wet and threw it at Amanda. “Make yourself useful. Clean off Wonka’s paws,” I said, heading out the door to repair the damage. The dog, oblivious to his crime, licked Amanda’s face as she bent over his muddy paws.

  By the time I’d rescued the marigolds, Amanda had her head in the refrigerator looking for a snack. Refilling the saucepan with water, I put it back on the stove and tackled the potatoes again. “Tomorrow is Hakim Porter’s last day in my class,” I said, trying to make normal conversation. “Got any ideas how I could make it special?”

  Amanda gave up on the refrigerator and raided the cookie jar. “Cupcakes. And play some kind of game. It’s third grade, Mom.”

  I stared at my daughter as she grabbed the phone on her way out of the kitchen. Cupcakes! Of course! And a game . . .

  Suddenly I had an idea. I grinned as I plopped the last skinned potato into the now-boiling water. Thanks to God and Amanda.

  MS. IVY WAVED ME INTO THE SCHOOL OFFICE the next morning, grinning slyly as if she was guarding a national secret. Ignoring the fact that my hands were full with a tray of chocolate cupcakes, she dragged me behind the main desk, threw open Avis Johnson’s office door, and flipped the light switch. “Ta-da!”

  Somebody had been busy. A long paper banner on the wall behind her desk said CONGRATULATIONS, AVIS AND PETER! Twisted yellow and green crepe-paper streamers crisscrossed the room like a spider web, and on the desk sat a pile of wedding gifts wrapped in colorful paper and gold ribbon. “Better come in early on Monday if you want to see the look on her face.” Ms. Ivy giggled. “Haven’t had this much fun since we had a sit-in for two days in the president’s office in college—oh! Don’t forget to tell your students to say, ‘Congratulations, Ms. Johnson’ whenever they see her on Monday.”

  “Except it’s Mrs. Douglass now—but don’t worry. She’ll love it. Just ignore anything she says like, ‘What’s all this nonsense?’ and, ‘Did you get any work done last week?’ ”

  I left Ms. Ivy still chuckling, made it to my classroom without dropping the cupcakes, and hid them in the supply closet. Once the bell had rung and the students were more or less in their seats, I announced that today was Hakim’s last day in our class, so I was declaring Friday “Hakim Porter Day” and everyone should try to think of something special he or she could do for Hakim. Embarrassed, Hakim slid down in his seat and put his hands over his ears—but I saw a tiny smile flicker at the edges of his mouth.

  A few of the students really got into it. Chanté offered to sharpen his pencil. Ramón said Hakim should be first in line to go to lunch. Cornell broke his candy bar in two and gave Hakim half. During creative arts, several students labored over good-bye cards.

  With an hour left in the school day, I told the students to put away their papers and books—to loud cheers—and it was time for Hakim’s good-bye party. We pushed back the desks, and on the floor I laid down a number of flashcards with a large capital letter written on each one. “Who can make a word out of these letters?” Jade picked out SEE. D’Angelo put together RAT and OWL. We kept mixing up the letters, and others began to get the idea, finding OR and REAL and HAT. The word game took a detour when Terrell discovered POW and proceeded to act out a few karate kicks: “Pow! Pow!”

  After marching Terrell to his seat for a five-minute time-out, I noticed Hakim studying the letters intently. Suddenly, he said, “Let me.” In thirty seconds, he had spelled out HAKIM PORTER and sat back on his heels grinning.

  “But what are the other letters for, Ms. Baxter?” Kaya asked.

  “Just to fool us, I bet,” scoffed Ramón. “It was Hakim’s name all the time, ’cause it’s Hakim Porter Day.”

  “You’re right, Ramón. It is Hakim’s name, but the rest of the letters spell out the meaning of Hakim’s name. Remember our bulletin board at the beginning of the school year?”

  Several heads nodded. “But I only remember my name,” said Britny. She stuck her nose in the air. “It means ‘England,’ and I’m going to go there someday.”

  A hubbub ensued as several students shouted out the meaning of their names. But I finally managed to corral everyone’s attention again. “Whoever can put together the two words that are the meaning of Hakim’s name can bring out the treat I’ve got locked in the supply closet.”

  Again there was a flurry of waving hands. Hakim said gruffly, “Let me. It’s my name.” And in short order, he had spelled out WISE HEALER with the remaining cards on the floor.

  I smiled. “You remembered.”

  He shrugged. “It’s still stupid. Can I get the treat now?”

  The cupcakes, which also had capital letters spelling out Hakim’s name in green frosting, one letter per cupcake, were a big hit; so was the game of pin the tail on Shrek’s donkey friend. We played and laughed until the bell rang. “Don’t forget!” I called out as the kids scrambled for their backpacks and jackets. “When Ms. Johnson comes back from her honeymoon on Monday, you can say, ‘Congratulations, Mrs. Douglass!’ ”

  Hakim lingered, cleaning out his desk and stuffing papers, pencils, colored markers, and other stuff that he had collected throughout the year into his backpack. Finally, he came up to my desk. “Thanks for the party, Ms. B.” A frown collected on his creamy brown face. “I—I won’t get to say good-bye to Ms. Johnson. Will you”—he fished in his back pocket and pulled out a crumpled, handmade card—“give this card to her?”

  I took the card. “Of course, Hakim. She will really appreciate it.”

  He fished in his other back pocket. “An’ this one’s for you.” He handed me another crumpled, construction-paper card. The front was decorated with curlicues and flowers and stick figures holding hands. Inside were just four words: I LOVE YOU. HAKIM.

  OK, SO MAYBE TEACHERS AREN’T SUPPOSED TO CRY and give their students big hugs, but I couldn’t help it. I was still sniffling as I started home with my tote bag and the empty cupcake tray. Even if Hakim’s mother didn’t know if she could forgive me, Hakim’s “I love you” went a long way to healing the pain in my heart.

  No wonder Jesus said we should “become like little children” and “a little child shall lead them.”

  Besides, I told myself, wasn’t it a good thing Hakim would be getting the help he needed? In fact, so many good things had been happening lately that I should be dancing in the street! Avis getting married . . . Yo-Yo getting baptized . . . Becky getting an early parole . . . not to mention that spring was busting out all over, draping the rough edges of our Chicago neighborhood with a canopy of green leaves overhead, while tiny lilies of the valley embroidered the grass along the rough concrete sidewalks.

  Wow, God. Given how this school year started—MaDear throwing a hissy fit at Adele’s beauty shop, sending a mirror flying at my husband’s head; Bandana Woman busting into a Yada Yada prayer meeting waving that wicked knife; getting screamed at by Hakim�
�s mother at our first parent-teacher conference when she realized who I was—given all that upset and trauma, it seems like “all things are working together for good,” just like that verse in Romans promises.

  As gladness swallowed up my sadness, I even tried skipping down the sidewalk of Lunt Street as I approached our two-flat . . . until I tripped over a crack. OK, forget skipping. I could be happy, but I needed to watch my feet.

  That’s right, Jodi. Don’t let down your guard. I could almost hear Avis’s voice speaking firmly in my ear. Satan likes nothing better than to lull us to sleep spiritually when things are going well. Keep up the prayers. Pray for Yo-Yo. Pray for Becky—you better believe Satan isn’t happy about “the ones who got away.” Pray for your kids, pray for Hakim and his mother, pray for—

  The phone was ringing as I came in the house. Shedding my jacket and dumping my tote bag on the way to the kitchen, I grabbed the receiver just as the answering machine kicked in. “Hi, it’s Jodi! I’m here.”

  “Oh. So glad you are home, Jodi!” Nony’s rich voice seemed curiously breathless. “I have such good news. I can’t wait till Yada Yada meets—two whole days. I will burst wide open before then.”

  I laughed. “What?” I had an inkling. “I’m a glutton for good news.”

  “It’s Mark! He came home from work today and told me . . . oh, bless the name of the Lord! Let the whole world know what He has done! For the Lord is good. His unfailing love endures forever!” Nony burst into one of her Scripture prayers, and I had to wait several moments before she came back on the phone.

  “Nony! What did Mark say?”

  “Oh, Jodi. He applied for a sabbatical from Northwestern, and it was approved. We are going to South Africa when the boys finish their school year!”

  Ha! Take that, Satan, I thought as I hung up the phone a few minutes later. God’s on a roll, doing good things for all the Yada Yada sisters!

  But as I let Willie Wonka out into the backyard—supervised this time, till we put some little fences up around the flowerbeds—the Voice in my head said again, Be on your guard, Jodi. Pray.

  5

  Saturday started out with the usual chores—me nagging Josh and Amanda about cleaning their rooms and doing their laundry—but I added a trip to Home Depot to get some fencing to keep Willie Wonka out of the flowerbeds. I even remembered to measure how many feet I’d need. But as I stood in front of the display of decorative edging and realized how much this was going to cost me, I wished I’d talked to Stu about sharing the expense, since we both used the backyard.

  On the other hand, it was our dog that had dug the hole and made it necessary.

  I sighed, loaded a whole stack of foot-high, white plastic pickets into my cart, and headed for the checkout. Once I got home, I snapped together several lengths, stuck them into the ground, and stood back for a look. Hm. Wouldn’t keep out a determined dog, that’s for sure. I bent down and scratched Wonka’s head. I was counting on the fact that our chocolate Lab was old and arthritic.

  Denny left to coach a baseball game at West Rogers High at two o’clock, backing the minivan out of the garage just as Stu drove in. “Not bad,” she said, stopping to admire the fencing, her arms full of packages. “Gotta do what we gotta do, I guess.”

  I grimaced. “Yeah. Sorry about this. Willie Wonka apologizes—don’t you, Wonka.” The dog panted happily. “Did you have to work today?” It wasn’t unusual for Stu to visit some of her DCFS cases on the weekend.

  “You could say that.” Stu hesitated, shifting her packages. “Look, Jodi. Don’t say anything yet, but this thing with Becky Wallace has gotten a bit complicated. I have to drop Andy from my caseload. It’s a conflict of interest, since his mother now lives in my house.” She rolled her eyes.

  “Oh no. Becky’s counting on you going to bat for her to get visitation rights.”

  “I know. It’ll work out. Another caseworker is willing to work with the situation. I went to talk with her today, to fill her in. Oh!” A grin spread over Stu’s face. “On the way home, I stopped at Adele’s Hair and Nails to take MaDear out for a bit.” Stu chuckled. “She’s a handful, all right. Kept telling people on the sidewalk that she was being kidnapped.”

  My mouth dropped. “She didn’t!” So far, Yada Yada’s decision to take turns getting Adele Skuggs’s elderly mother out of the shop had been working pretty well. Usually MaDear had to spend hours on end tied in her wheelchair where Adele could keep an eye on her, since MaDear suffered from dementia. But one never knew what to expect from the feisty old woman. Being “kidnapped” was a new one.

  “Yep.” Stu seemed to think it was funny. “And Adele’s bugging me to bring Becky into the shop so she can ‘do somethin’ with that hair.’ I tried to explain she’s on house arrest, but Adele just said, ‘You’ll figure out somethin’.’ ”

  “Huh. How does that work? I mean, what about church? Can Becky go to church tomorrow? She got permission for last Sunday—the wedding and baptism and all.”

  Stu shifted the packages she had in her arms. “Yeah, well, we got a special dispensation for last Sunday. But for regular stuff like church every week, the pastor has to fax a letter on church letterhead to the department, stuff like that. Haven’t even had time to ask Pastor Clark to do it.”

  “What about Yada Yada? She came two weeks ago when it was here at the house. But tomorrow we’re going to Yo-Yo’s.”

  “Might be a problem, since we move from place to place each time.” Stu shrugged. “Don’t even know if she wants to come to Yada Yada.” She glanced at her watch. “Oh, hey, I got tons of stuff to do. See you tomorrow, OK?”

  I went back to sticking plastic pickets along the flowerbeds, but a moment later Stu yelled down from the second-floor landing outside her back door. “Hey, Jodi! You guys going to be around tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Think so,” I called back. “Denny’s the last-minute type, you know. But I’m not cooking my own Mother’s Day dinner, that’s for sure.”

  THE SECOND SUNDAY POTLUCK, a tradition normally carved in stone at Uptown Community Church, got bumped to the third Sunday this month in deference to Mother’s Day. Too many complaints last year—though it did have the advantage of providing a Mother’s Day meal for single moms and others without mothers to celebrate with. I had to admit I was glad I didn’t have to throw together a Baxter casserole or salad to take to church—especially since Denny made cheese omelets and splurged on gourmet coffee for breakfast, which he’d served up by candlelight. “Freeloaders,” he groused at the kids, who’d long ago given up making me breakfast in bed for Mother’s Day. Not that I missed the Cheerios and peanut butter sandwich combos they came up with.

  “Hey, Jodi! Where’s Avis and that Mr. Peter?” Florida hissed at me as she came up the stairs to Uptown’s second-floor meeting room, trailed by nine-year-old Carla and twelve-year-old Cedric. “I thought they was gettin’ back yesterday.”

  I smirked. “Maybe they did. Honeymoon probably didn’t wear off yet.”

  Florida must’ve caught me glancing behind her to see if her husband, Carl, and her oldest boy, Chris, had come, because she shook her head. “Carl’s still in the bed. Don’t know if I’m gonna get him to church regular after putting in a full workweek.” She rolled her eyes. “’Course, he didn’t make it regular when he wasn’t working. Go figure. But I’m not complaining; thank ya, Jesus! A man with a job ain’t nothin’ ta sneeze at.” She sent Cedric and Carla off to find seats, then murmured quietly, “But ya gotta pray for Chris, Jodi. He’s the one I’m worried about right now. Why didn’t nobody tell me fourteen could be so nasty?”

  I didn’t know what to say; I just hugged her and nodded, promising to pray. I didn’t remember Josh being “nasty” when he was fourteen. At the same time, he hadn’t been in the foster-care system for five years like Florida’s kids, while she was getting herself sober from years of drug addiction. Frankly, the fact that their family was back together again was nothing short of a miracle.

&n
bsp; It was one of those miracles that resisted getting pinned down in a happy ending, though. According to Florida, her oldest was hanging out on the street far too much these days.

  Carla had happily joined the ten-year-old Reilly twins passing out carnations to everybody as they came up the stairs—red if your mother was still living, white if she’d passed. I noticed Stu took a red carnation, though I wasn’t sure if her parents still lived in the Chicago area or had moved to some other state.

  Did Becky Wallace have a mother? A father? She’d basically said she didn’t have any family except Andy—and he was currently living with his paternal grandmother. For a moment my insides ached. Oh God! So many hurting families . . .

  Worship was never quite as spirited when Avis was absent. Rick Reilly, who played guitar for the praise team, was a decent worship leader, but Avis . . . I missed the way she helped us focus on worshiping God for who God is, not just for what He’s done. Still, the worship was lively enough, and Pastor Clark gave a good sermon on “Who is my mother and my brothers and my sisters?” from the passage in Matthew 12—reminding us that no matter what our natural family situation is like, we all have a new family when we become God’s sons and daughters.

  “Wish Becky could’ve heard Pastor Clark’s sermon,” I murmured to Stu after the service. “She’s going to need a new family.”

  “You guys going to be home this afternoon?” Stu asked me again.

  I eyed Denny, who was talking to some visitors. “Probably. My guess is that we’ll go out somewhere for lunch. Low-key stuff. Why? . . . Oh, hey. You want to ride with me to Yada Yada tonight? Only hitch: Nony asked if I’d give her and Hoshi a ride back to Evanston after Yada Yada. Mark can bring them, but he needs the car for something or other.”