The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Tough

by Neta Jackson

  “Really too bad we have to rush our Second Sunday Potluck, just so we can clear out in time for that other church to use our building. Did we agree on this as a congregation?”

  “Felt like a rushed decision to me. We didn’t get a chance to talk about all the inconvenience it would create. Why didn’t they just rent a room from the Y or one of the high schools?”

  “That’s right. Two churches in one building doesn’t make sense. And we own the building. Should we be the ones that have to hurry up and clear out? Why can’t they just start later?”

  “Well, I heard that last week they ran over their time and were still having a prayer service when the youth group got here. The kids were real upset.”

  “Hm. They don’t sound very considerate to me. What do we know about these people anyway?”

  I was afraid to turn around, afraid I’d spew my mouthful of half-chewed shepherd’s pie all over the gripers behind me. I recognized a couple of the voices; wasn’t sure about the others. A half-dozen cutting remarks almost made it to the tip of my tongue, none of which would have won me any friends or built any bridges.

  I was mad. Too mad to sit there and pretend to eat. Mad at the pettiness. Mad at how little it took to keep “those people” at arm’s length. Mad at how easy it was to weigh everything by what was convenient or best for “us.” Mad because New Morning was Mark and Nony’s church, and it felt like kicking my friends when they were down.

  I took the coward’s way out, found Amanda, and told her to tell her dad I was going to walk home.

  33

  I mentally kicked myself all the way home. Why didn’t I say something? Something thoughtful and penetrating, like, “Jesus told us to lay down our lives for each other, to be a living sacrifice. Sacrificing some of our church space and a little of our time doesn’t seem like too much to ask, does it?” Or . . . “You might feel differently if you took the time to meet the people who are using our building, maybe even worshiped with them one of these afternoons.”

  In my gut, I knew why I didn’t. Because, deep down, I knew how easily the Jodi Marie Baxter who lived in my skin—self-righteous, self-centered moi—could’ve made those remarks just a few months ago. Today those thoughtless remarks felt personal—after all, Mark and Nony were my friends, and New Morning was their church. But who was I to get all self-righteous? I hadn’t taken the time to meet others from New Morning Church or attend one of their services, not like Peter Douglass and Josh did. And I didn’t want to either—not today. Not with our own worship this morning and potluck afterward and a Yada Yada prayer meeting tonight.

  If I put my body where my mouth was, I’d be in church all day.

  DENNY WAS PEEVED AT ME for walking home without telling him why; he said he got all worried. But we took Willie Wonka for a leisurely walk to the lake, in spite of a big thundercloud building up in the southwest, and I told him what happened. “I felt so mad, I was afraid I’d say something I’d regret or bust out crying. I kept thinking, what if Nony overheard Uptown people saying those things! Especially when New Morning ran late last week because they were praying for Mark! But”—I eyed my husband sheepishly—“I’m kinda glad I didn’t mouth off. Probably would’ve stuck my foot in it.”

  The sky was getting darker. Lightning flashed off to the west. The air hung warm and heavy. Denny took my hand, and we started back home. “Thing is,” he said, “if people at Uptown are not only thinking but actually saying stuff like that, we’ve got a problem. Negative attitudes feed on themselves. It’s not convenient having New Morning share our space, but . . .” He seemed lost in his own thoughts for the next half block. I accepted the silence, aware of his fingers laced with mine, hoping the rain would hold off long enough so we didn’t have to dash. “If we don’t do anything about it,” he resumed, “ill feelings might only get worse. The status quo obviously isn’t working. Seems like we either have to back off—or dive in.”

  Whatever that meant. But I didn’t have time to unravel his meaning, because fat raindrops began plopping all around us, like so many staccato beats of a percussive band. We ran, dragging poor Willie Wonka behind us as fast as his arthritic legs would pump. Made it to our front porch just as the skies dumped whole sheets of water like dancing curtains blowing in on a warm wind.

  Wonka shook himself off, looking offended at the mad dash he’d been forced to make. “Hey, Wonka,” Denny teased, knuckling the dog’s noggin, “by the time you walk to the back of the house, this little storm will have rolled right over us and be headed toward Michigan.” He disappeared inside with the dog. But I lingered on the front porch. I loved Midwestern summer storms, rolling in and then rolling right back out again with a bang and a bit of fireworks, cleansing the air and leaving everything squeaky clean.

  Denny poked his head out the door again. “Think I’ll run up to the hospital to see Mark. Want to come?”

  I shook my head. “Can’t. Yada Yada is meeting at Stu’s in”—I squinted at my watch—“about an hour. Nony’s coming.” I was glad he was going; glad I had an excuse not to. It was painful seeing Nony’s husband just lying in that stark hospital room attached to machines like a human experiment in a sci-fi movie.

  An earsplitting thunderclap overhead made me jump, followed almost immediately by a bright flash of lightning. Mm—that was close. I peered up and down the street to see if any trees had been struck. That’s when I noticed a familiar car parked in front of the house getting a nature bath.

  Adele Skuggs’s little Ford Escort. What was she doing here? Was it time for Yada Yada already? I shook my watch. Still ticking. Still only four o’clock. So why . . . ?

  I tried Stu’s front door. Not locked. I hollered up the stairs, “Anybody home? It’s Jodi!”

  “Come on up,” Stu hollered back.

  I found them in the kitchen. Becky was sitting in a straightbacked chair facing away from me, a plastic cape tied around her neck, her hair wet and sectioned, each strand held with a giant clip. Adele was busy, scissors in hand, snipping away at Becky’s mousy brown hair, section by section. Becky’s right hand rested in a bowl of sudsy water on the tiny kitchen table; Stu bent over her left hand, carefully painting Becky’s stubby nails a lovely magenta.

  I blinked. The talk yesterday between Stu and Becky had been firm, fair, no nonsense. Stu had drawn a “no tolerance” line in the sand: Any drugs on this property, even marijuana, and she’d call Becky’s parole officer. And she wanted household chores as “rent.” On Becky’s part, she said she needed a job, something—anything!—she could do at home to keep her from going crazy. She wanted regular visits with Andy. And she wanted to get her own place as soon as possible, to make a home for her little boy. Stu had agreed to look into resources for work-at-home jobs, she’d push Andy’s caseworker for regular visits, and she’d be delighted if Becky could get her own place.

  All told, they’d made good progress, but the meeting wasn’t exactly what I’d call chummy. Now . . . I wished I had a camera. I could use it to blackmail Stu next time she got cranky about wet towels on the bathroom floor.

  “Jodi? That you?” Becky tried to twist around to see me. “Adele won’t lemme see what she’s doin’! Please tell me it’s gonna be all right.”

  “You hold still, Becky Wallace,” Adele scolded, “or—”

  “—I’ll cut something you’ll wish I hadn’t!” I mimicked Adele’s favorite mantra. Adele snorted. “Hush now, Jodi Baxter. A sista’s gotta do what a sista’s gotta do.” She kept right on snipping.

  Uh-huh. And you’ve been dying to get your scissors into B. W.’s hair ever since she showed up at Stu’s front door with her toothbrush. I squeezed past Stu and stood in front of Becky, eyeing her critically—and remembering last summer when Denny had conspired with my Yada Yada sisters to get me to Adele’s Hair and Nails for a makeover a couple of months after the car accident. Florida’s words came popping out of my mouth: “Gotta trust your hairdresser, Becky. Relax, girl. You are going to look good.”
<
br />   SHE DID TOO. By the time the rest of the Yada Yada sisters came huffing up the stairs to Stu’s second-floor apartment, Becky’s hair had undergone a transformation—a richer brunette color with auburn highlights; short and feathered in the back, a bit longer in the front, creating a playful swing every time she turned her head. Her nails—fingers and toes—had color, and I noticed a smidgeon of rosy blush, lipstick, and mascara.

  “Girl, where ya been hidin’ your beautiful self?” Florida turned her around. “Mm-hm. You lookin’ fine.”

  “Sí!” Delores beamed. “You can throw away that bandana now.”

  Edesa gave Becky a hug and one of her big smiles. “I hope you will be coming to all our Yada Yada meetings now. Sí ?”

  I caught Stu’s eye. If Stu followed through on calling the parole agent, she would. Could.

  Chanda looked Becky up and down. “Now you be needing somet’ing new to wear. A woman wit’ nice, skinny legs as you got should be showing dem off. Baggy ol’ sweatpants, uh-uh. Dey gotta go.” I hid a smile. Chanda’s own plump legs had gotten a good deal of exposure lately in the tight, short skirts she’d been buying.

  Becky’s eyes glistened at all the attention.

  Yo-Yo showed up—without Ruth. “De lady sick again?” Chanda asked, helping herself to two of Stu’s lemon bars.

  Yo-Yo shrugged. “Dunno. She just said she was tired.”

  “Humph.” Chanda wagged her head, her mouth full. “Time we sistahs got to worrying. Dat lady either got cancer or got ’erself pregnant.”

  Ruth’s recent absences weren’t funny, but it was hard not to laugh. “I’m sure there are other possibilities,” Stu said dryly, handing a pitcher of iced tea to Chanda. “Here. Make yourself useful.”

  I counted noses. “Are Nony and Hoshi coming?” I asked Avis, who looked strangely undignified in one of Stu’s wicker chairs. Stu’s wicker furniture required a good slouch, and I was sure Avis hadn’t slouched in all her fifty-plus years.

  Avis shifted, trying to get comfortable. “She said she would try. Might have to bring the boys. She doesn’t want to leave them with a sitter.”

  “No problem,” I said. “Amanda and Josh are both home tonight. Youth group got cancelled since they went to Jesus People yesterday to sign up for Cornerstone as volunteers. The boys can hang out with them.”

  As the lemon bars and iced tea got passed around, Avis said, “Almost forgot! Chanda and Yo-Yo? Would either or both of you like a computer? Peter’s getting some new ones for his office and—”

  “For real?” Yo-Yo’s eyes widened. “Ya mean, like, he’s giving them away?”

  “Sure. Passing on the blessing.” Avis smiled.

  “All right by me.” Yo-Yo’s grin practically hit both ears. “Pete an’ Jerry gonna fall right outta their skin.”

  Chanda waved a finger back and forth. “T’anks, but not for me. Dis girl don’ want no more hand-me-downs, secondhand, gently used, or whatever name it go by. Tired of being a charity case—an’ no need now.” She sniffed. “Me be getting a computer soon, but I tell you true, it going to be spankin’ new from top to bottom.” She sat back and folded her arms across her chest.

  Avis shrugged. “It’s up to you. Just wanted to ask my sisters first, before Peter—”

  “Uh . . .” Becky Wallace, sitting on a kitchen chair just off to the side, cleared her throat. “If nobody else wantin’ that computer, I’ll take it. Might help me get some work I could do while I’m stuck on house arrest.” She aimed a meaningful eye at Chanda. “When a body don’t got nothin’, secondhand sparkle like gold an’ diamonds.”

  “Good. It’s yours,” Avis said hastily, cutting off Chanda, who looked like she was ready to come out sparring. “Let’s begin with a prayer, shall we? Edesa, would you?” And with Edesa’s simple, sweet opening prayer, Avis had deftly steered us into our prayer time.

  After Edesa closed the prayer, Avis asked, “Delores, can you tell us what the doctors are saying about Mark?”

  Delores seemed to search for an answer but ended up shaking her head. “The doctors are . . . how do you say it? No dicen mucho—not saying much. He is still critical.”

  Storm clouds gathered on Adele’s face. “An’ the police aren’t saying nothin’ about who did this either. If you ask me, they’re afraid to call it a hate crime. Don’t want to set off any racial mess.” She folded her arms across her generous chest, as if holding in what she really thought.

  I jumped in with my two cents. “At least they ought to haul in that jerk in the red tie for questioning—the one who left hate literature at the Sisulu-Smiths and then threatened Mark at the rally. I’d like to see him in jail.” The moment the words were out of my mouth, I saw Becky wince and regretted my big mouth. She probably thinks we talked about her like that after the robbery last fall. I winced myself. We probably did. Oh Jesus.

  Avis cleared her throat. “Sisters, while we’re waiting for Nony and Hoshi, I’d like to read a few verses from Ephesians, chapter six—the passage that talks about putting on the whole armor of God.” She paged to the last section of her big Bible. Several others with Bibles hunted it up too. “Here it is. ‘Be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power. Put on the full armor of God so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes’ . . .”

  Becky, sitting a bit apart from the rest of us, leaned forward, elbows on the knees of her skinny jeans and chin in her hands, as if to catch every word.

  “ ‘For our struggle is not against flesh and blood,’ ” Avis continued, “ ‘but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.’ ”

  Yo-Yo blew out a breath. “Sounds creepy—all that stuff about ‘dark powers’ and ‘forces of evil.’ Like a slasher movie.”

  “That’s why we need to understand what Scripture says about fighting spiritual battles. Our struggle isn’t against ‘flesh and blood.’ People are not the real enemy. Not the White Pride Coalition, not even the guy in the red tie.” Avis gave me a teasing smile.

  “Wait a minute.” Stu had her hackles up. “You don’t mean we should just let these creeps get away with what they did!”

  “Of course not. We should pray that the person or persons who attacked Mark will be brought to justice. But even if they are, the battle is not over. Because the attitudes of hate and violence behind this attack are spiritual in nature, so we need to use spiritual weapons to fight back.”

  “I don’t get it.” We all looked at Becky Wallace. This was only her second time meeting with Yada Yada, and the first time she’d opened her mouth during a discussion. “Spiritual weapons? Ain’t that a contradiction? I mean, I thought being a Christian was all about love an’ stuff.”

  “Not a contradiction. Love is a spiritual weapon! That’s the weapon God used to overcome sin and death.” Avis flipped in her Bible again. “John 3:16 says, ‘For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son’—meaning that He let Jesus take the punishment for all our sins. And the very next verse says, ‘For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world.’ ”

  “Thank ya, Jesus! Or my butt would be fried for sure!” Florida wagged her head, making us laugh.

  Becky shifted in her chair. “Yeah, guess I understand that. ’Cause I’d still be in prison if you guys hadn’t, well, been nice to me.”

  Adele snorted. “Nice didn’t have much to do with it. Some of us didn’t feel so ‘nice’ after what you did.” She shrugged. “But like Florida said, all of us are in the same boat. You, me, Yo-Yo, Avis . . . Love covered over our sins. God expects those who ‘get’ to ‘give.’ ”

  “So love . . . that’s it?” Yo-Yo sounded skeptical.

  “I don’t feel much like loving those White Pride people,” I admitted. “Not after what they did.”

  “But our sister is right,” Delores said. “About love being a spiritual weapon.” She hunted for something in her Bible.
“In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus said, ‘You have heard people say, “Love your neighbors and hate your enemies.” But I tell you to love your enemies and pray for anyone who mistreats you.’ ”

  “Or mistreats your brother,” Edesa murmured.

  We sat silently in Stu’s melon and lime living room. Finally Yo-Yo blurted, “Can’t say as I got much love for the dudes who messed with Mark, but guess we’re supposed to pray for ’em, huh?”

  Stu’s doorbell rang. While she let Nony and Hoshi in, Yo-Yo’s words pricked my conscience. Pray for them. God had told me clearly to go to the rally, to pray for the people there. God had seemed to point out the White Pride girl, the one with orangey-blonde hair. Had I been praying for her since the attack on Mark?

  No.

  If I’d thought about her at all, it was wishing I could slap her upside the head.

  34

  Sorry we are late,” Nony said apologetically. “The boys were visiting their father.” A plain black head wrap hid her usually sculpted hair; the bright African prints were missing, replaced by an ordinary pair of beige slacks and black top. Her eyes seemed large; strain lined her face. Even so, she was beautiful. “Can the boys do their homework somewhere?”

  I crooked a finger at Marcus and Michael. “Come with me. Amanda and Josh are studying too. You can hang out with them.”

  Amanda, doing homework at the dining room table, gave both boys a big grin and made room for them at the table. Knowing Amanda, she’d probably haul out the makings for caramel popcorn balls given half an excuse. When I ducked out to go back upstairs, Josh, who was supposed to be studying for his last two finals, came out of his room and started shadowboxing with the boys, creating unrestrained youthful glee.

  Wasn’t sure how much homework was going to get done, but maybe Josh and Amanda needed Marcus and Michael as much as the other way around.

  When I got back upstairs, Yada Yada was singing. I squeezed onto Stu’s futon between Edesa and Delores, closed my eyes, and just listened.