The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Tough

by Neta Jackson

  “Like . . . what? Returning good for evil? We’ve been praying for those people.”

  “Well, that too. But Peter said he didn’t believe it was coincidence that put our two churches together these past few weeks, right in the middle of this tragedy. The hate group wants to create division and suspicion between the races. But what if we merged our two churches? What better way to bring good out of Mark’s tragedy? Uniting instead of dividing? Healing instead of bitterness? A mostly white church and a mostly black church becoming . . . well . . . a church. Together.”

  I was speechless. A dozen conflicting thoughts fought for prime-time attention. Uptown would never agree! Would New Morning even want us? We’d have to do it in their space. Who would be the pastor? I don’t want to lose Pastor Clark! But what an amazing idea. Peter and Avis could stay in the same church. Carl Hickman would be more at home with more blacks. Maybe Chris too. And we’d be in the same church with Nony and Mark. Bubbles of excitement swirled around all the questions and obstacles. Only God could make it work. We’d have to really get down on our knees.

  I finally breathed. “Oh, Denny. Do you think . . . ?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Feels daunting. Probably like the Israelites facing the Red Sea. But we all know what God did there.” He grinned, exposing his dimples. “At the very least, Pastor Cobbs is inviting Uptown to a joint celebration in the new space they found. A week from Sunday.”

  41

  Denny and I batted about the pros and cons of merging two churches from different cultural backgrounds all the way home. Had other churches done this? Could they help us avoid the pitfalls? “The pastors would have to be sold on this one hundred percent,” Denny said as we came into the house through the front door, “or it’ll never happen.” He unsnapped Willie Wonka’s leash. “Even if they are, we’d probably lose some people from both churches.”

  “That’s why we really have to pray about it, be sure that’s what God wants us to do. Otherwise . . .” The house seemed awfully quiet. “Amanda? You home?”

  “Out here.” Amanda’s voice squeaked from the direction of the back porch. She sounded funny. Denny and I looked at each other and hustled in that direction.

  Amanda and José were sitting on the steps, their backs to us. José was hunched over, his head in his hands. Amanda had her arm around him, her head on his shoulder. But she looked up as we came out the screen door. She’d been crying.

  “Amanda! What’s wrong?” I couldn’t keep the alarm out of my voice. She hadn’t said anything about José coming over. But at least they were outside.

  Denny stepped around them down the stairs and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “José? What is it, son?”

  José looked up at my husband. His shoulders seemed to shake. “Me padre. He says I have to drop out of school next year, get a job.”

  “What?”

  “Dad! You gotta talk to Mr. Enriquez! José wants to go to college. But he can’t, not if he drops out of school! It’s so unfair!” Amanda started to cry again.

  Wonka whined at the screen door. When I let him out, the dog headed straight for Amanda and licked her face. I sank down on my knees beside her.

  Denny’s voice gentled. “But why, son? Why would your father do that?”

  Even from the side, I could see José’s handsome young features glower. “Because Mama found out he’s fighting that dog. Alley dog fights. For money.”

  “Dog fighting! That’s illegal,” Denny said.

  “Tell me something I don’t know!” José spit his words. “Mama says he has to stop it, or she’ll call the cops.” José’s shoulders sagged. “That’s when Papa said it was either the dog fights to bring in some money—or I had to get a job to help support the family.”

  GOOD GRIEF. What was Delores’s husband thinking? I wanted to call her, but I had to get over being mad first. Delores had suspected something wasn’t right for some time. Wonder when she found out? I felt disappointed too. Ricardo Enriquez had seemed like a real person when he played that fancy guitar of his in the mariachi band. Underneath his brooding exterior, the man had a soul. Delores said he even cut down on his drinking and seemed less depressed after he got those restaurant gigs, even though it’d been really tough going after the trucking company downsized him last summer.

  Denny was still kicking himself the next day as we got ready for church. “I’ve made friends with the other Yada Yada husbands, but haven’t really connected with Ricardo.”

  “He came to your Guys’ Day Out a couple months ago,” I reminded him. “He and José.”

  “Yeah. I know. Haven’t followed through though. And his son is courting my daughter. You’d think . . .” Denny stopped buttoning his shirt and scowled. “Guess I’ve been leaving all the communicating to you and Delores. Stupid reason too. My Spanish isn’t so hot, and Ricardo doesn’t really converse in English. Where do I start now? Can’t just call up the man and say, ‘I think you’re being a real jerk. Both of your so-called options are stupid.’ ”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. Might not be a bad idea, if you asked me. But Denny was probably right. He didn’t have enough deposit in the relationship bank with Ricardo to make a big withdrawal right now.

  We arrived at church wondering what would happen after the big idea had landed like a water balloon in the middle of the men’s breakfast yesterday. Peter Douglass showed up with Avis; Pastor Cobbs and his wife, Rose too. Interesting. Stu came in with Becky and Andy, big grins on their faces. But nothing was said during worship about merging our churches, though I’d be willing to bet half the congregation had heard about the idea already.

  However, at the end of the worship service, Pastor Cobbs stood up and invited all the Uptown members to share a thanksgiving celebration with New Morning Christian Church next Sunday morning at their new facility. Spontaneous clapping broke out at the news that New Morning had found a space to meet. “Don’t get too happy,” Pastor Cobbs joked. “The space needs a lot of development before we can actually move in, but we want to thank God up front for His provision, and we also want to thank our brothers and sisters here at Uptown Community for your hospitality.”

  “Did he say Sunday morning?” I whispered to Denny.

  Beaming, Pastor Clark accepted the invitation on Uptown’s behalf, reiterating that next week there would be no service here on Morse Avenue. Rather, Sunday’s service would be a joint celebration at New Morning’s new location.

  “Hm. That was smooth,” I murmured to Denny as the praise team launched into the closing song. “Are they trying it on for size?”

  We come rejoicing . . . into His presence . . . !

  Denny put his arm around me and pulled my ear close to his mouth as the familiar words of the Brooklyn Tabernacle praise song pulsed around us. “Maybe,” he hissed. “But don’t go running ahead on this, Jodi. We just have to take it at face value: a thanksgiving celebration together. That’s all.” But the quirky little smile on his face told me Denny Baxter wasn’t doing so good following his own advice.

  LITTLE ANDY TUMBLED AROUND THE BACKYARD with Willie Wonka that afternoon, hanging over the dog’s back, trying to feed him grass, blowing dandelion fuzz in his face. Wonka just panted in the sunshine, looking for all the world like an indulgent canine parent with a two-legged puppy. “I think Andy comes to see the dog, not me,” Becky groused as she watched from the back steps. “Glad Wonka’s so gentle.”

  “Mm-hm.” There’d been times I wished Willie Wonka wasn’t so gentle—like when Becky Wallace made her first unwelcome appearance at this very house. But You’re so good, God, so good. You kept us all safe that day. Even Wonka.

  “Becky!” Stu’s voice from above. “We gotta go!” Stu’s face appeared over the upper porch railing. “Oh. Hi, Jodi. We have to take Andy back, then we’ll meet you at Ruth’s house. Don’t do anything radical till we get there, OK?”

  Andy set up a wail when his mother plucked him up on her way to the garage with Stu, but he settled
for leaving one last kiss on Wonka’s forehead. At the last minute, Becky stuck her head out of the garage door and yelled, “Hey, Jodi! Can ya save me the job want ads from your Sunday Trib?”

  Easier said than done. Josh and Denny had pretty much trashed the Sunday paper all over the living room. But I finally found the employment ads section, stuck it in Stu’s mailbox, and headed out the back door, where my impatient family was waiting for me in the minivan. Plans were heating up for Uptown youth’s volunteer assignment at the upcoming Cornerstone Festival over July Fourth, and Josh and Amanda wanted to get to youth group on time. Denny decided to go with me to the Garfields’ and rescue Ben from a houseful of Yada Yadas. So he said.

  “Uh-huh. You wouldn’t just happen to be hankering for some lox and cream cheese at the Bagel Bakery, would you?” Knowing Ben, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d throw in a couple of beers to wash it down.

  Denny just waggled his eyebrows.

  I was glad we were meeting at Ruth’s. Last time we’d met here, I’d sneezed all over Stu’s birthday cake. Or was it Ruth’s birthday cake? We’d had two that time. That was the start of a lot of sickness for me last spring. Without a spleen to bolster my immune system, I had to be careful. Just hoped whatever bug Ruth had been struggling with wasn’t catching. When I’d asked if she was up to hosting Yada Yada at her house, she said she felt fine, not to worry, she wasn’t dead yet.

  For the first time in a couple of months, all Yada Yadas were present and accounted for. Even Nony and Hoshi came! And with Becky, we now numbered thirteen. A tight squeeze in the tiny living room of the Garfields’ brick bungalow. I noticed that this time Becky joined Yo-Yo on the floor instead of hiding back in a corner. I managed to catch Delores before we settled down and whispered, “José told us a little bit what’s going on with his dad.” I gave her a hug. “Are you all right? I love you.”

  She nodded. “Sí. We will talk. Later.” OK. I knew it wouldn’t come up tonight.

  Our praise time, however, was charged with joy. Mark Smith’s comeback, slow as it was, was nothing short of a miracle, and we let the world (well, the Garfields’ neighbors) know it. We sang song after song: “Our God Is a Great Big God,” “Give Thanks with a Grateful Heart,” and my personal favorite, the one with the line, “Never will a rock cry out in my place! He is worthy of all my praise!”—which generated a “Wait a minute! What in the heck does that mean?” from Yo-Yo.

  So Avis shared the story from the Gospel of Luke, where the religious leaders wanted the crowd to stop singing “Hosanna! Son of David!” as Jesus was riding a donkey into Jerusalem. And He told them that if the people kept silent from singing praises, the stones would cry out in their place.

  Becky gave me a sideways look that said, “You better show me that story when we do our next Bible reading.”

  “Me got someting to t’ank Jesus about,” Chanda cut in. “Me and de t’ree kids will be moving in a couple of weeks. Into our very own ’ouse, praise God!” Tears glistened in her dark eyes. This time others in the group seemed genuinely interested, asking questions about how many rooms and what school district. Chanda painted a glowing description of the house, but deflected when Adele asked about the neighbors. “Hmph. Enough to say de welcome wagon not come yet.”

  Florida said, “Girl, you jus’ tell us when you packin’ up, and we all be there.” She eyed us like a Mafia boss “volunteering” the Family. “Won’t we, sistahs?”

  Adele grunted. “You sure we want to scare her new neighbors by all showing up?” Right away, everyone volunteered, laughing.

  Maybe it wasn’t a joke. If I were Chanda, a Jamaican cleaning-woman-turned-millionaire, would I be brave enough to buy a house in an all-white neighborhood on the North Shore? Despite how progressive the Chicago bedroom communities thought they were, people could be pretty snobby about who moved in next-door. And from what I’d read, some of the White Pride people even came from those privileged families! Maybe they had professional parents who gave them everything money could buy but were too busy to realize their kids were growing up loners, needing to belong—somewhere. Like that girl in the sundress at the rally . . .

  Pray for the girl, Jodi. Fight for her.

  I was so startled by how strong I heard that Voice that I looked around the room to see if one of my sisters was talking to me—and realized Nony had started to share. I shook away my thoughts and tried to concentrate on what she was saying.

  “First,” Nony said, “I want to thank all of you sisters for standing with me during this difficult, difficult time. We . . . have a long way to go. But Delores, bless her, helps me to understand it may be a long process of recovery and to not get discouraged when Mark seems, well . . .” Nony hesitated. “Not like himself. It will take time.”

  “So what about goin’ to South Africa and all that?” Yo-Yo blurted. “I thought maybe since he was wakin’ up and startin’ to walk around, you guys might still go.”

  I winced. As always, Yo-Yo said what many of us had probably been thinking. That had to be a hard one for Nony.

  To my surprise, she smiled, sad and serene. “I wouldn’t be honest if I said it’s been easy to give up that dream. It seemed so close to coming true! Mark had agreed; he was taking a sabbatical; he’d even applied to teach at the KwaZulu-Natal University for the winter term. But God is showing me I need to let go, that we weren’t ready to go to South Africa.” She looked down at her hands.

  Adele frowned. “Not ready. Huh! Say some more, honey. ’Cause from where I sit, the only reason you ain’t goin’ to South Africa is because some hatemonger got a little too handy with a brick.”

  Nony nodded. “I know. Believe me, I’ve wrestled with God many nights about that, wondering how God could allow something like this to happen to a good man like Mark. And, I confess”—she held up a hand, palm out—“I don’t pretend to know how this fits into God’s big picture. But, what I’m trying to say is, God did show me one small reason He allowed this to happen at this time. We weren’t ready. Mark and me.” Nony took a big breath. “Unity has not been one of the strong points in our marriage. Mark and I are both strong, stubborn people. We both have our ‘good’ reasons. During the long hours I sat by his bedside in the hospital, God whispered to me that we had to back up and start over with the whole decision to go to South Africa. Because, you see, we never prayed about it together. Oh, yes, I prayed!” She rolled her eyes. “I prayed that Mark would change his mind! And I can only guess what he prayed while I nagged him for years!”

  Laughter tucked into all the unoccupied places in Ruth’s living room.

  “But we never,” Nony continued, “we never held hands and prayed about it together. ‘Lord, is this what You want us to do? Am I willing to stay? Is he willing to go? This is my heart’s desire, Lord, but stay or go, what I really want is what You want for us, for the Sisulu-Smith family.’ ” Nony shook her head. “No, I was too headstrong. Too sure I was right. But now I know—and you sisters will need to remind me!—that any future decisions Mark and Nonyameko Sisulu-Smith make, we must both pray until God gives us the same direction.”

  The effect on the group was electric. Delores’s face was wet with tears; I knew her heart was breaking for the disunity in her own marriage. Avis just kept waving a hand and saying, “Glory! Oh Jesus! Teach us!” Others nodded or murmured understanding, knowing that the struggle for unity in any relationship is great.

  “Well, then.” Ruth cleared her throat as if asking for our attention. She’d been unusually quiet so far that evening, especially given that we were meeting in her house. “Grandmother Zelda would turn over in her grave on the day Ben and I agreed about anything. He disagrees with me on principle!” She shrugged. “Can’t say I’m so quick to agree with anything he says either. A miracle it would take. But . . .” Ruth chewed on her lip. “A miracle we’re going to need.”

  We all stared at her, waiting. Finally I blurted, “Ruth! What are you talking about? What kind of miracle do you need?”


  Delores was hot on my heels. “Did you go to the doctor? Is that what this is about? What did he say?”

  Ruth fluttered her hands. “Yes, yes. Ben made me go. But I didn’t need a doctor to know what’s going on. Ben . . . he’ll never stand for it.”

  We waited two seconds, then half the Yada Yadas yelled, “Stand for what?”

  A teary smile wet Ruth’s face. “I’m pregnant. Me. Pregnant. And I’m so happy!”

  42

  Ruth was pregnant. That was the first shock wave. Ben didn’t know it yet. That was the second. “Ruth? Pregnant?” Denny sputtered when I told him half a block away from the Garfields’ house. “Ben didn’t say a word about it tonight!”

  “I know. Because she hasn’t told him yet. She has to tonight, because now we all know.”

  Denny gaped at me, almost missing a stop sign in the process. “But why wouldn’t she tell him? And how did she get pregnant in the first place? Isn’t she, you know, the change and all that?” The tips of his ears turned red.

  “How did she get pregnant?” I giggled. “Need a little refresher course, do you?”

  “You know what I mean. Isn’t she too old?” He turned and looked at me again. “How old is she, anyway? I mean, Ben’s at least sixty.”

  “Get this. She’s forty-nine. And yeah, she thought she had started menopause. But, well, I guess things happen.” My eyes misted as we picked up Touhy Avenue and headed toward our end of Chicago. “The thing is, Denny, she’s thrilled. She’s always wanted a child, had a couple of miscarriages, then was going to adopt that little girl she and husband number two fostered—till the birth mother wanted her back. Ruth was devastated. Got real upset when Florida wanted her kids back from the foster-care system. I think they’ve pretty much worked that through. But it’s still a bit of a touchy subject.”

  Denny tapped his fingers on the steering wheel at a long red light. “Why not tell Ben? It’s his kid too.”