by Neta Jackson
Whoa. A letter for Josh. OK, so I was wrong. I squinted at the return address: Mr. and Mrs. Harley Baxter. Why were Denny’s parents writing Josh? They were pick-up-the-phone people—when they bothered to call. Probably a belated graduation card. They’d been on a cruise last June and couldn’t make Josh’s graduation. But why a business envelope?
I shrugged, put the letter on the dining room table, and stuck some chicken in the microwave to thaw. By the time my motley crew straggled in, I had lemon-and-thyme chicken breasts on the grill, a fruit salad with kiwi garnish, and fresh corn on the cob I’d picked up at the Rogers Park Fruit Market.My personal kickoff to Labor Day weekend! The end of summer! The beginning of the school year!
Amanda kicked off her sandals, threw her backpack into a corner, and squatted down to hug the dog. “My nanny days are over, Wonka! I’m a free woman!” she crowed, nuzzling his face and getting a face licking in return.
“Free until Tuesday anyway,” I said mildly, handing her a tray with paper plates, paper cups, and napkins. Maybe the bees would leave us alone long enough to eat on the back porch.
She took the tray, rolling her eyes. “Mother! School is nothing compared to the torture of babysitting three aliens disguised as children for a whole month”
“Yeah, but you’re rich now, pipsqueak, so quit complaining.” Josh snitched a kiwi slice from the fruit salad on his way through the kitchen. “Can we eat now,Mom”
“Sure, as soon as your dad changes his clothes. And Josh—there’s a letter for you on the dining room table. From your grandparents.” I herded Amanda out to the back porch, following her with the food, proud of myself for not hanging over Josh’s shoulder.
Silence in the other room. Then Josh banged the screen door and flopped down on the porch swing, his face a big scowl. “What? ” I asked.
He jerked a thumb inside. “Dad’s got the letter. Talk about pressure.”
Well, if Denny could read it . . . I hustled inside. Denny, stripped down to running shorts and a T-shirt, stood in the dining room, holding Josh’s letter, his face gathered in a huge frown. “What? ” I said again. Denny handed me the typed letter—and a check.
“Dear Josh,” I read aloud. “Don’t be foolish, son. Get a good education, then do your Good Samaritan thing, travel, live in a kib-butz, whatever. Don’t waste that brilliant mind of yours. If money’s the problem, let’s just say we’re investing in your future.This check should cover your first year at the University of Illinois. Love . . .” The letter was signed, “Harley and Kay.”
I looked at the check. Made out to Joshua James Baxter for twenty thousand dollars.
24
Twenty thou—!” Denny put his fingers to my mouth and shook his head.
“Not now. Let’s eat.We can discuss it later.” Right. Let’s eat chicken with our fingers while twenty thousand dollars lay on the dining room table. Josh didn’t say much during supper, just hunched over his corn on the cob, ignoring the bee that was investigating the short, sandy hair he was letting grow out. A bit shaggy, but at least it’s hair, I thought, swatting at the bee with a napkin.
Amanda filled up the silence with a running monologue about her monthlong babysitting marathon. “Did you know that Donald insisted on wearing his shirts and shorts inside out? He thought the seams sticking out looked cool.Huh.What does he know. He’s only eight.” She waved her half-eaten cob of corn in the air. “And Deanna. She would not eat anything touching anything else. She took apart her PB and J, licked off the peanut butter, licked off the jelly, then ate the bread.” She rolled her eyes. “Oh, puhleease . . . Dad, can I have that piece of chicken? Thanks. Davy was cute, though.”
We let Amanda celebrate her new freedom by cleaning up the kitchen. “Oh, right. She gets to clean up when we use paper plates,” Josh grumbled. But Denny herded him into the living room with me right on their heels.Wonka, torn between the kitchen and the living room, opted to keep Amanda company in case any leftovers fell to the floor.
Josh parked his gangly frame in a corner of the couch. I sat on the other end, my thoughts tumbling over each other.Would this change Josh’s mind about going to school this year? I’d be glad about that, except—dang it! What right did Denny’s folks have going around us, not even discussing it, dumping that much money in Josh’s lap?
Denny pulled the recliner closer but sat on the edge, leaning forward. He handed the letter to Josh. “Just want you to know, your mother and I didn’t have anything to do with this. A surprise to us too.”
Josh heaved a big sigh. “Yeah, well . . . I guess I’m supposed to be grateful, but honestly, it makes me mad! I don’t want to go to U of I this year. So what am I supposed to do now? Throw it back in their face?
” So much for changing his mind. “Maybe they’d let you put it in the bank, save it till next year.” I knew it sounded lame, but twenty thousand dollars was nothing to sneeze at.
“Mom.” Josh looked at me with exaggerated patience. “If I’d made the decision to go to school—this year, next year, whatever—and then they offered to help out financially, that’d be one thing. But I don’t like being pushed into doing something, just because they’re offering to pay for it. Feels like emotional blackmail: ‘Do what we want or look really ungrateful.’ ”
I glanced at Denny. Time for Dad to say something. After all, Harley and Kay were his parents. But Denny just frowned, as if sorting out his thoughts.
“Look.” Josh eyed us both. “Why can’t everybody respect what I want to do this year? I’ve got a good job at Software Symphony, starting to save some money. I’d like to be around for this merger with New Morning if it happens. And I’d like to volunteer at Manna House—you know, that new shelter they told us about at Jesus People. Edesa’s going there on Labor Day to do some kind of health assessment of the women and kids, find out what the needs are. I told her I’d help—entertain the kids or whatever while she talks to the moms.”
I looked at my son. His skin was the color of warm sandstone from working in the parks most of the summer. Still all elbows and knees, he hadn’t filled out yet—but he seemed confident. Bold. A man.
Denny took a deep breath and then blew it out. “You’re right. It’s a lot of money to turn down” —I knew he was thinking of having to come up with that much on our own if Josh did end up at U of I— “but we do need to respect your decision.Would still like you to consider college. Skipping that step could narrow your options down the road.”
Josh threw out his hands. “Fine! I am still considering it. I’d just like some real-life experience first. I don’t even know what I want to study yet.”
“So . . .” Denny made a face. “What do we do about this money? ”
I lifted my chin. “We send it back. We” —I pointed to Denny and myself— “send it back.We tell your folks we appreciate the ges ture, but we stick up for Josh, tell them he’s not going to school this year; he’s got other plans, so he can’t keep the money.” Tears lurked behind my eyes in spite of myself.
Josh looked at me, mouth agape. “Thanks. That means a lot, Mom.” I realized this was the first time I’d truly stood on his side about not going to school this year. Then he grimaced. “But maybe I should do it. They sent it to me. Don’t want them to think I’m hiding behind you guys.”
“You’re not! The point is, your grandparents need to know that we support your decision not to go to school this year.” I couldn’t believe what was coming out of my mouth. “The only way to do that is tell them ourselves.”
Denny allowed a half grin. “OK,OK. Compromise. Josh should write his own letter saying thanks but no thanks, and we should include a letter saying we support his decision.” He clapped his hands. Meeting over. But once Josh was out of the room, Denny eyed me sheepishly. “Uh, Jodi, would you write our letter? I’m so angry with them right now, I’d be tempted to tell them where they can jump off on their next cruise.”
DENNY AND SOME OF THE OTHER UPTOWN MEN spent most of Saturday helping New Mor
ning guys plaster drywall and add more electrical outlets at the new space. The day was blessedly cool for end of August, only midseventies. Cool enough to turn on the oven. I made cinnamon rolls to take to the work crew for a snack, and while the dough was rising, I went online and started my search for the meaning of names from my class list. I worked my way through Abrianna, Adam, Bowie, Caleb, then Carla . . .
Carla— “one who is strong.” Also Old German, meaning “free woman.”
Ha! That was Carla, all right. Just wasn’t sure how free I wanted that little woman to feel.Might make her think she didn’t have to obey the rules.
By Sunday I’d found the meaning of most of the names on my class list. Hadn’t figured out how to make a bulletin board, but at least I still had Labor Day to work on it. As we Baxters climbed the stairs to the second floor of Uptown Community Church, the thought haunted me that we’d probably be selling the building, regardless of what we decided about merging with New Morning. Every worn stair and creaking floorboard suddenly took on a nostalgic veneer.
No nostalgia for the dreadful folding chairs, though. I hoped we’d vote them out of existence.
Florida leaned over my shoulder from the row behind us. “Lot of Uptown folks decided to stay in town, I see, spite of it bein’ a holiday weekend. Even Carl got himself here. Now is that a good sign or a bad sign ’bout this vote we takin’ today”
“Good sign, I hope,” I whispered back, waving at Little Andy, who was riding on his mother’s hip, flapping his hand and grinning at everybody as Becky and Stu found three seats together.
Peter Douglass sat on the far side of the room, no doubt feeling responsible for bringing up the idea of a merger in the first place. Avis led worship that morning, taking her call to worship from Psalm 139—the same psalm I’d prayed at Yada Yada a few weeks ago. “Read along with me, church! ‘Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.’ ” Avis’s voice rode on the words. “‘If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast. . .”
The words soaked deep. Was Avis thinking about the merger with New Morning when she chose that scripture? But the words were comforting. No matter what happened, no matter how the decision went, God would be there.
The praise team launched into “Shout to the Lord” —though I had to admit, they sounded a little thin after the combined praise team last week. A while later, the younger children filed out to their Sunday school groups, but Pastor Clark kept his sermon short, almost as an introduction to the business at hand. He read the prayer of Jesus for His disciples from John 17: “I pray also for those who will believe in me through their message, that all of them may be one, Father, just as You are in me, and I am in You.”
Pastor Clark cleared his throat, making his Adam’s apple bob up and down. “I think it’s important to keep Jesus’ prayer for unity and oneness in mind as we approach the decision on the table today.The Christian church today is so divided—by race, by culture, by denomination, by leadership struggles. Let’s have a minute of silent prayer, each of us asking the Holy Spirit to speak to us as a church today.”
The room quieted. Thunder rolled over the city somewhere, not real close, and rain started to patter against the windows. Well, at least nobody would be antsy, wishing they were out at the lakefront barbecuing on this last weekend of summer. I squeezed my eyes closed, trying to shut out my stray thoughts. Jesus,we need You now. Merging feels downright scary. But not merging doesn’t feel right either. So what am I afraid of? What do You want us to do?
A sudden loud clap of thunder made us all jump, laughing self consciously as Pastor Clark drawled, “Guess that’s a good amen. Why don’t we open the floor for discussion? ”
Rick Reilly got to his feet. “Uh, point of order, Pastor. Just who is making this decision toda? We’ve got members and nonmembers here, no disrespect intended. But we ought to be clear.”
“Good point. We want to hear thoughts from everyone, even our teenagers, but the decision will be made by the voting members of this church.”
There was a long silence. Finally Bob Whittaker stood up. “Pastor, I know you mean well, but equating this decision with that scripture about all of us being ‘one’ in the body of Christ—well, that feels like a lot of pressure to go one way.”
Pastor Clark cleared his throat. But Denny spoke up first. “I don’t think Pastor Clark meant to put pressure on anybody. He was just pointing out that a merger with a church different from our own would bring some reality to that scripture—at least, that’s how it spoke to me.”
Brenda Gage waved her hand, her baby asleep over her shoulder. “I agree with you, Bob. After all, churches are different from each other.What’s wrong with that? Why do we have to get so radical about this? ”
Nods and murmurs rippled across the room. Comments flew, even as the rain outside drummed harder on the windows. “Why don’t we just keep things simple? Sell our building, buy something larger.” . . . “Merging two churches isn’t the only way to be in unity” . . . “Yeah. We could do things with New Morning from time to time but still be two different churches.” . . . “Wouldn’t it be irresponsible to just hand over the money from the sale of our building to another congregation? After all, most of us have invested years of our tithes in this place.” . . . “If we merged congregations, would we merge leadership too? Or would New Morning just take over”
Carl Hickman winced at that one. I couldn’t read Peter Douglass. His chin rested on his clasped hands, elbows on his knees. Avis sat beside him, her eyes closed, her lips moving, as if covering the room in prayer.
Josh spoke up from the soundboard. “Uh, just want to say, I’m excited about this. For one thing, there are a lot of kids just hanging out there on the street who need the church. We might do a better job reaching them if we were more diverse.”
Some of the teenagers and adults clapped. Denny squeezed my hand.
“Uh, my name is Leslie Stuart.” I twisted my head. Stu was standing, long blonde hair tucked behind one ear, the one with the row of tiny pierced earrings. “Most of you know me as Stu. I’ve been a member of Uptown a little over a year. And I’ve had more change in my life this past year than I know what to do with! ” Becky, beside her, rolled her eyes and snorted. Several people chuckled. “But I have to admit, change can be good. How long has Uptown Community been here on Morse Avenue? Twenty years? I think Pastor Clark is saying that Uptown is ready for some change. Would stir us up.Maybe new ideas and new ministries would come out of it.”
Florida popped up. “That’s right, that’s right. An’ let’s not forget why we’re talkin’ about this! We didn’t just open the phone book and point a finger. God’s been doin’ something with New Morning and Uptown this summer—somethin’ nobody planned. Seems like the Holy Spirit to me.”
I heard several hearty amens. Now the discussion bounced back and forth, pros and cons, questions about petty details, doubts . . . but for some reason I was acutely aware of Avis and Peter on the other side of the room, and Carl and Florida behind me. Those two couples had more on the line than anyone else in the room. But they’d never say so. It would seem too whiny. But if we decided to “just be Uptown,” would Peter end up at New Morning? Would Avis be forced to choose? Same with Carl and Florida.
So speak up on their behalf, Jodi.
I wanted to stop my ears. I argued with the Voice nudging my spirit. I wouldn’t know what to say! What if I embarrass them? People would probably dismiss what I said, anyway, because both couples are friends of mine . . .
The Voice in my spirit interrupted my thoughts. Speak up, Jodi. Say what you think . . . what you know in your heart.
I stood up, my knees wobbly. Someone else was speaking, but I knew if I didn’t stand now I’d probably chicken out. After the other speaker sat down, Pastor Clark said, “Jodi?
”
I kept my eyes on Pastor Clark. “Um, I’m not quite sure how to say this. But I don’t think most of us know what it feels like to always be a minority. Those of us who are white are used to being the majority. But, praise God, sisters like Avis Johnson-Douglass and Florida Hickman put themselves here at Uptown—I’m not sure why. Maybe out of obedience to God. And Uptown has gladly received them. But I think” —I swallowed— “maybe we’re kind of proud of ourselves because we’ve got a couple of black folks.Maybe that’s enough for us. Sure, folks are welcome—as long as we don’t have to really change, as long as we’re still the majority.”
My voice started to waver. Denny’s hand found mine and squeezed. I took a deep breath. “Uh, I may be going way out on a limb here, but I think it’s especially hard for our African-American brothers to be ‘the only one,’ or even two. But we need these men—brothers like Peter Douglass and Carl Hickman. And these families need to worship together. I think . . . it would strengthen these men and strengthen families like the Douglasses and the Hickmans to merge our church with New Morning, so we could truly be equal partners in the kingdom of God.”
I sat down and closed my eyes. There was no clapping. Only silence.My insides felt like slush. Why did I do that? Oh God, did I hear You wrong?
And then I heard a strange sound. Like a . . . groan, or stifled cry.My eyes flew open. Peter Douglass was bent forward, head in his hands, his shoulders shaking.
25
Labor Day . . . no kidding,” I muttered to Willie Wonka, who had graciously accompanied me to Bethune Elementary the next day,while Denny, Josh, and Amanda accepted an invitation from one of Denny’s coworkers to go sailing on Lake Michigan. After yesterday’s storm, the day was sunny and breezy— “Perfect for a great sail!” Denny had gloated. I noted that word, breezy, and was just as glad to have an excuse not to go. “Heeling up” on a sailboat always scared the bejeebers out of me.
