by Neta Jackson
Now the dog snored under my school desk while I arranged my new “supply cabinet” —six plastic, stackable dairy crates, which sell like hotcakes to college students and teachers who have their supply cabinets hijacked. I spent a lot of time decorating my Welcome Bulletin Board, wisely forgoing cutout bubble letters this year in favor of printing my students’ names and their meanings with colored markers, which sped up the process. But I caught myself several times just staring out the window of my classroom, not even seeing the playground equipment, thinking about what had happened at church yesterday . . .
Actually, we’d taken two votes.Whether Uptown Community Church should merge with New Morning Christian Church, and whether we should donate money from the sale of our building (after paying off the mortgage) to New Morning’s building fund.
It still felt unreal.What happened? Listening to the overall tenor of the discussion, I didn’t think the merger would happen, no way, no how. But at the very end, Rick Reilly had said, “I see two ways to approach this vote.We can add up all the pros and cons and vote whichever list is longer. Or we can vote what God is speaking to our hearts and trust Him to work out the details.”
Both votes passed with the two-thirds majority required for major decisions.
Only after the final tally did Pastor Clark tell us that New Morning members had met the night before to vote on the same issue of merging. Their meeting had lasted till midnight! I heard Florida snicker behind me. But Pastor Cobbs had called our pastor early that morning to extend an official invitation to copastor Uptown–New Morning and bring our members with him. Nothing had ever been said about money.
That was when our so-called business meeting had erupted into clapping and tears and shouts of “glory.”
Denny thought what I’d said had helped people look at it a new way. I don’t know; nobody said anything to me. Just Peter Douglass, and all he did was give me a big, wordless hug.
I shook my head and turned away from the window. Well, like Rick Reilly said, we’d have to work out the details later. And right now, I had a more immediate merger on my plate: thirty-one third graders piling into my classroom tomorrow.
THE NEXT MORNING I flew out the front door with my bulging school tote bags for the first day of school—and nearly collided with Becky Wallace, who was stooped over on the front porch tying the shoelace of her orange athletic shoes. She stood up. She was wearing hip-hugger slacks and a simple V-neck knit top. Cranberry and pink.
“Where are you going? ” I gasped. “You look fabulous! Except” —I giggled— “for the shoes.”
She blushed, adding color to her normally pale face. “Goin’ to work! At the Bagel Bakery. Meant to tell you yesterday, but all you Baxters was gone all day. Guess Ruth roughed up Mr. Hurwitz. Anyway, he called Sunday, said he’d offer me a part-time job—twenty-five hours or somethin’ like that. Can’t give me benefits, but” —she grinned— “I got Sundays off.”
I hugged her. “That’s great! I want to hear all about it, but I gotta run. First day of school, you know.”
“Hey, Jodi,” she yelled after me. “You look great too. Except for the shoes!” And she laughed.
Huh.Well, I had to walk to school. I’d change to my clogs when I got there.
I got to school half an hour before the first bell rang. Yea, good start. I poked my head into the school office, where Avis, smartly dressed in a navy pantsuit with a red-and-white silk blouse, was talking to two of the secretaries about schedules. “Happy first day of school, Mrs. Douglass,” I said. “Here we go!”
She looked up. “Oh. Jo—Mrs. Baxter,wait.” She excused herself and walked me out to the hall. “Jodi, I’m sorry about your storage cabinet. The janitor just moved it out when I asked him to move the desks in. But I want you to know that as soon as we can hire another teacher, we’ll take some of your students and put together a third- and fourth-grade class.Might have to meet on the stage in the auditorium . . .” She frowned, as if sorting thoughts in her mind. “Anyway. Thanks for hanging in there.”
I opened my mouth, but she was already gone. Oh, well. I’d dearly love to know what she and Peter thought about the humungous decision to merge with New Morning, but this obviously wasn’t the time. I unlocked my classroom, set out my lesson plans for the first day, and then tried to quiet the butterflies in my stomach.
Pray for your students, Jodi. By name. Cover your classroom in prayer.
Right. Today especially. I walked slowly up and down the rows of desks, each of which had a colorful nametag taped on it. “Lord Jesus, I don’t know some of these children yet, except Carla Hickman. But You do. So I ask for Your blessing on Abrianna . . . for Caleb . . . for Orlando . . .” I touched each chair.When I got to Carla’s desk, I stopped. “I pray a special blessing on Carla, Lord. She’s starting a new school. She has to repeat. She’s still adjusting to being back home with her family after foster care. Have to admit, Lord, I feel kind of anxious about Carla. Help us both, Lord, to get a good start.”
NOT SURE WHAT HAPPENED TO MY PRAYER, but when I brought my new class of third-graders in from the playground, Carla balked at the classroom door. Literally folded her arms across her pink knit top, stuck out her lip, and wouldn’t come in.
Sorely wishing I had a teacher’s aid this year, I asked the rest of the children to find the desk with their name on it and to sit quietly—yeah, right—keeping one foot in the door while I coaxed Carla. “Hey, sweetie. I’m really looking forward to having you in my class this year. We’re going to have a good time.” Who was I trying to convince? Her or me?
The lip stuck out further. “This is a baby class. I’m s’posed to be in fourth grade. Everybody’s gonna laugh at me.”
Help, Lord! “Oh, sweetie. Nobody’s going to laugh. Because nobody else knows—just you and me and Mrs. Douglass. It’ll be our secret, OK? ” I knelt down, letting the door close with a click. “And I want to tell you something. People learn at different speeds, did you know that? Even adults! It doesn’t really matter if you learn fast or learn slow. Everybody should learn at the level that’s right for them. Why, even in this class, some kids are probably already reading at fourth-grade level, others might be still at second-grade level.”
“So why do they get to be in third grade? Why don’t they have to repeat? ”
Well, that backfired. The noise level inside the classroom was rising. “You know what? I don’t know. All I know is that I think it’s special that you’re in my class. I think you’ll make some good friends and we’re going to have a good time.” And you better get in here before I have to drag you in!
Carla just looked at me. “Maybe.”
“Maybe” was good enough for me. I opened the door and we walked in together, interrupting a sword fight with two rulers in progress between Demetrius and Lamar.
IT TOOK A GOOD WEEK for the Baxter household to adjust from the more relaxed summer schedule into our school year routine, which started with the daily challenge of one bathroom to accomodate four showers. Amanda started snatching breakfast on the fly in her hurry to catch the early bus to Lane Tech. (Denny snorted. “Wouldn’t have anything to do with José Enriques attending this year, would it? ” ) Denny usually dropped Josh off at Software Symphony before heading for West Rogers High with the car, leaving me to walk the half mile to Bethune Elementary—which I didn’t mind until the weather turned nasty.
Willie Wonka, poor baby, was lucky if we remembered to leave his food and water crocks full, and he probably spent the next eight hours heaving doggy sighs and feeling abandoned—all of which was forgotten, of course, when the first person got home. Usually me.Nothing like the joy of being smothered with doggy kisses and tail wagging in return for some rump scratching—and a quick exit into the backyard to take care of doggy business.
“What’s going to happen when Wonka gets too old to hold his bladder all day? ” I murmured to Denny on Friday evening as we did supper dishes, being careful not to let Amanda hear me.
Den
ny cocked an eyebrow at me. “Keep him in the yard when the weather’s nice. Cut a doggy door. I don’t know.We’ll deal with it when the time comes.”
I stroked Wonka’s silky, floppy ears that had betrayed him, leaving him almost deaf.Wonka had been part of our family for the last sixteen years. I could hardly imagine the Baxter family without him.
The phone rang once, cut off short as it was picked up, then a yell tinged with disappointment. “Mo-om. It’s for you.”
Chanda was on the line. “Sista Jodee! Mi got a computer now. Top of the line, high-speed Internet, all dat. Got e-mail too! Set up de account today.” She laughed. “Everybody will know it’s Chanda when dey see mi address. Are you ready, Jodee? ”
“Sure . . . wait.” I scrambled to find a piece of scratch paper. “Um, why don’t you just send it to me by e-mail. That’s the best way.”
“Jodee, Jodee. Dat’s why mi calling! Mi don’t have your e-mail address—nobody’s for true. Can you send dem to me? ”
I stifled my irritation. It was probably my own fault I ended up being the Yada Yada secretary. Maybe I should take it as a compliment, though sometimes it felt as if some of my sisters thought I just sat around waiting to take calls and send e-mails and keep the group up to date.
“OK, I’m ready . . . what? You’re kidding!” I burst out laughing as I scribbled “[email protected]” on the scrap of paper. “OK, got it. I’ll send you everybody else’s. Welcome to cyberspace—oh, wait! Chanda? Chanda? ”
But she was gone. Rats. I wanted to ask about her mammogram. Last I’d heard she had an appointment for this week.
26
It was Saturday before I got online to add Chanda’s e-mail to my eaddress book. Our inbox was stuffed; hadn’t checked e-mail since school started. Grr. Most of it was junk.Didn’t want to deal with it now. So I called up a new message and began to type:
To: Yada Yada
From: [email protected]
Subject: Chanda’s got e-mail!
Hi sisters! Everybody survive the first week of school? The Baxter Barn is still standing, in spite of barnyard squabbles over our solitary bathroom. (I’m thinking of running for president of the U.S. on a platform of “a chicken in every pot and TWO bathrooms in every house.” Probably won’t get the vegetarian vote, but it’ll be a landslide with parents of teenagers.)
Wish we were meeting this weekend to pray over all our school kids—that fifth Sunday in August throws us off, making it THREE weeks between YY meetings. But guess we should stick to the schedule. Second Sunday at Adele’s, right?
Speaking of that fifth Sunday last week, Uptown Community had a business meeting accompanied by dramatic drum rolls (well, thunder). But we made an awesome decision: to merge Uptown Community with New Morning Christian (Nony and Mark’s church), which has been using Uptown’s space for worship Sunday afternoons all summer. It seems God has been putting our two churches together for a reason. Have to admit, I’m still astonished at this turn of events, have no idea what it will actually mean, but I think it’s a big HALLELUJAH!
Oh, don’t want to forget: Chanda’s finally got e-mail! Here’s her addy:[email protected] you get this, please send her a howdy and your e-mail address, OK? I think that makes us 100% online now! Yea!
Hugs! Jodi
I hit Send, feeling smug that I’d thought of a way for Chanda to get everybody’s address without me having to go to all that work copying them into an e-mail for her. Then I reread all that “barn-yard” and “howdy” stuff and groaned. The hick-chick from Iowa in me was leaking out.
Denny had to be at school all day Saturday—still working out kinks in the high school schedule between academic classes and sports—which meant he couldn’t make it to the workday at the new building.We’d gotten a letter that week from Pastor Clark and Pastor Cobbs inviting everyone handy with a hammer or a paintbrush to join the Saturday work crew the month of September, hoping to have the building habitable by the first Sunday of October for our first worship service as a combined congregation.
Rick Reilly rounded up the Uptown teens, however, and they put in three hours sanding drywall in exchange for several buckets of hot wings and a case of soda. I figured Josh and Amanda counted for the Baxter contribution today; I’d go next week when they were ready to paint.
My e-mail about the church merger sparked a flurry of Yada Yada messages. Nony said she hadn’t gotten to church at all last weekend and only just now heard the news. “Mark had to have a laser treatment on his ‘good’ eye; the doctor discovered some tiny retinal tears,” she wrote. “Losing the sight in his left eye is frightening enough. Please pray, sisters, for protection of his other eye! But I am so glad to hear about ‘two’ becoming ‘one.’ Praise Jesus! He is true to His Word that every valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill brought low! Let us pray that the crooked places ahead for this church merger will be made straight and the rough places smooth.”
Hadn’t thought about Isaiah 40 in this context, but it sure fit. How does Nony pull out just the right scripture? I wondered, clicking on Avis’s message, which was short and to the point: “Please keep Rochelle, Dexter, and Conny in your prayers too.”
Over the weekend there were also e-mail messages from Florida ( “Carl still pinching himself, can’t believe Uptown voted themselves out of a church” ), Becky and Yo-Yo, basically saying “Welcome, Chanda” and giving up their own e-addresses, and Delores asking, “Anyone know how Ruth is doing? I tried to call but only got the answering machine.”
Ruth. That’s what I wanted to do after church: go see Ruth! She hadn’t called or anything the last two weeks.That wasn’t like her.Ben either. He and Denny and some of the other guys—Peter Douglass, Carl Hickman—had become pretty close this past summer after the attack on Mark Smith. I knew Denny was all geared up to watch a football game on TV that afternoon, but I asked him anyway if he’d go with me to visit Garfields. “I think Ben needs our support during this pregnancy as much as Ruth, but if I go alone he’ll just leave us girls to ourselves. Hey, maybe we could meet them at the Bagel Bakery or something, like we did that first time when we met Ben.”
Denny had that sour look on his face, that feeling-put-uponby- good-deeds-when-his-heart-wasn’t-in-it look. “Man, Jodi. Not fair to spring that on me at the last minute. You knew I wanted to see the Bears play the Forty-Niners.”
“Fine. I’ll go by myself.” I started off to look for my purse.
“Oh, great. You make me feel like a jerk if I don’t go.”
“I did not. I just asked. You can say no.” Well, I had laid it on pretty thick. “Isn’t the game usually over by three? We could go after that.”
Denny rubbed the back of his head. “Problem is , they’re playing in San Francisco, which means the game won’t start till around three . . .OK. Look. I’d like to see Ben. If he’s planning to watch the game, we can go over there. We’ll watch the game while you and Ruth visit. Deal? ”
Which is how we ended up in the Garfields’ compact brick bungalow in Lincolnwood that Sunday afternoon, Ben and Denny totally absorbed in armchair quarterbacking, snarfing up bowls of chips and salsa, not to mention a couple of cold beers. Ruth made tea for us, and we sat in the dining room making small talk. I didn’t like what I saw. Her face and hands were puffy, and at the same time her skin looked sallow, hanging loosely on her arms. She was into her sixth month, but it was hard to believe she was carrying twins. She wasn’t that big.
“—have to visit this product of a mixed marriage,” Ruth was saying, referring to the church merger I’d just told her about. “Will you hyphenate your name, like they do nowadays? Uptown Community–New Morning Christian Church . . . or maybe New Morning Christian–Uptown Community Church.” She poured herself another cup of peppermint tea. “Always wondered about those hyphenated names. If Jimmy Smith-Jones marries Susie Brown-Miller, will their kids go to school with names like Oscar Smith-Jones-Brown-Miller? Now there’s a teacher’s nightmare, Jodi Bax
ter.” She snorted, blowing tea out of the cup and having to wipe it up with her napkin.
“Don’t you usually put honey in your tea? ” I asked her, noticing its absence.
She fluttered her hand. “Too many calories. Had to give it up.”
“Ruth!” Ben’s voice yelled over the sports announcers in the living room. “We got any more chips? Baxter here cleaned me out.”
Ruth started to push herself up. “Let me get them,Ruth,” I said. “Where are they? ” But she shook her head, disappeared into the kitchen, then walked through with a bag of chips in her hand. A moment later, I heard Ben say, “Put that back, Ruth! No salt, remember? Baxter! How’d your wife keep her girlish fgure after two kids? Maybe the trick is to have them one at a time!” I heard Ben guffawing at his little joke.
Of all the rotten . . . For one nanosecond I hoped Denny would knock his teeth in. Just kidding, Lord, I hastily amended. “Ruth,” I hissed, when she lowered herself back into the dining room chair, “what are you eating? Less salt, not no salt. You don’t look so good. And is Ben always like this? That was mean.”
Ruth fluttered her hand dismissively again, but the spitfire wasn’t there. “Don’t mind Ben; he means well. Watching I don’t eat too much, just because I’m carrying twins. And this . . .” She patted her puffy cheeks. “Like a goldfish bowl I look. But Jodi. Did you ever try to eat food without salt? ” She crossed her eyes, made a gagging noise, and I burst out laughing.
But when we left a couple of hours later,my insides were frowning. Something wasn’t right.
THE SECOND WEEK OF SCHOOL included an anniversary I dreaded: 9-11. If I closed my eyes and ran backward with my thoughts, I could still see the horrific images of passenger planes crashing into the Twin Towers in New York, the mighty buildings crumbling into mere particles of dust, carrying thousands of lives with them.
