by Neta Jackson
At least Denny remembered some of his high-school Spanish. Maybe he could help me decipher the worship service at Iglesia del Espirito Santo.
When we got to the address Delores had given to me in one of the west Chicago neighborhoods, all I saw was a large industrial-type building with no sign. I was about to wonder out loud if we were at the right place when Amanda said, “This is it.” She practically skipped inside, where Delores and Emerald and a few of the younger Enriques children were standing in the foyer, waiting to meet us.
I wanted to ask why there wasn’t any sign, but several good-looking young men in black suits and classy ties stepped up to greet us—Denny and Josh had come in slacks and silk sport shirts, considered “summer dressy” at Uptown—and directed us into a large room with tweedy, blue carpet and matching chairs. “Whoa,” murmured Denny. “Bet this room could hold about a thousand folks.” Whatever its former life, the factory had been transformed into a bright and pleasant sanctuary. I poked Denny and waved my hand in front of my face. Ahh. Air conditioning.
Delores stayed in the foyer to wait for any other Yada Yada visitors, but Emerald took Amanda by the hand and led us to the left side of the building. “They have English translation here,” the youngster chirped, leaving us for a moment then returning with four headsets. “But just during the message—oh! There’s José!” She motioned to him vigorously.
Emerald’s older brother sheepishly made his way toward where we were sitting. I could hardly believe he was the same boy I’d last seen lying in a hospital bed last May, shot in the back. His dark hair was nicely combed, he had on a white dress shirt and tie, and a healthy color warmed his cheeks.
“Buenos dias, José.” Amanda took charge like we were visiting her church. “I think you met my mom already, but this is my dad and my brother, Josh.”
“Hola.” José stuck his hand out to Denny, then Josh. Josh towered over him by a good six inches. “Nice to meet you, but I gotta run.” José flushed. “I’m on drums today.”
I watched him head for the platform, where a truly amazing set of drums gleamed from behind a clear plastic soundboard. The instrumentalists were already warming up: a keyboard, electric guitar, and a small organ. The organist was obviously African-American, complete with cornrows that ended in tiny braids down to his shoulders—a fact that Florida didn’t miss, as she scooted into the row beside me. “Look there. A brother. Now I know we gonna get some whoopin’ and hollerin’ today.” She gave me a hug. “Hey, Jodi.”
“Look. There’s José,” I whispered, tipping my chin toward the drums. I surely didn’t want to thank God that José got shot, but I was suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that God had used that horrific event while we were at the Chicago Women’s Conference to catapult our hodge-podge conference prayer group into the real thing.
“Uh-huh,” murmured Florida. “And Amanda lookin’ at him too.”
I glared at her then dared to glance at my daughter—who was definitely watching the handsome teenager settling in behind the drums. I swallowed. Oh God, I’m not ready for this!
The seats all over the room were filling up. Delores and her brood ushered Avis and Stu into the comfy padded chairs in the English-translation section. Avis had picked up Florida but had gone to park the car; Stu came by herself. Edesa squeezed in beside Amanda and Emerald even though there were only two seats.
I thought that might be all from Yada Yada besides us Baxters, but just as the instruments brought everyone to their feet with the first worship song, accompanying a praise team of fifteen or so Latino men and women clapping enthusiastically, Ruth clambered over everybody in our row and dumped her things in the last free chair. She leaned across Florida. “Would Ben come?” she said loudly, barely audible over the pulsing music. “You’d think I’d asked him to eat pork. Suddenly he’s Jewish.” She rolled her eyes and leaned back. Florida and I tried to stuff it, but we couldn’t help laughing.
Fortunately, the words to the songs were flashed on identical screens at both sides of the platform. Even though I didn’t know Spanish, I tried to sing along.
El es el Rey de Reye
El es Señor de Señores
Su nombre es Christo . . .
Josh leaned down to my ear. “Did ya catch it, Mom? ‘He is the King of kings . . . Lord of lords . . . His name is Christ.’ ”
I nodded, wondering if I was too old to learn Spanish. My kids were showing me up and loving it.
The worship was similar to Nony’s church—joyous, deeply felt, loud—but multiplied by five. The congregation was huge. By the time the pastor came onto the platform, the worship leader was glistening with sweat. The praise team sat down, but Pastor Rodriquez, a man with wiry black hair on the verge of gray,was still caught up in the spirit of worship. The musicians stayed right on his every word and gesture, providing background music as he spoke and launching immediately into this or that song—sometimes no more than a phrase or two—which he peppered throughout his message. His expressive face fascinated me. He smiled, grimaced, laughed, squeezed his eyes shut—and as far as I could tell, he hadn’t even gotten to the sermon yet.
Was he speaking in Spanish? Or speaking in tongues? It was hard for me to tell until I noticed Amanda waving her headset at me from her seat on the other side of Denny. I put mine on; so did Florida and Ruth. Suddenly a woman’s voice translating the pastor’s words spoke clearly and passionately into my ears. “Brothers and sisters, yes it’s a battle. But it’s a battle that Jesus has already won. Hallelujah!”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Amanda looking up all the Scripture references in her new Spanish-English New Testament. Okay, Lord, whatever it takes to get her into Your Word.
The service went a good two-and-a-half hours, but the enthusiasm from both platform and congregation never abated. Several people gave testimonies: a man who was healed of cystic fibrosis after the church prayed for him; a woman who led her mother to the Lord; another who just babbled in tongues and cried and praised “Jesu” and I never did figure out what for. I wasn’t sure how I felt about churches that majored in healing and tongues —but when the pastor gave an invitation to those who wanted salvation, the front was suddenly full. I squeezed my eyes shut. Oh Lord, I’m so glad You’re not limited by my own understanding. Whatever work You’re doing here in the lives of these people, thank You.
Finally we were back out in the foyer, getting introduced by Delores and Edesa to a steady stream of friendly faces that streamed past. I was curious. “Delores! Where’s the sign for your church? If Amanda hadn’t been with us, I’m not sure we would’ve found it.”
Delores rolled her eyes. “Si, I know. Taggers. Spray-painted all over the sign. It’s down for a face-lift.” Then her smile tightened, and she leaned close to me. “Please pray for Ricardo. He hasn’t found a job yet, and he’s yelling a lot and drinking—when he’s home.” Her smile dissolved. “Just . . . pray.”
I gave her a hug, kissed Emerald, said good-bye to the other Yada Yada sisters—and then realized Amanda wasn’t with us. Denny went to look for her and came back with Amanda and a twinkle in his eye.
Good grief. She’d probably been hanging out with José. I glared at Denny, my message clear: Don’t encourage this!
WE TALKED ABOUT OUR EXPERIENCE at Iglesia all the way home in the Dodge Caravan and through our lunch of BLTs and corn on the cob. Then Amanda and Josh headed for the beach, while Denny and I took advantage of their absence and snuck in a “nap.”Willie Wonka, knowing good and well that we were in the bedroom, scratched and whined on the other side of the door till we finally let him in.
“Voyeur,” Denny muttered.
Later, when the kids had gone to youth group at Uptown, Denny and I walked to the Heartland Café, the neighborhood’s classic throwback to the hippie sixties, and ordered iced coffees while we sat in the screened-in area on the sidewalk behind the Morse El stop. Our walks to the lake would have to wait till my leg felt stronger. Neither one of us mentioned the
obvious: Adele had not shown up at Iglesia that morning.
Not a big deal in itself—neither had Chanda or Yo-Yo or Nony or Hoshi. But I called up our e-mail before heading for bed, just in case . . .
No answer to the e-mail I’d sent her either—and it had been three days.
10
I stood in the middle of my third-grade classroom the next morning. What a mess—boxes, stacks of curriculum and old papers, and dust everywhere. Where to start? Eight days till school opened. If nothing else, last year’s experience had taught me one thing: I had to think “outside the box.” It wouldn’t be enough to arrange the desks in friendly clusters or make sure I had all the materials I’d need to teach the first quarter’s subjects or do my Welcome Bulletin Board. I’d also need to stock up on extra notebook paper and pencils for kids who came with not one thing on the supply list; juice boxes and granola bars for the ones who came to school hungry; even a stash of socks, underpants, shoelaces, mittens, and ear muffs to cover accidents and lost (or nonexistent) items. Most of this had to come out of my own pocket, though the Salvation Army store was a gold mine. Avis was sympathetic, but no way could the school budget fund these items for the entire school.
As I leaned against my desk, I realized I had a new resource this year: Yada Yada. Last September I’d felt totally alone and in way over my head. I knew Avis slightly from Uptown Community Church and knew her professionally at school. But it wasn’t till she invited me to the Chicago Women’s Conference last spring, where God plunged us both into a prayer group of twelve women from all over the city, that I began “to know and be known”—or yada, as we discovered the word meant in Hebrew. The Yada Yada Prayer Group had hung with me through the darkest days of this past summer, when I didn’t believe anybody, not even God, could love a sinner like me.
Surely they’d hang with me through teaching third graders who came to school with no socks.
I stared at the bulletin board. What could I do with the tired old thing that would make my new class feel welcome? The story I’d read about Jesus blessing the children popped into my mind. Hmm. A bulletin board with Jesus Loves You! in big, colorful, construction paper letters? Oh, right. Even Avis wouldn’t be able to stop the school board from firing me. Yet something that would let the children know, “I’m important. I belong here. Somebody loves me.”
It wouldn’t be easy. Sentimental notions aside, not all of them were lovable.
Lovable. That’s what Amanda’s name meant in Spanish. And suddenly I had an idea.
By the time I’d finished for the day, I’d done an inventory of classroom materials, filled out my purchase orders to turn in to the office, made a list of learning games to watch out for at garage sales, and begun work on my idea for the Welcome Bulletin Board.
It occurred to me that Yada Yada had been teaching me something else I could use to start off the school year: praise and prayer. Mostly because people like Avis and Florida and Nony—well, all the sisters of color—thanked God first then looked at the facts. Ruth Garfield, lugging her Hebrew/English dictionary, had also discovered that yadah- spelled-with-an-h meant “to praise, to sing, to give thanks . . . to acknowledge the nature and work of God.” Whew. We’d had no idea when we pulled “yada yada” out of the air, almost as a joke, as the name for our prayer group.
I peeked into the hallway to see if I could do this uninterrupted for a few minutes, then I took the printout of my incoming students and stopped by the first short desk. “Lord God, bless Ramón. Help me to love this boy like You love him.” I moved to the next desk. “Thank You for LeTisha.” Hoo boy. I was going out on a limb thanking God in advance for this one. I’d had a LeTisha in my class last year, and that little girl knew more cuss words at age eight than I even knew existed. “Bless Chanté . . . thank You for Hakim . . . bless D’Angelo . . . thank You for Savannah . . . Britny . . . Sherrie . . . Darien . . .”
By the time I flipped off the light, I’d blessed that room from corner to corner and all the little warm bodies that would soon fill it. Juggling my bulging tote bag, purchase orders, and a stack of readers to mend, I gave the classroom door a firm bump with my hip. “Aaaa-men!”
MY GOAL OF GETTING MY SEWING PROJECTS completed before school opened was severely challenged by two Professional Development days and a Teachers’ Institute. I was bored out of my mind listening to speeches by a rep from the teachers’ union, another from the superintendent’s office, and the president of the parents’ group. I caught myself thinking, Yeah, yada-yada-yada— and had to guzzle from my water bottle to drown my giggles.
On the second day, Project JAM and the Howard Street Community Center, both of which offered after-school programs, perked my interest, but I’m afraid I faded out again during the PowerPoint presentation of “Curriculum Alignment with State Goals.”
The Institute day got down to business for Bethune Elementary. Avis—Ms. Johnson, I reminded myself—introduced the new staff, several of whom were student teachers. Poor kids. Fresh from college, doing their student teaching, their notebooks full of ideas, idealism dripping from every pore. I hated to see their idealism dry up when reality smacked them upside the head with the first kid who spit or cursed in their face.
I felt sorry for one student teacher who hadn’t been pre-assigned to a classroom. Avis asked for volunteers to add her to their classroom, but no one spoke up. She began calling names. Clara Hutchens, the owl-eyed matriarch of first grade, sniffed, “Can’t. Already got a teacher aide.”Tom Davis, who taught second grade, just shrugged. “Sorry.”
The student—a tall, slender girl with dark, curly hair framing almost milk-white skin and wearing a wedding ring on her left hand—kept a smile pasted on her face, but I could imagine how awful she felt. I raised my hand. “I’ll take her.” Avis gave a silent nod, but her eyes were smiling.
The young woman scurried to my side as we broke into teams. “Thanks. I’m Christy James.” She pumped my hand. “I thought I’d be aiding kindergarten or first grade, so you’ll have to clue me in.”
“Jodi Baxter.” I smiled, hoping I’d done the right thing. A student teacher could be a godsend—or just another headstrong “kid” who thought she knew more than you did—but the wedding ring had convinced me. It said something about her. “You’ll be fine.”
I MISSED CALLING HOSHI on her birthday, but I sent her a “happy birthday” e-card a couple of days later. I wondered how the visit was going. Was no news good news? I’d been so busy that week I hadn’t really been praying for her. Needed to change that.
I took the Labor Day holiday literally and “labored” all weekend at the sewing machine and doing school prep. My “bright idea” for the Welcome Bulletin Board took longer than I expected, but at least it gave me an excuse not to join the wall scrapers in Amanda’s room, prepping for that coat of yellow paint. What a mess! I told Amanda it was fine to paint her room this weekend, but everything had to be back in her room by the time Yada Yada arrived at our house Sunday evening.
Stu was at worship Sunday morning, and Avis, of course. Seemed like Stu had pretty much adopted Uptown as her church, even though she had to drive all the way from the West Side. Wouldn’t be surprised if she signed up for Pastor Clark’s membership class in the fall. So far, Ms. Perfect hadn’t “taken over” the church as I’d feared, but what if—as Florida kept prodding her— she moved into the neighborhood?
As much as I’d enjoyed Iglesia del Espirito Santo last week, I was glad to be back at Uptown, where I knew the words to the songs and could hear the sermon in my own language without earphones. Yet it had opened my eyes. No wonder the Hispanics and Pakistanis and Cambodians who populated Rogers Park didn’t flock to our church. Diversity among blacks and whites was challenging enough, but at least we spoke English—though even then I wasn’t sure we always spoke the same language.
Like Adele. Denny and I might as well have been speaking Chinese in the phone messages and e-mail we’d left for her, for all the silence we’d gotten bac
k in return. So you could’ve knocked me over with a pinfeather when Adele showed up for Yada Yada at our house that evening at five minutes past five, marching past me with a crisp nod and taking up residence on one of the dining-room chairs I’d brought into the front room.
Other people arrived about the same time, or I might have given her a piece of my mind. If you’re gonna come to Yada Yada at my house, Adele Skuggs, couldn’t you have come a half-hour early so we could talk about what happened when MaDear went off her rocker? You know Denny and I want to talk! But she had already folded her arms across her wide bosom like an impregnable stone wall. She obviously wasn’t here for talking.
Not that it would’ve done any good anyway. Denny and Josh had gotten the bright idea to invite Yo-Yo’s teenage half brothers to go with them to the Jazz Fest down at Grant Park, and they’d left right after lunch to pick them up. It was part of our scheme to “invite them first” before we had another incident, like the time Pete Spencer invited Josh and Amanda to a teen rave, which— unknown to us babes-in-the-city—was practically advertising the drug Ecstasy on the flyer.
Bottom line: Denny wasn’t even home.
Amanda had wanted to go with the guys, but she got her period in church this morning and had been in bed with cramps all afternoon. Poor kid. I ought to take her to a doctor to see why it hits her so hard. She was camping out in our bedroom, because hers was still a mess from prepping the walls and the first coat of paint.
