by Neta Jackson
For a nanosecond, I wondered if Becky had figured out a good escape—just head into the water and keep swimming. Or drown the ankle monitor. But she stopped as she met up with Pastor Clark, Denny, and Yo-Yo, saying something and gesturing with her hands. She and Pastor Clark talked intensely for a few minutes. Then the two men looked at each other, and I saw Denny nod.
All four of them turned around and headed back into waist-deep water.
Several of us realized what was happening all at once. Becky Wallace wanted to be baptized! Chanda began jump-ing up and down. “Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Oh, Jesus!” I heard “Glory!” and “Thank You, Jesus!” But Stu caught my eye, and without saying a word, we both kicked off our shoes and waded into the water. That sister needed some sisters around her while she did the bravest thing I’d ever seen—though wading into the water took guts, too. Ai-yi-yiii! It was cold!
Pastor Clark waited for us until we got there, and to my surprise, Denny stepped aside and beckoned for Stu and me to take his place at Becky’s side. She gripped our hands like a lifeline as Pastor Clark said in a loud voice, “Becky Wallace, on your confession of faith and desire to follow Jesus, I baptize you in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.” And down she went. Back up she came, eyes squeezed shut—but the smile on her face was like its own sunshine.
As Pastor Clark released her, Stu and I enveloped Becky Wallace—thief, felon, ex-con, housemate, sister—in a big, wet hug. With our arms tangled around each other, I had a sudden vision of a new meaning for Becky’s name, which meant “bound” or “tied.” Laughing, I said in her ear, “Becky, you are now all tied up in the love of God!” I wanted to say more, but I heard splashing and squeals behind us. Turning my head, I saw half the Yada Yadas wading into the water to hug Becky, grimacing at the cold water.
Chanda was the first to get there. She gave Becky a hug—then to my shock, she dunked herself and her bright yellow Easter suit completely under the water and came up holding her head. “Gonna wash that mon right out o’ my hair!” she belted out, as if auditioning for the Broadway musical itself. “Oh Lord, dat mon is gone an’ this sista is glad. I’m free! I’m free!” And she began to jump up and down, splashing the rest of us.
We all started to laugh. The next thing I knew, Stu went down under the water and came up, long hair streaming down her back. She gave me a wet hug. “Oh God, Jodi,” she whispered in my ear. “I’m free too!—from living a lie, from lying to myself. I’m so glad . . . so glad.”
I saw Hoshi in the water, hugging Becky Wallace. My heart twisted. I could hardly bear it. Hoshi—who had been rejected by her own family because she chose to fol-low Jesus—was hugging her new sister in God’s family, the same woman who had sent Hoshi’s mother back to Japan with a hand full of stitches and a heart full of anger.
Could I forgive like that? Oh God! Your redemption is so great!
Back onshore I heard a squeal and saw Peter Douglass sweep Avis into his arms and start wading into the water. “You would’t!” she screeched, clinging to his neck, yet he just kept coming, a silly grin on his normally sober features. And then he dumped her in the water.
She came up spluttering—but in half a second, she was splashing him, laughing, and splashing harder. And that’s when it happened. The rest of the Yada Yadas, Amanda and José, Yo-Yo’s brothers, the Jesus People teenagers in their tattoos and nose rings, Florida’s squeal-ing kids, Nony in her African-print tunic and head wrap, and an assortment of other Uptown folks and teenagers—all in the water, churning up a huge hallelujah water fight! Even Pastor Clark got a good soaking—and managed to give it back to a few of the teenagers himself.
Sopping wet, hardly aware of the frigid water, I stepped back as if watching the scene in the water from a faraway place.What had just happened here? Two young women had just been baptized. Redeemed from their own efforts. Set free to be new women. And the rest of us . . . we were being redeemed too. Florida—turning a new page in the life of her family. Chanda—seeing “Dia’s daddy” for the faithless moneygrubber he really was.Nony—carrying her vision for a redeemed South Africa in her heart. Avis—redeemed from the ache of loneliness she’d lived with since her beloved Conrad had died.
And me. Jodi Marie Baxter. Redeemed to be . . . me! Not the good girl I thought I was for so many years. Not the hopeless sinner I discovered myself to be. But the woman God created me to be—helped along by sisters so different from myself, who weren’t afraid to knock off the rough edges of my pettiness and self-righteousness and judgmental spirit. Yet who accepted me just for myself.
Already wet, I raised my arms toward the sky, yelled, “Thank You, Jesus!” and fell backward into Lake Michigan. The cold water closed over my head. But before I could get my feet under me, I felt a strong hand pull me up out of the water. I blinked my eyes open.
Denny.
“Lightning,” he said. “Storm’s coming this way. We need to get out of the water.” He grabbed my hand and headed for shore.
I looked back. The sky had darkened. Jagged bolts of lightning skipped across the horizon. Yes, a storm was coming. So?
The Yada Yada Prayer Group—and the Baxter family—had weathered storms before. And we would again.
Reading Group Guide
1. A lot of readers say, “I am so Jodi!” Do you identify with Jodi? In what way? Why do you think so many readers identify with her?
2. In chapter 3, Jodi yells at God, “What part of dull and boring don’t You understand?” What pressure points do you have in your life right now? Have you considered whether God might have a redemptive purpose to “keeping the pressure on”?
3. Do you have a “Stu” in your life—someone who seems to have it all together and makes your best efforts look like a crumb in comparison? How do your feelings affect your relationship? Do you really know this person in her hidden places? What do you think would help you get “unstuck” in this relationship?
4. In what ways do you see Jodi growing and changing since Book One? What do you see as the difference in the “Old Jodi” and the “New Jodi” way of responding to situations.
5. The Yada Yada sisters are challenged not just to “believe in God,” but to “believe God.” What is the difference? What does that mean to you?
6. In what ways do the various members of Yada Yada “get real” in this book (or not)? What does “getting real” mean to you? What are the benefits of being more open and honest in your relationships? What might be the downside of doing so?
7. Jodi still carries scars from the car accident—a reminder of her anger and her failure—until she begins to see these scars as a reminder of God’s grace and a reminder to pray for Hakim and his mom. What scars (physical or emotional) do you carry? In what way could these scars serve a redemptive purpose or encourage you to pray?
8. What prompted Jodi’s confession to the mother of Hakim and Jamal at the final parent-teacher conference? How was it different from her first “I’m sorry” at the end of Book One? In what way was the confession healing for Jodi? For Geraldine? In what ways can confession be an agent of redemption?
9. Reflect on the trauma Becky Wallace inflicted on the Yada Yada Prayer Group—and yet something in their response to Becky drew her into the water of baptism. Has God dropped someone into your life—unasked, unannounced, and even unwelcome? What feelings do you have about this person? Are you willing to consider whether God has a redemptive purpose in mind?
10. How has Christ’s forgiveness changed your life? (Remember, it cost Him.) How might your forgiveness set another person free? What would it cost you? How far does that forgiveness go?
An excerpt from the next book in the Yada Yada Prayer Group series, The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Tough
1
The wedding cake—a modest three-tiered creation from the Bagel Bakery—sat resplendent and untouched on the pass-through counter of Uptown Community Church’s kitchen. Ruth Garfield, a navy “church hat” parked on her frowzy brown hair, stood in
front of it, hands on hips,muttering something about “. . . marriage can’t be consummated if the newlyweds don’t cut the cake.”
Yo-Yo Spencer, back in a pair of dry overalls after her baptism in Lake Michigan less than an hour ago, jerked her blonde, spiky hair in Ruth’s direction as we folded the friendship quilt the Yada Yada Prayer Group had made for Avis’s wedding. “What’s got her tail in a knot, Jodi? We can still eat the cake. Heck, my brothers could demolish the whole thing in a couple of hours—oh.” The spiky-haired twenty-something looked at me, stricken. “Guess I ain’t supposed to say ‘heck’ now that I been dunked, huh?”
I stifled a laugh just as a crack of thunder outside covered for me. The threatening storm that had cut short Yo-Yo’s baptism—and Bandana Woman’s, which had shocked the socks off everybody—finally unloaded over the north end of Chicago, washing the high, narrow windows of Uptown Community’s second-floor meeting room. Ben Garfield and my husband, Denny, were taking down the Jewish huppah Ben had built for Avis and Peter Douglass’s wedding. My son, Josh—Mr. Clean himself with that shaved head of his—was bossing around the cleanup crew of teenagers, all of them still half wet from the “hallelujah water fight” the double baptisms had inspired down at the lake. José Enriquez and his father were packing up their guitars. And Pastor Clark sat knee to knee with a shivering Becky Wallace swathed in several layers of damp towels, his Bible open as he showed her the verses about “all have sinned” and “God so loved the world” and “by grace we are saved.”
A huge bubble of happiness rose up in my spirit and oozed out all my pores as I hugged the folded quilt with its individual squares embroidered by each of the Yada Yada sisters. What an incredible day! I wished I could capture it in freeze-frame photography and replay it again, moment by moment:
All the Yada Yadas blowing our noses and smudging our mascara as dignified Avis Johnson “jumped the broom” with Peter Douglass right in Uptown’s Sunday morning worship service . . .
Yo-Yo in her brand-new lavender overalls “gettin’ off the fence and gettin’ dunked,” as she called it, in Lake Michigan . . .
The spontaneous plunge into the waters of salvation by Becky Wallace—a.k.a. “Bandana Woman,” the heroin junkie who’d robbed Yada Yada at knifepoint last fall and ended up as Leslie “Stu” Stewart’s housemate last week on house arrest, complete with electronic ankle monitor . . .
Could any of us have imagined such a day a year ago when we’d all met at that Chicago women’s conference? A perfect “anniversary” for the Yada Yada Prayer Group!
Except for the cake, that is. I wasn’t sure our resident yenta, Ruth Garfield, would ever forgive Peter and Avis—soaking wet from the silly dunking he’d given her after the baptisms—for deciding to forgo their wedding cake in lieu of getting into dry clothes and setting off on their honeymoon.
“Earth to Jodi!” Florida Hickman’s hand waved in front of my face, breaking my thoughts. “You gonna hug that quilt all day or help me convince Ruth we should eat that cake? Avis would want us to!” She grabbed my arm. “C’mon . . . hey! Look who’s back!”
Nonyameko Sisulu-Smith and her husband, Mark, appeared at the top of the stairs that opened into the second-floor meeting room, looking comfy and dry in sweats and gym shoes. “Uh-huh,” Florida challenged. “Thought you guys had ducked out on us.”
Mark shrugged. “We wanted to leave you guys with all the dirty work, but we need to talk to Pastor Clark about something.” He grinned, and probably every female heart in the room skipped a beat. Our African “princess” had definitely snagged herself an American “prince,” even if he was a Georgia-boy-makes-good. Dr. Mark Smith was not only a professor of history at Northwestern University and the father of their two polite boys, but—as Florida would say—“that brother is fine.”
Nony rolled her eyes. “That’s not the whole of it. You should’ve heard him complaining because he hadn’t gotten any wedding cake!”
“Cake, nothing!” growled Denny, still struggling to dismantle the huppah with Ben. “Give us a hand with this thing, man, so we can get it out the door.”
“Better get your hands dirty, Mark,” Florida smirked. “I know your grandma taught you: ‘Them that don’t work, don’t eat.’ ”
Laughter rippled through the motley crew—some damp, some dry—who’d assembled back at the church after the lakeside ceremonies. The original plan had been for Avis and Peter’s wedding ceremony to take place during the morning service, followed by a brief reception with cake and punch; then everyone would walk or drive to the lake for Yo-Yo’s baptism. But Chicago weather being what it was—the forecast called for scattered showers throughout the day—when the sun came out shortly after the “I do’s,” Pastor Clark had suggested we all head for the lake for Yo-Yo’s baptism and then come back for the reception.
Humph. “Best-laid plans” and all that. Hadn’t counted on ex-con Becky Wallace getting zapped by Jesus like Paul on the road to Damascus and wanting to get baptized right then and there too, and everybody ending up in the water in an exuberant celebration of God’s ongoing redemption.Well . . . maybe the teenagers just saw their chance to dunk their parents or give Pastor Clark a good soaking.Whatever. It had been glorious.
Until the lightning drove us out of the water, that is. Then it’d been a toss-up whether we all ought to split for home and get out of wet clothes or if some of us should go back to the church long enough to do some cleanup first. Most of Uptown’s small congregation and about half of the Yada Yada sisters—most of whom attended other churches—decided to go home. (Stu, who lived on the second floor of our two-flat, drove a carload of Yada Yadas so they wouldn’t have to ride the elevated train wringing wet.)
Couldn’t blame them—that’s precisely what I wanted to do too.Walking around in soggy underwear under my damp dress slacks wasn’t my idea of a good time. But Pastor Clark hiked up the heat so we wouldn’t “catch our death,” as Ruth kept muttering, and there wasn’t that much left to do. Still, it was nice of Nony and Mark to come back after changing out of their wet African dress and dashiki; they must’ve left the boys at home with Hoshi, the Japanese university student Mark and Nony had befriended. Nony had told Hoshi about Jesus and then brought her to the Chicago women’s conference last year, where twelve of us ended up in prayer group twenty-six . . . and the rest, as they say, is history.
“Don’t worry, Ruth,” Nony was saying gently. “We can lift off the top two tiers—see?—and refrigerate them till Avis and Peter get back later this week.”
“Yeah.” Florida bopped into the kitchen and reappeared on the other side of the pass-through. “Ain’t much in this here fridge once we take out this stuff.”The small-boned woman with beaded braids all over her head and a scar down one cheek pulled open the door of the industrial refrigerator and pulled out two plastic jugs of red punch and a liter of ginger ale. Then Florida gingerly took the top two layers of the wedding cake from Nony and slid them carefully onto the nearly empty shelf. “There! That thang’ll be safe here till them lovebirds pick it up next Sunday.” As the refrigerator door closed with a soft wheeze, Florida grabbed a large knife from the block. “OK, everybody!” she yelled out into the big room. “Cake cuttin’ time!”
