by Neta Jackson
Huh? Michelle had no idea what that meant. But Grace spoke up and quietly said Estelle had invited them a few months ago to visit Manna House, and a young Latina had given a wonderful Bible study on God’s gift of grace, which had been a turning point in her own life. “Somehow that was the day I started to understand, maybe for the first time, what my name—Grace—means. After years of trying to earn God’s favor by my good works.”
Sam piped up. “And that led to a whole new theme for Grace’s concerts . . . ‘Just Grace.’”
The way she said it almost took Michelle’s breath away. Just grace. She almost wished they’d say more, but then the talk turned to a girl Grace and Sam were hoping to see tonight.
“For some reason I feel nervous about seeing Ramona again,” Grace confessed. “Our last meeting was so . . . so . . .”
“Weird,” Sam finished. “To put it mildly.”
“Poor Sister Michelle has no idea what you’re talking about,” Estelle chuckled. “Better fill her in.”
Between the two of them, Grace and Sam told how they’d met this young Hispanic girl on the train coming back from Grace’s West Coast tour, in the company of a guy at least ten years her senior. But something hadn’t seemed right, he’d been too controlling, and the girl seemed afraid of him. While trying to befriend her, Grace had accidentally spilled coffee on the girl’s suede jacket—
“Oh, no, you didn’t.” Michelle twisted in the front seat again to catch Grace’s eye.
Grace flushed. “I did. Offered to get it dry-cleaned and back to her when we got to Chicago, but I was actually able to get it cleaned when we stopped over in Denver, taking a later train—”
“Which is another story,” Sam giggled.
But Grace ignored her and went on, about how Ramona had met them at Union Station, wanting her jacket back . . . “And then she fainted, right there at our feet! Unfortunately, while we were trying to take care of Ramona, I left my suitcase unattended and someone made off with it—”
Estelle Bentley made a funny snorting sound at the wheel, and Sam snickered. “Told you it was weird.”
“—but in the confusion, Ramona disappeared. I was really worried about her, and afraid I’d never see her again.”
“But, ta-da,” Sam chimed in, “Mister Harry was on duty at the station and caught the thief, got Grace’s suitcase back, and later found Ramona. Told Grace he took her to the Manna House shelter.”
“Mm-hmm,” Estelle sing-songed, almost humming.
“Strange that she’s still there,” Grace mused. “I would’ve thought she’d try to get back to her family in LA or Mexico—wherever she’s from. She told me on the train she’d never been to Chicago before, just coming along with Max. But at least if she’s there, she’s not still with that jerk. He was bad news.”
Michelle had no idea how to respond. It really was a strange story. They all fell silent as Estelle got off Lake Shore Drive and navigated a series of side streets. Finally Michelle said, “Well, I’m glad you’ll get to see her again, since your meeting at the train station ended so, well, abruptly. I bet she’ll be glad to see you again too—oh. Are we here already?”
Estelle had pulled up in front of a churchy-looking two-story building squeezed between an apartment building on one side and a row of storefronts on the other. Michelle felt slightly panicked. She still didn’t know exactly what was going to happen tonight. Almost as if reading her mind, Estelle shut off the ignition and then turned to her passengers. “Don’t worry about tonight. We’ll gather the women, I’ll introduce you to folks, and then Grace, why don’t you sing a few songs—you said you’d chosen some from your last tour? And then Michelle, just share some of your experience at Lifeline, tell some stories if you want, but also let the girls know what kinds of resources the crisis pregnancy center has to offer. Then, Grace, you could sing another song or two at the end—let the Holy Spirit lead.”
“I brought some brochures to leave at the shelter.” Michelle patted her tote bag.
“Good idea. Now, let’s pray a minute before we go in.”
As the older woman prayed in the car, Michelle felt herself relax. “Let the Holy Spirit lead.” That’s right. Jesus had promised his disciples that the Holy Spirit would give them words to say when they had to speak before kings and princes . . . or homeless women in this case.
The day had been fairly cool for June—low sixties and cloudy—but several women sat out on the wide concrete steps leading up to the two oak doors, smoking. “How’ya doin’, Miz Estelle,” said one woman—darker than white, lighter than black, blackish-brown hair pulled back in a ponytail at the nape of her neck. Michelle had no idea what her nationality was. “Ya here for the meetin’?”
“That’s right, Lottie. You comin’ in? Somethin’ special tonight.”
“I’ll think about it.” Lottie chuckled and a few of the other women snickered.
Estelle pushed a button beside the doors and someone let them in. Once inside the foyer she murmured, “Don’t worry, they’ll come in. They just don’t want to seem too excited about it . . . Oh! There’s Edesa and Josh—and my babies!”
There was a flurry of introductions. Sam leaned close to Michelle’s ear and whispered, “Edesa is the woman who led the Bible study last time we were here.”
Interesting couple, Michelle thought. Edesa Baxter might be mistaken for African American—coffee-colored complexion, hair worn in a plethora of small, tight ringlets pulled back from her face with a wide, bright yellow cloth headband—but she spoke with a rich Spanish accent. Might be African Honduran or from some other Central American country. Bridges Family Services had worked with an Afro-Honduran organization in Chicago. Edesa’s husband Josh, on the other hand, looked like a typical white college boy—tall, slender, brownish-blond hair, boyish grin, midtwenties.
The “babies” Estelle was fussing over fell somewhere in the middle. A little girl about five years old clung to her mommy’s hand, her skin creamy tan and her straight dark brown hair had been gathered into two side ponytails . . . like many of the Hispanic children Michelle worked with at Bridges. Daddy Josh was wearing a baby in a backpack peering wide-eyed over his shoulder. The little boy looked about one and a half, and definitely mixed.
“I am so happy to see you again, Grace!” Edesa gave both Grace and Sam a hug. “I was excited to hear you were coming back to Manna House to sing, so I brought mi familia to meet you.” She bent down to the little girl. “Gracie, this is the señorita I told you about who has the same name you do. Can you say, ‘Hola, Miss Grace, como esta?’”
“Hi,” said little Gracie with just a touch of spitfire, looking Grace Meredith up and down. “Do you know Miss Gato? She’s white like you.”
Grace looked puzzled. Josh rolled his eyes as if embarrassed and Edesa hastened to explain. “She’s a young woman at our church Gracie has taken a shine to—recently married our assistant pastor. Her name’s Katherine, but everyone calls her Kat . . . so to Gracie she’s ‘Miss Cat.’”
Michelle was feeling a little left out of all this “reunion” and who-knows-whom, but Estelle, ever sensitive, took her arm and ushered her through the double doors of the foyer into a large common room. A couple of women were setting up a semicircle of folding chairs facing a large mural painted on one wall—a rendition of the Good Shepherd with a herd of rather tattered sheep. Nice, Michelle thought. Somehow appropriate.
Sam busied herself plugging in a boom box for the instrumental track Grace was going to use for her songs. Between introductions, Michelle found a chair in the half circle and tried to jot a few more notes in her notebook about what she was going to share tonight. But Grace seemed distracted, glancing about as if looking for someone—the girl Ramona probably.
And then Michelle saw Grace’s eyes lock on a slender teenager walking hesitantly into the room, long dark hair falling over one side of her face, large dark eyes and lashes, arms crossed, hugging herself. Had to be Ramona the way she and Grace stood for a few
moments just staring at each other. But so young! When Grace had said “young woman,” Michelle hadn’t expected someone who couldn’t be more than . . . What? Sixteen or seventeen? This was the girl who’d been traveling cross-country with a guy a decade older?
Michelle’s mama antennas went up. Whoever that guy was—Max they’d called him—had no business taking a girl that young out of state! He should be prosecuted for kidnapping.
But before Grace even had a chance to say hello, the girl’s shoulders started to shake and she burst into tears. “Ramona!” Grace gasped, taking a step toward her. “What’s wrong?”
Chapter 22
Ramona backed away a step or two, wiped her face with her hand, and glanced around the room until she found Estelle Bentley, who had stayed discreetly in the background. “Miss Estelle?” she sniffed. “Didn’t . . . didn’t the detective man who got me out of jail and brought me here—that’s your husband, right?—didn’t he tell Miss Grace anything?”
Grace looked startled. “No, he did not. Mr. Bentley just told me Amtrak security caught the thief and got my suitcase back. But . . . they put you in jail?”
Estelle joined the group with a big sigh. “Baby,” she said to Ramona, “my Harry figured if you ever wanted to tell Miss Grace what all happened, that was your business.”
“But why—?” Grace started, but now it was Estelle who put up her hand.
“Maybe you two need to go into the office and talk a bit, private-like. We’ll get started here, give you two time to pull yourselves together . . . five minutes, okay? But then maybe the rest of your catchin’ up can wait until after our praise service tonight. Let it rest in God’s hands for right now—which is where this situation has been all along.” The older woman gave Ramona a squeeze and then gave the two of them a little push toward the main office off the foyer. “It was no accident God brought the two of you together on that train several weeks ago, you know.”
As Grace and Ramona disappeared through the double doors leading into the foyer, Michelle realized she’d practically been holding her breath the past few minutes, and she blew it out slowly. The evening hadn’t even started yet and already she felt as if she’d been riding a roller coaster. Lord, how you’re going to pull all this together tonight, I have no idea . . .
For the next few minutes, Samantha Curtis fiddled with the boom box and CDs again while Estelle and Edesa Baxter huddled together at the front. Edesa’s husband had retreated with both kids into a corner of the large room to entertain them.
“Amigas?” Edesa Baxter raised her voice to the people still scattered around the room and waved them into the semicircle of chairs. “I think we’re ready to begin.” Michelle figured Estelle had asked the younger woman to be the emcee for the evening. Edesa waited as the shelter guests and staff found their seats, though a few women just stayed where they were in the seating clusters around the room, flipping through magazines or snoozing. And then Grace and Ramona returned, both looking a little red-eyed and sober.
As Grace took her seat in the front row, Michelle heard her say, “Please stay, Ramona, okay? I want to talk to you some more after the service.” The teenager nodded and slipped into the row behind them.
“We have a special treat tonight,” Edesa said, her face alight with a wide smile. “First, Grace Meredith, who is not only a concert artist but a neighbor of our own Miss Estelle, is going to sing for us—”
Several women started clapping—whether for Grace or Estelle, Michelle wasn’t sure—and the woman they’d met outside, Lottie, gave a couple of hoots.
“—and then Michelle Jasper, also one of Miss Estelle’s neighbors, is going to share about the resources offered by Lifeline Care Center here in the city. But first, let’s ask our Father God to bless our time together. Oh, Señor Dios, gracias for these special sisters who have come to share their gifts with us . . .” And Edesa moved right into a heartfelt prayer, mentioning not only Grace and Michelle by name, but Samantha too, translating part of her own prayer into Spanish for the Spanish-speakers in the room.
Michelle felt very moved by the prayer. Sharing her gift? She hadn’t thought of tonight that way. She’d often given presentations to various agencies and churches, both about Bridges Family Services and Lifeline Care Center. But nothing like this setting. The women around her seemed restless—whispers, rustling, chairs scraping, laughter going on in a corner of the room. She was glad that the plan was for Grace to sing first.
After the prayer, Edesa beckoned to Grace, then slipped away as Grace came to the front and stood beneath the mural on the wall. She didn’t say anything by way of introduction—probably still a little shaken by Ramona’s revelations—just nodded at Sam to start the CD player. Michelle closed her eyes to shut out the rustling and listened as Grace began to sing.
“He giveth more grace as the burdens grow greater . . . He sendeth more strength as the labors increase . . .” It was an old hymn. Not sung much anymore, though Michelle recognized the tune. “. . . To added afflictions he addeth his mercy . . .”
The murmurs around Michelle gradually quieted as Grace’s clear soprano voice, needing no microphone in this setting, filled the room with a couple of stanzas of the beautiful hymn, ending with the last line of the chorus: “For out of His infinite riches in Jesus . . . He giveth, and giveth, and giveth again.”
The notes faded away and Sam stopped the CD player. Grace took a sip from a water bottle and then smiled at her audience. “I chose that song because it tells my testimony. Edesa told you I was a concert singer. What she didn’t tell you is that my life was falling apart a few months ago—my career, my voice, even the man I thought I was going to marry—kaput.”
Michelle was startled. Grace? Her life falling apart? Did she say just a few months ago? Why hadn’t Grace said anything about that when they’d prayed together at her house with Estelle? One or two women in the semicircle snickered nervously. A raspy voice called out, “That’s all right, you go on now, girl. Know whatchu talkin’ about.”
Grace took a deep breath. “I’d been running from secrets in my past . . . but God had to bring me to a low place to discover what had been true all along—he wanted to offer me forgiveness and mercy and grace, none of which I deserved. It wasn’t my performance that mattered, all those things I was doing trying to earn God’s favor . . . just simply that I’m his child and he loves me—just as God loves you.”
Grace nodded at Sam again, and the instrumental CD began the strains of a contemporary gospel song Michelle recognized. “Your grace and mercy brought me through . . . I’m living this moment because of You . . .”
“Yes, yes,” several voices murmured behind Michelle. And by the end of the song, some of the women in the circle were humming or singing along.
“Praise Jesus!” someone called out. Michelle noticed that most of the stragglers around the room had joined the circle now.
Grace sang one more song, another old hymn, similar in theme to the others. “Marvelous grace of our loving Lord . . . grace that exceeds our sin and our guilt . . .” By the end of this song, everyone was singing along on the chorus: “Grace, grace, God’s grace, grace that is greater than all our sin.” A few women were dabbing at tears as the last words faded away.
From her work at Bridges every day, Michelle could well imagine the difficulties many of these women had experienced that left them homeless. Dysfunctional families. Abusive childhoods. Doing anything to survive. Drugs to kill the pain. Acting out of anger, hopelessness, despair. And some just had a run of bad luck, circumstances beyond their control.
Several people clapped as Grace sat down. Michelle felt a momentary panic. She was supposed to follow those deeply moving songs? But Edesa was beckoning to her. Okay, Lord, you lead the way. As she stood and faced the women in the circle, Michelle’s heart felt as if it was breaking. There sat Ramona, a mere teenager, far from home, vulnerable, taken advantage of, used and abused. But Ramona wasn’t the only one. Each face in the circle held a
story—stories she might never hear. But God knew.
“Thank you, Grace,” she began. “The songs you sang tonight . . . that’s what Lifeline Care Center is all about. Extending the love of God and God’s grace to women who find themselves in crisis. LCC is a crisis pregnancy center, offering a lifeline to girls and women who think they don’t have choices. At Lifeline we believe each life—even the ones we didn’t plan for—is precious to God. But many women, especially those who are single, without support, feel so overwhelmed they think their only option is to end the pregnancy. But Lifeline exists to come alongside women in crisis . . .”
Michelle described the various resources Lifeline offered—free pregnancy tests and ultrasounds, information about fetal development, counseling and emotional support, baby clothes and furniture, as well as referrals to other supportive agencies for women wanting to get their GED, or job training, or information about adoption.
‘Yeah, but in th’ end, ya still got a kid—or two or three or six,” scoffed the woman named Lottie. “Abortion’s legal an’ it’s quick. Seems like th’ easy way out ta me. I done it. Why not?”
A couple of other women in the room nodded.
O Lord, breathed Michelle. I need your words—
“But it’s not the easy way out,” Grace Meredith spoke up from the front row. Startled, Michelle saw the concert singer stand up and come to join her at the front. Okaay. What is she doing? As if sensing what was happening, Estelle followed Grace to the front.
Gripping their hands for support as they stood on either side of her, Grace cleared her throat. “Excuse me, Michelle, for interrupting, but . . . I had an abortion as a teenager—and it’s haunted me ever since. Carried the guilt around like a monkey on my back. Spent years trying to make myself acceptable to God by traveling around the country telling kids, ‘You’re worth the wait.’ Letting people think I’m this wonderful role model for Christian kids.”
The room had gone so quiet, the proverbial pin drop would’ve sounded like a thunderclap.
