by Neta Jackson
Michelle just nodded and smiled. She really did need to speak to Shareese about the way she dressed. If the “church mothers” hadn’t already given her what-for, Michelle had a responsibility as head of women’s ministry.
As women started to arrive, Michelle noticed several had brought guests—family members and friends—and she made a special effort during the coffee-and-bagel time to welcome them before starting the meeting. The turnout was good, though as usual several Northside women came in late as Sister Paulette led the group in singing, “Oh, how I love Jesus . . .” They didn’t slip in quietly either, but headed for the coffee table, greeting people who were already singing.
Once the DVD started, everyone settled down and seemed attentive as the popular daughter of Tony Evans spoke about “anticipating the voice of God.” The scripture she used in the first session focused on Jesus’ words in John’s gospel, chapter 10: “My sheep hear My voice, and I know them, and they follow Me.” All about listening for the voice of a beloved person—in this case Jesus—and responding to that voice.
When the DVD was finished Michelle passed out worksheets listing other scriptures, which she asked various women to read aloud from their Bibles, to help them focus on the intimate relationship Jesus has with his “sheep.” “Keep in mind, Jesus is talking about us, sisters,” Michelle encouraged as they worked through the discussion questions. About me, she thought. Did she really expect to hear God speaking to her? Or were her own prayers mostly a one-way street?
The discussion was lively, and as the meeting broke up, Michelle breathed a prayer of thanks. Lord, thank you for bringing this together in spite of how scattered I’ve been lately. She really should thank Shareese too . . .
Michelle waited until most of the women had left and the committee was doing cleanup before taking the young woman aside. “Sister Shareese, I want to thank you for your idea of doing this video series with Priscilla Shirer. I think it’s going to be really good.”
“Oh, thank you, Sister Michelle! I wasn’t sure, you know, you seemed so hesitant at first.” The young woman tossed her long weave. “Do you think we can do the whole series? Or just do it for the summer? If we need to do something else in the fall, I thought of another good idea. Maybe we could—”
Michelle held up her hand with a half laugh. “One thing at a time, Shareese. But I did want to mention something else to you.” Could she do this without offending her? She lowered her voice a bit. “It’s important, um, for us on the women’s ministry committee to be good role models to the other women in the church. You’re a very attractive woman, Sister Shareese, and I’m sure you don’t mean to be immodest, but—”
“Oh!” Shareese’s eyes widened and her hand went instinctively to her chest, covering her cleavage. “My blouse! It’s too low-cut, isn’t it! Oh, Sister Michelle, thank you so much for pointing this out to me. It’s just, oh dear, yellow is one of my favorite colors, and I just didn’t think . . .”
Michelle laid a hand on her arm. “I know. It’s all right. You do look wonderful in yellow. But let me assure you, Shareese, you’ll still turn heads even if you wear turtlenecks clear up to your chin—which I’m not suggesting, by the way! Just . . . no cleavage showing at church, okay? And go easy on the tight pants and short skirts too. You don’t want to call the wrong kind of attention to yourself.”
Shareese nodded, her eyes downcast and blinking rapidly, but she let Michelle give her a hug before she scurried away.
Michelle watched her go. She had to give the girl credit. She took that correction amazingly well. Would she have responded like that in her twenties if an older woman in the church had taken her aside?
Probably not.
* * *
By the time Michelle left Northside, it was already past noon, and the rain had come and gone—but she still needed to pick up some little token to give to each of the women in the Hope and Healing group. The Ten Thousand Villages Store in Evanston . . . they had nice gifts. It was a fair-trade store too, giving artisans from different countries a fair price for their handiwork. A bit out of her way, but she should have time to get there and back before the two o’clock memorial service.
She didn’t even want to think about visiting the Blackwells afterward. Or doing the grocery shopping. She should’ve asked Jared to do it . . . maybe she still should. Although, it was a bit unfair to spring that on him so last-minute. But still.
Sitting at a red light, she called home but only got the answering machine. She tapped the speed dial number for Jared’s cell and got his voicemail. He was probably out getting the oil changed in his car. She tossed the cell phone into the seat beside her. Just as well. Chicago had a law against using cell phones while driving. Besides, maybe the Blackwells wouldn’t be home and she could do the grocery shopping instead. Or even do it Sunday afternoon. She didn’t like to leave stuff like that for their “day of rest,” but God would surely understand.
Uh-oh, the light must’ve turned green while she was using the phone, because it was turning red again. She waited, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. The light turned green . . . why were the two cars in front of her just sitting there? She honked. They didn’t move. Oh brother. The last thing she needed was a traffic tie-up. She honked again, longer. The light turned red. Okay, okay, maybe they’d had a fender bender.
She glanced in the rearview mirror. No cars behind her. She backed up half a car length, waited till the light turned green again and the cars in the left lane were moving, finally saw her chance, and quickly cut into the lane—but not before getting stopped by the red light again. Argh. Casting a frustrated glance at the cars in the right lane that were tying everything up, she suddenly had a startling realization.
No drivers in either car.
She’d waited through four red lights behind two parked cars.
Michelle didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. How dumb was that! Was she losing her mind?
* * *
At least she found the perfect gifts at the fair trade store. Small rock paperweights about the size of an apricot, polished to smooth perfection, and each one had one of the fruits of the Spirit carved into it. Love . . . Joy . . . Peace . . . Patience . . . Kindness . . . The store had rock paperweights with the other “fruits” from the Scripture passage in Galatians too, but she only needed five.
Michelle wanted to wait until the end of the memorial service to give the gifts. The meeting room at Lifeline was fairly full. Each group participant had invited several family members or friends to be there—all except Linda Chen. Michelle didn’t question her about it. Each woman had to do what she felt comfortable doing. But Bernice the receptionist and Margie Sutton, the LCC director, also attended.
The service was simple, using the same format she’d used for previous memorial services: She played the hymn “Children of the Heavenly Father” on a CD, but she also passed out lyrics she’d photocopied so everyone could sing along. A few Scripture verses, including Jeremiah 1:5: “Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you.” And a brief description of the process the group had gone through.
What was different each memorial service was the sharing from each of the participants. Ellie Baker read her letter to her baby. Maria Gonzales modestly showed the little heart she’d had tattooed above her left breast, “So I won’t ever forget.” Denise Martin shared a poem she’d written titled, “Forgiven.” LaVeta Gates thanked the Lifeline staff, and Michelle in particular, for being there for her, for not just reaching out to girls who had a “crisis pregnancy,” but caring for women like her who didn’t “choose life.”
Michelle wondered what Linda Chen would do. To her surprise, the young Asian woman simply said, “I dedicate this song to wo de jia ting—my family.” Closing her eyes, she sang a plaintive song in Mandarin Chinese without translating the words, or even the title, into English.
But there wasn’t a dry eye in the room.
Afterward, as Michelle hugged each of the five women in the group, s
he gave them the little gift bags from Ten Thousand Villages. “Just open them when you get home. A remembrance from me. And if you ever want to talk more, or have something you’d like to pray about, please call. I’m here every Saturday morning.”
The room slowly emptied. More tears. More hugs. A lot of tissues.
Once everyone was gone, Michelle sank down in a padded chair. The service had gone well, thank God. But she was ready to go home. Forget the Blackwells. Forget the groceries. She was exhausted.
“You okay, honey?” Bernice eyed her critically with a practiced grandmotherly eye. “Want some water? No, I know what you need. Some of my herbal peppermint tea I keep stashed in my drawer. You wait right there.”
Bernice was right. The hot peppermint tea and an extra fifteen minutes just sitting revived her somewhat, along with the yogurt and granola bar she’d almost forgotten about. Maybe she could swing by the Blackwells’ apartment after all.
Chapter 26
Only when Michelle was halfway to the Albany Park neighborhood where the Blackwells lived did she realize she’d forgotten the folder with their actual address and the Google map she’d made to help her find it. But she’d been there twice already that week, so maybe she could find it again without the map.
After turning onto a one-way street that sent her several blocks out of her way before she could get turned around again, she finally recognized the three-story apartment building and pulled into a parking space, double-checking that there wasn’t a fire hydrant, yellow stripe along the curb, or No Parking sign anywhere nearby. A number of kids were out and about, playing in the street and on the sidewalk. Michelle walked slowly up to the apartment building, searching faces, hoping to see Candy among the others, but she didn’t recognize any of the children.
A girl about ten hollered, “You lookin’ for somebody, lady?” The girl looked Michelle up and down, almost like a challenge.
“Yes. I’m looking for Candy Blackwell. Have you seen her?”
The girl shrugged. “Candy? Ain’t seen her. She ain’t out here.”
Michelle nodded. “Okay. Thanks. I’ll try their apartment.” She pushed open the outer door into the small foyer, found the Blackwell buzzer and pushed. Not really expecting anyone to answer, she idly pushed it again—and was startled when the buzzer that opened the door into the stairwell blared back.
She grabbed for the door handle and pulled. You had to get the door open while the buzzer was buzzing or it stayed locked. Success! Mounting the stairs to the third floor, Michelle’s feet dragged slower and slower, not knowing what to expect when she got to 3B. But finally she stood in front of the door and knocked. A moment later a lock turned and the door opened a few inches, stopped by a door chain. Michelle looked down at the big eyes peering at her.
“Hi, Candy.” She smiled. “Do you remember me? Mrs. Jasper from Bridges Family Services.”
The small brown face nodded, then broke into a shy smile. “I still gots your card.”
“Is your mommy home?” She hoped she was, hoped she wasn’t . . .
Candy shook her head. “She out.”
“Oh.” Michelle felt her gut relax. Couldn’t say she was disappointed. But her tension was replaced by concern. “Is Pookey here with you?” That would be a problem. A baby left in the care of a seven-year-old?
Again the little braids shook sideways. “Mama took Pookey to the Walgreens. He gotsa fever. Tol’ me to stay inna house.”
Took Pookey to Walgreens with a fever? Oh . . . right. The drugstore chain had recently opened small walk-in clinics in their stores to treat minor ailments. Michelle heard the chain rattling and realized Candy was unfastening it. The door swung wider. “You wanna come in?”
“No, sweetie, I don’t think so.” No way did Michelle want to be inside the apartment when Mama Bear came home. She crouched down to Candy’s eye level. “How are you? How’s school?”
“It’s okay. Only gots to go one more week. Then I be in second grade.”
“That’s great! And then what are you going to do this summer?”
Candy shrugged. “I dunno. Nothin’. Just help take care of Pookey.”
“Do you play with the kids outside?”
Another shrug. “Sometimes. Mama doesn’t like me playin’ outside too much. Too many crazy gangbangers with guns, she says.”
Michelle shuddered. At least the woman cared about Candy’s safety. Maybe she’d misjudged her. But . . . keeping a kid inside all summer? Surely one of the nearby parks had a summer day camp that would get Candy out of the house in a supervised program. She was going to look into that.
Michelle stood up. “Tell your mama that I came by again, will you?” She dug into her purse. “Here’s another of my cards. Now you have one and your mom can have one. Remember, you can call me if there’s anything you need, okay, sweetheart?”
Candy nodded, her smile fading. The little girl waggled her fingers good-bye as Michelle waved and started back down the stairs. The door clicked shut behind her.
Michelle hustled down the stairs, not wanting to run into Candy’s mother. But she felt torn by ambivalence, hating to leave. Hated to leave Candy alone in the house, though the child was probably safe enough.
Maybe she could bring the child some books and games. Tabby had long outgrown her early readers and pictures books. She’d probably get a kick out of choosing some to give to Candy. Maybe give her the whole lot!
* * *
Trying to give away Tabby’s old toys and books to the Salvation Army or Goodwill had always been like trying to get gum out of her hair—but Tabby seemed really interested when Michelle told her about Candy, a specific little girl who needed some toys and games. “Yeah, sure. I’ve got lots of stuff she might like.” By evening’s end, Tabby had a box of picture books, a couple of stuffed animals, several board games—Candy Land, Sorry, and Mouse Trap—two black Barbie dolls with clothes, and some plastic play dishes.
Michelle pulled out one of the books. Look-Alikes Jr. An adorable large picture book of ordinary scenes—a farm, a house, a kitchen—created out of ordinary objects: paperclips and clothespins, toothpicks and buttons. Memories of looking at it together and identifying all the objects tugged at her. “Are you sure you want to give this one away?”
Tabby gave her The Look. “Mom! You asked me to find some things to give this little girl. She’ll love it, just like I did.
Michelle put the book back in the box. “You’re right. She’ll love it.” But would Candy’s mother look at the book with her and enjoy it together? Michelle doubted it.
She sighed. I’m getting too cynical.
“And here. Put this in too.” Tabby held out a music box with a figure of Jesus holding a lamb on top that went around and around when it was wound up.
“Tabby . . . Grammy Jasper gave this to you! It’s a keepsake.”
Tabby nodded. “I know. But I was remembering how I used to wind it up and play it at night when I was all alone in bed—especially if there was a thunderstorm or I felt scared. Here, listen . . .” Tabby turned the music box upside down and wound the brass key, then turned the box upright again. The tinny notes of “The Lord Is My Shepherd” plinked their way through the tune as the shepherd slowly turned around and around.
The song ended. Tabby shrugged and held the music box out again. “Thought maybe that little girl could use something to comfort her when she gets scared.”
A lump caught in Michelle’s throat as she put the treasure in the box for Candy. Even though the music box had sentimental value, she certainly didn’t want to “quench the Spirit” suddenly evident in her thirteen-year-old.
“Thanks, honey. That’s very thoughtful. Goodnight.” She kissed Tabby and started to leave the room.
“Besides,” Tabby called after her, “the best thing Grammy ever gave me was herself. You know, when she lived with us here in this house. She always had time to talk to me, gave me all those back rubs . . . that’s what I remember best.”
*
* *
“The best thing Grammy ever gave me was herself . . .”
For some reason Tabby’s comment niggled at the back of Michelle’s mind even during Pastor Q’s sermon at church the next morning. She’d been touched by her daughter’s remembrance of the relationship with Jared’s mother. But for some reason Michelle squirmed inside at those words. Would her daughter characterize her that way when she looked back on their relationship? What was she giving her daughter these days?
Mostly an empty house when she got home from school, that’s what.
She shook the accusing thought out of her mind and tried to concentrate on Pastor Q’s sermon. But “bad mother” and “too-busy mother” kept sticking their barbs into her concentration. Her friend Norma would sniff and say, “That’s just the devil trying to bring you down, girl! You know he’s a liar!” But what if it was the Holy Spirit pricking her conscience, whispering in that still, small voice?
And just yesterday she’d led a session on “discerning the voice of God.” Huh. Some leader she was. Had no idea if she was hearing lies from the devil or the voice of God.
For some reason, tears sprang to her eyes and she had to quickly search for a tissue in her purse. O God, I need help sorting out my life! Which, on second thought after blowing her nose and dabbing at her eyes, felt like an odd prayer. Compared to a hard-nosed woman like Candy’s mother, or most of the clients she worked with at Bridges, she had a wonderful life! Good husband, a decent job, three healthy children, a good church, a comfortable home . . .
So why did she feel off balance, like something wasn’t quite right?
Her roaming thoughts hushed themselves after the service as she was giving her usual “church hugs,” especially when several women told her how much they’d liked the women’s ministry event yesterday. “What a great idea to use those DVDs and get such great teaching!” . . . “Almost like going to one of those big women’s conferences, don’t you think?” . . . “Do we really have to wait a whole month to get the next session?” . . . “Good job, Sister Michelle. Pastor knew what he was doin’ puttin’ you in charge.”
