The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Decked Out

by Neta Jackson

  Avis’s husband rose, ever the businessman in gray slacks, navy blue blazer, and red-and-blue-striped tie. But he gave a nervous glance at his wife as he took the microphone. Avis was usually the one with the mic as one of the worship leaders at SouledOut Community Church. But Peter shut his eyes and offered heartfelt thanks to God that Manna House had “risen from the ashes, like the phoenix bird in the old tales, a symbol of renewal, resurrection, and hope to this community and its people!”

  “Thank ya, Jesus!” Florida, who’d taken a seat behind us, leaned forward and hissed, “Now that man is not only good lookin’, but that was some serious prayin’.”

  Avis hid a smile as Peter sat down, and Rev. Handley continued. “Before we give you the grand tour of our new facility, I’d like to introduce you to the folks who have kept the Manna House vision alive.”

  She called up Mabel, the office manager, a middle-aged African-American woman who got an enthusiastic round of applause. Then she introduced the board: two city pastors I didn’t know, one African-American and one Latino; a social worker with reading glasses perched on her nose; and the newest board member, Peter Douglass. “Special thanks to Mr. Douglass,” Rev. Handley said, “who established the Manna House Foundation after last year’s fire to rebuild the shelter and—” The rest of her words were drowned out as people stood to their feet and filled the room with applause and shouts of hallelujah. Even with Chanda’s major contribution, it was God’s miracle that the foundation had raised enough money to rebuild.

  When the noise died down, Rev. Handley read off the names of the newly formed advisory board. “Josh Baxter and Edesa Reyes, two of our volunteers. Edesa, by the way, has also taken up residence as live-in staff—”

  Denny poked me and grinned. Our kids.

  “—Estelle Williams, Precious McGill, and Rochelle Johnson, former shelter residents who have chosen to give back in this way.” The director held up her hand to forestall applause as the five made their way forward. “Because of the input of this advisory board, we have a major announcement. Victims of domestic violence who come to Manna House will now be housed off-site in private homes, a major step to provide more protection and anonymity for abused women.”

  The applause erupted. Beside me, Avis mopped her eyes and blew her nose. Her daughter Rochelle had run away from an abusive husband and ended up at Manna House. After the fire, Chanda had invited Rochelle and her son, Conny, to share the big house on the North Shore she’d bought with her “winnin’s,” and they’d stayed for nearly nine months while getting an order of protection and finalizing a divorce.

  I poked Denny. “Bet that off-site idea was Rochelle’s,” I whispered.

  “Thanks to all of you,” Rev. Handley finished, “for making this day possible. And not a moment too soon. The mayor of this fine city has asked Manna House to take a busload of evacuees from Hurricane Katrina, who will be arriving from Houston tomorrow. Which means we’ll have a full house for Thanksgiving dinner next week. We have a sign-up sheet on the snack table for any volunteers who’d be willing to come and serve dinner next Thursday.”

  The director took a breath. “Speaking of volunteers . . . ”Was she looking right at me? “If you have volunteered before, or know anyone you think might be interested, please speak to me after the dedication today. And now, Pastor Rafael Kingsbury, our board chair, will say a prayer of dedication . . . ”

  After the brief program, I pushed my way over to Precious, who had stayed in our home for a week after the fire. “Did I hear right? Did Rev. Handley say you were a former shelter resident?”

  “She did!” Precious beamed. “Got me a good waitress job and my own address. Sabrina doin’ real well in high school too.”

  I had to grin. Waitressing. Not everybody’s cup of tea. But Precious loved to chat up strangers and dispense her wealth of trivia, whether it was sports, astronomy, or world travel, even though her claim to travel fame had been a straight line from South Carolina to Chicago. She’d probably get big tips just because she made people laugh.

  Precious lowered her voice in a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t say nothin’, but I heard a rumor that Reverend Handley might just be a former shelter director too. She thinkin’ ’bout retirin’ once the shelter up an’ runnin’.”

  Huh. I hoped she’d hang in till the new Manna House got securely on its feet. I gave Precious another quick hug and scurried to join one of the groups getting a tour through the new building. Havah Garfield, riding on her mama’s hip, held out her arms to me, so I took the wavy-haired toddler to give Ruth a rest. “A ton she weighs,” Ruth groaned, fanning herself with a small paper plate. “And now I have hot flashes. There ought to be medals for mothers in their fifties. What’s this I hear about Nony and Mark coming back for Christmas? Has anyone heard from Hoshi? She ought to be here!”

  As usual, it was hard to follow Ruth’s rabbit hops from topic to topic. But the tour group was disappearing, and I wanted to see the rest of Manna House. “Let’s talk about it at Yada Yada tomorrow night—your house, right? Come on, Havah. I see some toys in the next room!”

  Behind the multipurpose room was a playroom, a schoolroom with computers and shelves of books, a TV room, and a small chapel. On the second floor, six medium-sized bedrooms held four bunks in each, plus showers, bathrooms, and a small central lounge. The basement boasted a well-equipped kitchen, dining room, and recreation room with Ping-Pong and foosball tables, TV and DVD player, stacks of board games, and beanbag chairs.

  After the tour, people gathered in the multipurpose room for more coffee and snacks. The Garfield twins, Isaac and Havah, practiced running away from their parents and were gleefully chased by Chanda’s girls and Carla Hickman, now a blossoming eleven-year-old. I lost Denny to a clump of Yada Yada husbands arguing about whether the Chicago Bears had a chance at the Super Bowl after a twenty-year slump.

  “You going to sign up for Thanksgiving dinner?” I asked Florida, holding out my punch cup for a refill.

  “Thanksgiving dinner? Nope.We need the family time. You?”

  I rolled my eyes. “If we want to see Josh and Edesa, we better sign up. I know they’ll be here.” I looked around. “Where are your boys?”

  Florida snorted. “Cedric’s just bein’ fourteen. Wants ta do his own thang on Saturday—mainly playin’ video games.” She shrugged. “At least I know where he is. An’ you know Chris has them art classes on Saturday, down at Gallery 27.” Her tone flipped from annoyed to proud.

  We were all proud of Chris. Two years ago, Florida’s oldest had been “tagging” walls with gang graffiti. Now he was enrolled in one of Chicago’s elite art programs for youth. “Please let me know if he has a recital or show or whatever they call it for young artists—oh. Hi, Denny. You trying to tell me something?”

  My husband stood there holding my coat. Florida laughed. “I wish my husband would come rescue me from this punch bowl. Where he at, Denny?”

  I tried to sneak in a few good-byes to others, but Denny tugged my arm. “You don’t have to talk to everybody, Jodi. You’ll see half your friends at church in the morning and the other half at Yada Yada tomorrow night. Come on.”

  We finally slipped out the front door and started toward our car, parked around the corner by the twenty-four-hour Laundromat. The afternoon sun had dipped behind the city buildings, and the wind ripping off Lake Michigan felt more like thirty-five degrees than the actual midforties. We passed a young woman standing in the alcove of the Laundromat doorway, clutching a squalling infant wrapped in a blanket.

  “Denny, wait.” I turned back. The young woman in the alcove wore a sweater, but no coat. Dark hair fell over her face and down around her shoulders as she jiggled the child, who couldn’t be more than three or four months old. “Um, are you okay?”

  The young woman looked up. Tears streaked her face. I couldn’t guess her age. She seemed maybe eighteen or twenty. On the other hand, her eyes seemed old and haggard.

  The dark eyes darted to Denny
, then back to me. She rattled off a string of Spanish. I didn’t understand any of it, but Denny nodded. “Again. Slower.”

  She tried again. I heard the words casa and mujeres. “Are you looking for the women’s shelter? The house for women?” Denny asked.

  The girl nodded, teeth chattering. We smiled and pointed at the new building. I ran ahead, calling for Edesa as soon as I got in the door of Manna House. By the time I found her, Denny and the young mother were standing in the foyer.

  “Hola. Welcome.” Edesa’s warm smile would put anyone at ease. She asked a few quick questions in Spanish, then held out her hands to the wailing baby. As Edesa cooed and rocked, the infant quieted. A moment later, Edesa ushered the girl into the private office across the hall and closed the door.

  Florida had been watching from the doorway to the multipurpose room. “Huh. Them Katrina evac-u-ees”—she dragged out the word—“better get here fast, or it ain’t gonna take long for word on the street to fill up this place.”

  2

  I was still thinking about the girl with the baby when Denny unlocked the back door and let us into the house. I put the kettle on the stove for some hot tea, I traded my shoes for slippers, and eyed the recliner in the front room.

  Comfort. So easily within my reach. But that young mother . . . why was she standing out on the sidewalk in November with only a sweater? How long had she been homeless? How had she heard about Manna House? The baby was so young. The girl had no diaper bag, no purse, nothing. How could that be?

  The teakettle whistled. Well, she was safe now. Edesa and Liz Handley and Mabel would see that both of them were well fed and tucked in tonight. After all, that’s what Manna House is all about, right, Lord?

  I heard the TV in the living room and decided to forego the recliner. Instead, I parked my mug of tea beside the computer in the dining room and booted up. I needed to e-mail Amanda and ask when she was coming home from college—and also ask if she minded doing Thanksgiving at Manna House. And maybe I’d e-mail Nonyameko and ask for details about the Sisulu-Smiths coming back to Chicago next month.

  That would be so exciting! Yada Yada just hadn’t been the same without our South African sister who “prayed Scripture” as if it were her native tongue. Had her husband, Mark, decided to return to Northwestern University after being a guest professor at the University of KwaZulu-Natal? Their school year went from January to December. Maybe Nony had realized that she could help those suffering from HIV and AIDS right here in Chicago as well as in South Africa. Like Avis’s daughter Rochelle. Nony had been such a help to the Douglass family when they found out Rochelle’s philandering husband had infected her with HIV. Maybe—

  My in-box flooded with the standard clutter. I deleted the usual annoying spam and forwards from well-meaning friends . . . saved e-mails needing Denny’s attention . . . skimmed through the latest epistle from Denny’s parents who were traveling (again) through Italy, wishing my Iowa-bound parents would join the twenty-first century and at least get e-mail . . . when I saw it.

  An e-mail from Hoshi Takahashi.Hoshi! Eagerly I clicked on it.

  To: Yada Yada

  From: HTakahashi@wahoo.net

  Re: Good news

  Dear sisters! Thank you for praying for me these past few months. I do not have regular access to a computer here in Tokyo, but today I am in the Hibiya Library. I am encouraged to find e-mails from so many of you. Even though the visit with my family has been difficult, your prayers have not been in vain. I have only seen my parents twice since I have been home, but my aunt’s heart is soft toward me—also my two younger sisters and some of my cousins.

  Please keep praying for my parents, Takuya and Asuka Takahashi. I want so much for them to know the living God! But even when they allowed me to visit, they would not let me talk about Jesus. So we must pray.

  I have done much thinking and praying while I have been here. For what purpose did God send me to the United States? Besides meeting Jesus and Yada Yada, that is! (VBG) As you know, God used Sara to get me involved in a Christian campus group at Northwestern. But reaching out to international stu-dents on American campuses remains large in my heart. To make short a long story, International Student Outreach has accepted my application for training starting in January. I will fly to Chicago after Christmas—

  I nearly leaped out of my chair. “Hoshi’s coming home!” I screeched. Wait a minute. She said after Christmas . . . did she know Nony and Mark might be coming home too? Sheesh!We had to find out when they were coming! And for how long . . . and why! It would be terrible if they missed each other.

  I hit Forward on Hoshi’s e-mail and typed in Nony’s e-mail address. At the top of Hoshi’s letter I added: “NONY! SEE BELOW. PLEASE LET US KNOW ASAP WHEN YOU’RE COMING TO CHICAGO! DETAILS, DETAILS, DETAILS! WE WANT THEM ALL! JODI.” Yeah, I knew using all caps in an e-mail was like yelling. So be it. I hit Send.

  STU PULLED HER new, candy-apple-red Hyundai Accent to the curb in front of Ruth and Ben Garfield’s home early the next evening. “Nice of you to get a four-door car this time, Stu,” I smirked, sliding out of the backseat as she and Estelle climbed out of the front. “At least now I don’t need to bring a can opener when I ride with you.”

  Ruth had cornered the three of us Sunday morning at SouledOut Community Church—where she and Ben often attended on Sundays, after going to services at their Messianic Jewish congregation on Saturdays—asking if some of us could come early to set out snacks for our Yada Yada prayer meeting while she and Ben gave the twins baths and got them ready for bed. Stu and Estelle, who shared the upstairs apartment of our two-flat on Lunt Street, agreed to accompany me, “ . . . ’long as you two do the food thing and let me get my hands on those babies,” Estelle had stipulated.

  But when Ruth let us in, the twins went streaking by, naked as the day they were born, screeching and giggling, with Ben in hot pursuit yelling, “Come back here!” Sixty-something Ben was no match for the two-year-olds, who scampered through the compact living room, down the hallway, and disappeared into the kitchen at the back of the house, only to reappear a moment later from the dining room into the front hall.

  Estelle and Stu pounced. “Gotcha!” Stu crowed, grabbing Isaac.

  “Eek!” screeched Havah, wiggling in Estelle’s firm armhold, which probably came from much practice with her own nieces and nephews back in Mississippi.

  “Give Auntie Estelle some sugar,” Estelle wheedled, getting a wet kiss on the nose from the giggling little girl. Then Estelle and Stu handed over the captives to their aggravated parents, who marched off toward the tub with tiny arms and legs flailing on all sides.

  “Hm.” Estelle headed toward the kitchen through the dining room. “Think I’ll help with the food after all.”

  By the time the other Yada Yadas arrived, the three of us had set out teacups and a teapot wrapped in a knitted tea cozy on the dining room table, and a carafe of decaf coffee and coffee mugs, along with napkins and a plate of cinnamon star cookies from the Bagel Bakery. As the doorbell rang, Estelle disappeared to help read bed-time stories so Ruth could greet her guests and play hostess.

  We had a good turnout, in spite of falling temperatures and the Thanksgiving holiday coming up. Even with Nony and Hoshi out of the country, we still had twelve sisters in our prayer group, with the addition of Becky Wallace—late twenties, white, ex-addict, ex-con—after her early parole from prison, and Estelle Williams—a fifty-something, grandmotherly African-American whom Stu took in after the Manna House fire and then invited to stay. As different as they were from each other, Becky and Estelle fit right in with the “drawer full of crazy-colored, mismatched socks” that described the Yada Yada Prayer Group.

  It also helped attendance that both Delores Enriquez and Florida Hickman now had wheels, thanks to the good Lord’s pro-vision of jobs for their husbands.

  “Did you look at your e-mail? Nony and Mark are coming home!”

  “What? I haven’t been online for a week. When?
How long?”

  “They didn’t say. There’s one from Hoshi too. Sounds like they both might be coming back to Chicago around Christmas!”

  “Awriiight! We gotta have a big party.”

  Questions flew around Ruth’s dining room table. Are they com-ing back for good or just a visit? When should we have the party? Where are they going to stay? None of us, of course, had any answers.

  Avis waited until the fuss spun itself out and then simply opened with a prayer. “Lord God, we thank You that we can gather once more in Your name, to praise You for all Your mercies to us from day to day, week to week—”

  “Yes, Jesus!” “Mm-mm.” “Oh, thank You, Father . . . ”

  Avis left her prayer open ended, and others added their praise. “Oh, Señor, thank You for Manna House and that we had beds for the busload of Hurricane Katrina survivors who arrived today” . . . “Yes, yes! You’re an on-time God!” . . . “Thank You for protecting our children, Lord, as they go to and from school each day” . . . “Yes, Jesus!” . . . “An’ I wanna thank You, God, for giving Little Andy back to me an’ lettin’ me be his mama again. Help me to stay clean, an’ help me find a bigger apartment close to my friends here—”

  I opened my eyes a slit and peeked at Florida. Did she know about that? For the past two years, Becky Wallace had been sub-letting the two-room “apartment” on the second floor of the Hickmans’ rented house. Now that Becky had regained custody of Little Andy, I could imagine the tiny space had gotten even smaller. Couldn’t read Florida’s face, though. Her eyes were screwed tight and she just kept nodding and murmuring, “Mm-hm.”

  Yo-Yo’s voice broke in. “ ’Long as we’re prayin’ for the kids, God, I’m really scared they’re gonna send Pete to Iraq, an’ . . . an’ I really don’t want him to go, even though I’m glad the army’s straightened him up an’ he looks cool in that uniform an’ every-thing . . . but he and Jerry are all the family I got . . .” Yo-Yo, who wasn’t a crier, seemed to choke on the last word.