The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Decked Out

by Neta Jackson

  Just as quickly, I nixed that idea. Amanda would be living in a dorm for the next four years, except for summers. Hardly the time to get her a pet.

  Neil wandered into the kitchen. “Whatcha making? Home-made pies? Cool.” He parked himself on the kitchen stool. He weighed at least two hundred pounds, all of it muscle. I wasn’t sure our wimpy stool was going to survive. Might as well make the best of it. I handed him a bowl of apples and a peeler. “Mind helping? Just peel the skin off those apples.”

  “Oh. Uh, sure.” He applied himself to the task, frowning in concentration, tip of his tongue sticking out the side of his mouth. “So what else is on the menu for Thanksgiving dinner? Will Josh and his fiancée be here too? Broncos are playing the Cowboys in Dallas. Oughta be a tight game. Hoo! Hoo!” He waved the peeler and grinned.

  I stopped rolling out piecrusts and stared at our guest. Hadn’t anyone told him? “Um, Neil, we’re not having Thanksgiving dinner here. We’re taking these pies to the Manna House women’s shelter—Josh and Edesa are volunteers there. So our family signed up to help serve Thanksgiving dinner. But don’t worry,” I hastened to add, “it ought to be a big spread, lots of good food.”

  He gaped at me as my words slowly registered. “A women’s shelter? Like, you mean, bums off the street, except broads?”

  Count to ten, Jodi. Slowly . . . one . . . two . . . three . . .

  “Actually, right now most of the Manna House residents are evacuees from New Orleans, after Hurricane Katrina. They’re def-initely homeless.” I felt heat rising in my face. “Could be you, or me, you know, if we lived in New Orleans.”

  “Huh! Not me.”Neil tackled another apple. “I would’ve got out of there before that storm hit. All the smart people did.” Then he frowned and looked up. “Hey. We gonna be back here by three? The game starts at three-fifteen!”

  AS FAR AS I was concerned, Neil-from-Tallahassee could just stay home and watch his stupid football game. Denny said he was sure Manna House would have the game on in the TV room. But God and I had a silent scuffle all the way down to the Wrigleyville neighborhood the next day in the minivan.

  Jesus, I know You told us to love our enemies, but does that include extremely annoying people?

  Never said it would be easy, Jodi.

  Yeah, but we’ve got four days to go! I’m afraid I’m gonna say some-thing I regret—or pop him one.

  Have you asked Me for My grace, Jodi? And by the way, Denny was right. I brought Neil to your home for a purpose. Sow the seeds, Jodi. Sow the seeds.

  I let out a long sigh.

  Dinner was scheduled for one o’clock, but we pulled into a parking space around the corner from Manna House about noon. With each of us carrying a pie—two apple and two pumpkin—we trundled down the stairwell to the side door on the lower level. The outside door was locked, but after a few moments, Precious answered the shrill doorbell.

  “Baxters! Whatchu comin’ in the basement door for—oh! Pies. Just take ’em on over there to the dessert table . . . Amanda!” A squeal and a hug. “Girl, when did you get home from school? Here—let me take that pie . . . Sabrina! Look who’s here!” Precious lowered her voice but not her grin. “She been hopin’ you’d come.”

  Sabrina, looking smart and skinny in layered clingy tops with her midriff showing, waved shyly from the door of the rec room. Amanda scooted in that direction, where a handful of noisy kids were playing Ping-Pong and foosball, leaving Neil with us. But after depositing his pie, he followed. A quick peek into the rec room a few minutes later assured me all was well: Neil was parked in front of the TV in the corner.

  “What can we do to help?” I asked Precious. A bevy of assorted women were already in the kitchen, chattering, banging pots and pans, loading up baskets of rolls, and setting out aluminum pans over hot-water warmers on the serving table. “Some of the new residents?”

  Precious rolled her eyes. “Yes, ma’am. An’ the stories they got to tell! Lord Jesus, have mercy! Picked off rooftops, left in a stadium without enough food an’ water, bused here an’ there, never knowing where they gonna sleep next, with just the clothes on they backs. Bad as it can be here in Chicago, I ain’t never goin’ back to live in no hurricane alley . . . Denny! Find Peter Douglass—he’s around here somewhere. We gonna need some more tables. Jodi, take these tablecloths and cover what we already got. We got some candle centerpieces to make ’em pretty-like. But don’t light them candles! Uh-uh. No way.”

  The “tablecloths” were white plastic, but the tables looked festive with the pillar candles sitting in a wreath of fake fall leaves. Food kept arriving, along with familiar faces. By the time one o’clock rolled around, the serving tables were crowded with platters of sliced turkey, bowls of mashed potatoes, gravy, corn bread dressing, sliced ham, Avis’s macaroni and cheese, Chanda’s big pot of Jamaican rice and peas, and another of sautéed cabbage and car-rots. Stu and Estelle had brought more desserts—cranberry nut bread and apple crisp—and Florida had sent along a couple of sweet potato pies.

  The dining room filled up as the tempting aromas drew people downstairs from the main level, both residents and guests. The Katrina evacuees were an assorted bunch, mostly black, a few white, a few Cajun, all women, most with young children. Families with husbands or male teenagers, I’d been told, were being sheltered in other facilities.

  But I hadn’t yet seen either Josh or Edesa, even though Precious told me they were around . . . strange. I hustled up the stairs to the all-purpose room as the last stragglers were coming down. Edesa was standing near the double doors leading into the foyer talking to Liz Handley, jiggling a baby on her shoulder.

  “ . . . go on downstairs, Edesa,” Rev. Handley was saying as I came up. “I’ll wait here for Josh and keep an eye out for any late guests. I’m sure he’ll find her.”

  “No, no, Reverend Liz. You are the hostess for this Thanks-giving Day. Gracie and I can wait—oh. Hola, Jodi.”

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  Edesa shrugged. “Carmelita went out a few hours ago to buy some diapers for the baby, asked if I would take care of her till she got back.” She nuzzled the baby and smiled. “Who could say no? La bebé es tan preciosa.” The dark-eyed baby waved a fist and grabbed a lock of Edesa’s hair, cooing happily. But Edesa’s frown returned. “But it’s been three hours, and she is still not back. Josh went out to look for her—oh!”

  The front door opened, and Josh came in . . . alone.

  THANKSGIVING DINNER AT Manna House was a merry affair, in spite of the dire circumstances that had brought most of the cur-rent residents. Neil seemed reluctant to leave the TV—another Thanksgiving Day game was already in play—but he dutifully trailed Amanda to the table, with several adoring little boys hang-ing on his arms who had discovered he played college football. Laughter, tales of Thanksgiving dinners past, and hauling little ones out from under the tables were punctuated by second and third trips to the food tables.

  We did more than eat. As paper plates were cleared and coffee was perking to go with the desserts—I noticed a run on Florida’s sweet potato pies—Rev. Handley encouraged people to share their thanksgivings on this day. I watched Neil as women whose lives had been totally disrupted by the recent hurricane gave thanks to God.

  “ . . . that all my children are with me today, alive and safe.” “I’m thankful to be at Manna House. It’s the nicest place we’ve stayed yet.”

  “I’m just thankful to be alive. Some of my neighbors didn’t make it.”

  Even little voices piped up. “I got to ride in a helicopter!” . . . “I’m thankful for my mommy. She held onta me when the big wind came.” . . . “A nice lady in Houston gave me this teddy bear.”

  Three o’clock came and went and Neil was still at the table.

  But by the time the tables had been cleared, trash bags taken out to the alley bins, leftovers bagged, and good-byes said, Carmelita had still not returned.

  5

  I worried all the way home. “Should
n’t they call the police? I mean, a missing mother . . . ”

  “Edesa said they don’t want to do that yet,” Amanda Ipiped up from the second seat. “The police would take the baby to DCFS, and she’ll end up who-knows-where in a foster home.”

  “But isn’t that what foster homes are for? Maybe it would be a good thing. More stability than little Gracie has now.”

  “I think they’re trying to buy a little time,” Denny said. “Josh said Edesa would really like to help Carmelita and doesn’t want to give up yet.”

  But if Carmelita has abandoned her baby . . .

  I stared out the passenger-side window at the last vestiges of yesterday’s snow melting off store awnings and gathering into puddles on the sidewalks and in the street. Okay, Lord, I realize I’m stewing instead of praying. Please bring Carmelita back to Manna House. That baby needs her mother. Wherever she is, Lord, keep her safe. Give Manna House wisdom about what to do . . .

  We pulled into our garage about four-thirty. Neil had been quiet on the way home. “Sorry you missed your game,” I said, feeling a twinge of compassion for the oversize freshman, still just a kid, miles from home, who was at the mercy of our family schedule.

  “It’s okay. Mind if I catch the second half?”

  Denny grinned as he unlocked the back door. “My plan exactly.”

  THE PHONE RANG later that evening just as we settled down to a big bowl of popcorn, soft drinks, and the latest card game making the rounds of the dorms at U of I. I was tickled when Amanda said she’d teach us how to play Phase 10. It’d been a long time since we’d played games as a family—though it wasn’t exactly “family” with Neil shuffling cards and making up the fourth player.

  Huh, I thought, jumping up for the phone.Would Josh have come home to spend the holidays if we hadn’t given away his bedroom all week?

  “Mom?” Josh’s voice sang in my ear, as if he knew I’d been thinking about him. “Just wanted to let you guys know that Carmelita showed up about an hour ago.”

  “Josh! That’s wonderful.” I turned and gave a thumbs-up to the others at the dining room table. “Is she okay?”

  “Mm. Not really. She’s high on something. But at least she came back. Edesa’s going to take care of the baby until she sobers up.”

  “I thought Manna House kicked people out if they used drugs.” For two seconds, all I heard was silence on the other end. Then, “Yeah. That’s the rule. But there’s Gracie to think of. Reverend Handley is going to help Carmelita enroll in a detox program tomorrow. Maybe they’ll find one that’ll take both Carmelita and the baby.”

  “Okay, hon. Thanks for letting us know. We’ll keep praying for her and the baby.” I hung up the phone and went back to the table. “Guess you all heard that Carmelita came back. High on something.” I picked up my hand of cards—then laid them down again. “I said we’d pray for her and the baby. Let’s do it now, okay?”

  I hesitated a nanosecond, and then held out my hands to Amanda and Neil on either side of me. Neil looked bewildered but saw that the rest of us were joining hands and did likewise. I closed my eyes to help me focus on our prayers, not on what our guest might be thinking.

  IT SNOWED AGAIN the next day—mere flurries—but Amanda begged her dad to take us all to the Walker Bros. Pancake House in Wilmette. “And we gotta do Gulliver’s tomorrow night. I told Neil about Chicago’s great pizza.” Both restaurants were family favorites—not just for the great food, but for the museum quality and quantity of the stained glass at Walker Bros., and the statuary and old-fashioned “gas” lamps at Gulliver’s.

  “Hey. How deep do you think my pockets are?” Denny protested. “Tell you what. I’ll treat for Walker Bros.; you and Neil can go out to Gulliver’s on your own dime.”

  I winced. He was practically sending them on a date. But I had to laugh when I later discovered that Amanda invited the teen girls she was working with on the Advent candle dance to go with them to Gulliver’s after their practice Saturday afternoon.

  Poor Neil.

  Of course, that meant Denny and I were without a car on a Saturday night. We’d both put in several hours the past two days grading papers or, in Denny’s case, ironing out glitches in West Rogers High’s soccer and baseball schedules for spring. But I used the time to get out our box of Christmas decorations and set up the Advent candle wreath we used during the four weeks leading up to Christmas Day.

  Denny came back from a sunset run along the lake and grinned when he saw the box of Christmas decorations on the dining room table. He pulled out a DVD from his sweatshirt pocket. “Then I guess you won’t mind me getting a jump-start on the holidays with this.” He waggled the DVD in my face—the 1951 version of A Christmas Carol with Alastair Sim as Scrooge. “My favorite. I waited too long last year, and it was never in stock.”

  NEIL SEEMED TONGUE-TIED when we arrived at SouledOut Community Church the next morning. Whether it was the fact that the church was just a large storefront in the new Howard Street Mall—though roomy and bright, with a bank of windows facing the mall and colorful walls—or whether it was our multi-hued congregation, I couldn’t tell. Josh and Edesa came in soon after us, walking from the Howard Street el station. Since they had gotten engaged, they often alternated Sundays between SouledOut and Edesa’s congregation, Iglesia del Espirito Santo, on the west side. Sometimes they each attended their own churches, especially since Josh often helped with SouledOut’s youth outreach.

  “Good to see you both,” I murmured, giving them each a hug. “I enjoyed Thanksgiving at Manna House, but I kind of missed just having some family time with the two of you—not to mention that we had no turkey leftovers this year.” I rolled my eyes to keep it light.

  “Anytime you want turkey leftovers, Mom, just stick a bird in the oven and I’ll—oh. Hey there, Neil.” Josh shook Neil’s hand, then swiveled his head. “Is Amanda dancing this morning? Edesa wouldn’t let us miss it.”

  “Not sure. She’s been teaching a group of young teen girls to do the dance . . . guess we’ll see. Want to sit with us?”

  “Si.” Edesa beamed. “I want to see mi hermana dance.”

  Mi hermana. “My sister.” Amanda had always been crazy about Edesa, ever since Edesa had tutored her in freshman Spanish. She was going to love having Edesa as a “big sister.” Huh. Sister. That’s what we called each other in Yada Yada. As much as I loved Edesa, I wasn’t sure I wanted to exchange the relationship of being “sister” for mother-in-law.

  Instead of the usual call to worship by the worship leader, someone flicked the lights and then turned them off to quiet the congregation, and the last ones standing found seats. And instead of the band launching into the usual rousing praise song, Oscar Frost picked up his saxophone and began a slow rendition of the Advent hymn “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel.”

  A small table at the front held a large evergreen wreath lying flat. Embedded in the greenery were three purple pillar candles and one pink one. In the middle stood a white pillar candle. One of the African-American teenagers—she looked about fourteen, but the praise team had already used her for some get-down gospel solos—stood off to the side and sang majestically:

  O come, O come, Emmanuel,

  And ransom captive Israel . . .

  At the same time, eight teenage girls stepped in time to the music down the two aisles that divided the congregation—four down each aisle—a mix of skin colors and body types, from slender to chunky, tall and short. Each one carried a lit taper candle. They were dressed alike, in black silky skirts that hung to midcalf, matching silky white blouses, black tights, and black ballet slippers. Disappointed, I realized Amanda was not one of the eight girls. But of course it had to be that way; she was going back to school this afternoon. Bless her, Father, for being willing to pass the torch.

  . . . That mourns in lonely exile here . . .

  The eight girls fanned out as they reached the front, hiding their bowed faces in the crook of one arm.

  . . . Until the Son
of God appears . . .

  The girls now held their candles out in front of them, faces lift-ing up with expectant joy.

  Rejoice! Rejoice!—

  Many in the congregation, as if on cue, joined in on the refrain, helping to swell the music. The dancers reached upward with their lighted candles and moved in a lovely circle around the table with the Advent wreath.

  —Emmanuel

  Shall come to thee, O Israel!

  Two of the dancers moved to the table and tipped their candles toward one of the purple pillars, lighting the first candle. And as the last notes of the saxophone drifted away, all the girls blew out their tapers.

  Someone down the row was blowing his nose. I peeked around Denny.

  It was Neil.

  THE VANLOAD OF college students picked up Amanda and Neil from SouledOut even before the worship service was over. Denny and I slipped out of the service with them and got their duffel bags from the back of our minivan, transferred them to the other car, and said our good-byes. Josh and Edesa slipped out too.

  “Bye, big brother.” Amanda gave Josh a hug. “Don’t do any-thing I wouldn’t do.”

  “Ha. That gives me a lot of leeway, squirt.” He turned to Neil and shook hands. “Good luck on the gridiron.”

  Neil nodded. He shook our hands. “Thanks, Mr. and Mrs. Baxter. Really appreciate you putting me up for Thanksgiving.” He waved and climbed into the van.

  “Call when you get there,” I told Amanda as I hugged her. “Just want to know you got back safely.”

  “Don’t worry, Mom. See you in a few weeks!” Amanda finished her round of hugs and popped into the car. The side door slid closed and the van drove out of the shopping center and turned down Howard Street toward Sheridan Road.

  The four of us went back inside SouledOut. Worship was still going on. But I dreaded going back to our empty house. Maybe Josh and Edesa could come by for lunch . . . but eventually I knew they’d leave too. I felt my throat tighten and tears threatened to muddy my makeup.

  Did my parents blubber like this when I went back to school after holidays? My two brothers had already left home; I was the baby of the family and tired of having strict parents looking over my shoulder. I couldn’t wait to fly out of the nest. I knew my par-ents missed me; they always said so. But I’d never really thought of how “missing” actually felt—like one’s own soul had flown away.