The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Decked Out

by Neta Jackson

  The phone rang, interrupting my extended prayer. “Thank good-ness,” Denny muttered, jumping up to get the phone. “I thought you were hungry . . . Hello? Baxters . . . Oh, hi, Josh. What’s up?” Denny listened a long time. I saw his features sag and he glanced at me. “I’m so sorry, Josh . . . Yeah, sure, sure. It’s fine. See you tomorrow night.” He slowly put the phone back in its cradle.

  “Denny? What? Is it—?”

  Denny nodded, sat back down in his chair, and pushed his plate away. “It’s Carmelita. They found her . . . dead. Drug overdose. Found her in a drug house about two blocks away from the shelter.”

  I just stared at my husband. Carmelita . . . dead? Oh God! How could this happen! Didn’t we pray for her safety? I felt angry . . . and confused. God had answered so many of our prayers! Why not this one? All the people praying for Carmelita certainly satisfied the promise Jesus had made: “If two of you agree on anything . . . my Father in heaven will do it”—several times over!

  I put my head in my hands. Oh God, I don’t understand . . .

  A few moments later, I looked up at Denny. “What did you mean when you told Josh, ‘See you tomorrow night’?”

  “He asked if he could come by tomorrow night for supper. Said he needed to talk.”

  “Just Josh?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  I DID GO to school the next day and managed a little better physically. Still couldn’t put any weight on my left foot, but I moved around on my crutches more freely and didn’t get as tired. But emotionally . . . I had a hard time focusing on division problems and arid regions of the earth. My mouth said the right things to the students (“Hand in your geography worksheets” . . . “Who wants to work the problem on the board?”), but my mind and heart kept up a running prayer with God.

  Lord Jesus, please don’t let Josh hit another skid over Carmelita’s death . . . He takes things so personally . . . And what’s going to happen to Carmelita’s baby? . . . Jesus, have mercy on little Gracie. She’s so innocent, but she’s had such a hard life already . . . Maybe they can find the father . . . but he’s probably some no-good jerk who abandoned Carmelita when he found out she was pregnant . . . Oh God, in Your great love and mercy, Gracie needs You now . . .

  Avis took me home again.We sat in front of my house in her car as the streetlights came on, holding hands with the heater running, and prayed for Manna House, its staff and volunteers and residents, facing yet another trauma. “ . . . And Father, we thank You for what You are going to do in baby Gracie’s life,” Avis prayed. “Thank You for bringing her to a safe place before her mother died. Help those who care for her to bear fruit in every good work. And help Gracie to grow up in the knowledge of You and to be strengthened with Your power. Rescue her, Lord, from the kingdom of darkness that took her mother, and bring her into the kingdom of light . . . ”

  After an amen,Avis glanced at me and grinned. “I’ve been reading the first chapter of Colossians.”

  O-kay. I was going to have to reread Colossians, find all that good stuff.

  Denny brought home takeout from Eng’s Asian Cuisine on Western Avenue, a large order of General Tso’s chicken with rice and one order of Thai spicy chicken wings, which was more than enough for the three of us and cost ten bucks. Josh arrived shortly, his nose and ears red from his walk from the Morse Avenue el station. He looked around as he shed his knit hat and jacket. “Seems kind of lonesome around here without Willie Wonka. You guys thought of getting another dog?”

  Every day. “Sometimes. But we’re at work all day and you kids are both at school . . . Come on, sit down. Food’s hot.”

  We made small talk while Denny served up the chicken and spicy wings—how long I’d have to be on crutches, how Josh’s classes were going, how the West Rogers High Panthers were doing this year without their basketball stars from last year’s senior class. But Josh didn’t seem to be eating much, just pushing his food around on his plate.

  “What’s up, Josh?” Denny finally cut through the small talk. “You said you wanted to talk.”

  Josh sighed and pushed his plate away. “Yeah.” He blew out a long breath, as if letting out something bottled up inside. “Edesa wants to adopt Gracie.”

  His announcement hung suspended in the air for a long, startled moment . . . then words tumbled from my mouth before they were even complete thoughts. “Adopt? But, but . . . that’s a huge decision! She shouldn’t feel obligated just because of Carmelita’s note. Carmelita didn’t even ask her! Oh, Josh. Manna House needs to call DCFS, if they haven’t already. I’m sure Illinois has all sorts of laws and regulations in a case like this. Indigent mother; abandoned baby. Maybe there are other relatives—”

  “I know, Mom. I feel so confused. Edesa cried and cried when they found Carmelita. But now . . . it’s like she’s got her mind made up. She feels responsible for Gracie. More than that. A commit-ment. She’s really bonded to the kid, feels that God brought Carmelita and Gracie into her life for a reason. But . . . ” The pain on Josh’s face was palpable. “Where do I fit into this?”

  9

  My heart ached. “Oh, Josh.” Leave it to my big mouth to blab away before I even listened to what he was feeling. Oh God, please help me curbmy knee-jerk tendency.

  Denny’s brows knit together. “Go ahead, son.”

  Josh talked and we listened for the next half hour. “I still have a couple of years before I get my BA, and Edesa’s got another year of school at least . . .We haven’t even set a wedding date, much less talked about starting a family! . . . But she’s my fiancée; doesn’t this affect me too? . . . What if she adopts the baby now, or even becomes the foster mom? Doesn’t that leave me out? . . . But if I say it’s a bad idea, and she’s determined . . .” Josh’s head sank into his hands. “Oh God! I don’t want to lose her.”

  It was several minutes before I trusted myself to speak. Denny’s face was furrowed with concern. I realized now that Josh didn’t need our opinions. He needed us to care. And to pray with him for wisdom. He needed us to pray for Edesa and for Carmelita’s baby girl and this whole, sad, complicated situation. To help carry the burden he was carrying right now.

  The three of us held hands—Josh gripped ours as if holding on for dear life—and we prayed and cried together. When he finally pushed his chair back and reached for his jacket, Denny said he’d drive him to the el station.

  “Just a word of advice, son. Encourage Edesa to talk with others she considers her spiritual mentors.”

  “Delores,” I blurted. “She should talk with Delores Enriquez.”

  Denny nodded. “Delores would be good. But the most important thing is, whatever the decision, the two of you should make it together.”

  FOR ONCE, I didn’t get on the computer and send an e-mail to the whole Yada Yada list asking for prayer—though it was tempting to unleash the prayer warriors. But I felt God’s Spirit holding me in check. Just pray, Jodi. That’s your job right now.

  But what am I supposed to pray? I’m not exactly unbiased. Josh is my son, after all. I have his well-being at heart.

  What about Edesa, Jodi? She’s part of his heart now. Can you trust Me with your son and your future daughter-in-law?

  Could I? I wanted to. But I knew I could use some help. Avis. She already knew about Carmelita’s death. Swinging into her office on my crutches the next morning before school started, I shut the door and blurted, “Edesa wants to adopt Gracie.”

  To her credit, Avis’s mouth made an O. Then she said, “Oh my.”

  Well, at least I didn’t have to explain it to her. “Please, just pray for Josh and Edesa right now. Josh is upset and confused. They need a lot of wisdom, and I need to trust God and keep my big nose out of it.”

  Avis smiled. “At least you’re honest.”

  “Huh! You didn’t have to agree with me—about the big nose, anyway.” I wiggled my nose between thumb and forefinger. “Is it really . . .?”

  “Jodi! That’s not what I meant. Co
me on, let’s pray. The bell’s about to ring.”

  I FELT ENCOURAGED after praying with Avis. Funny how God had used Yada Yada—this curious prayer group of multiflavored sisters—to teach me so much about the importance of the body of Christ and how much the different parts need each other. Avis even agreed that the rest of Yada Yada should at least be told about Carmelita’s death—and she offered to make the calls herself, to let me off the hook.

  But even I was distracted from the drama going on at Manna House by the snowstorm that blew in while I was still at school that day. A heavy fog blanketed the entire metro area, as if the snow clouds were so loaded, they just sank down on the city.When the fog finally lifted the next day, we had eleven inches of new snow.

  But did they cancel the public schools? Ha! This was Chicago. I would have loved to walk to school on Friday and savor the quiet beauty of new snow weighing down the broad arms of the occasional fir tree, like a picturesque Christmas card. But Denny had to drive me; I still couldn’t put much weight on my sprained ankle. At least the city snowplows had arrived during the night and plowed out the municipal parking lots, including the schools, leaving six-foot snow mountains in various spots, much to the delight of the kids playing King of the Mountain.

  Avis drove me home again. Denny didn’t get home until late, saying he’d shovel our walks in the morning. I was looking forward to a day at home, back in the recliner with my foot up. But Josh called that night, saying they were having a funeral for Carmelita at Manna House on Saturday morning and could his dad be one of the pallbearers?

  I knew it was a sacrifice for Denny to have to put on a suit and tie on a Saturday morning. But he agreed I could stay home. “Right. You shouldn’t push it, Jodi. Josh and Edesa will under-stand. You put in a four-day workweek on crutches. Give yourself a break.” He shrugged into his overcoat and pecked me on the cheek. “Sorry about the sidewalks . . . but at least you’re not going anywhere.”

  Stu called, asking if she and Estelle could ride with us. Denny hustled out to the garage, collar up, wading through the drifts, with Stu and Estelle stepping right behind him in his man-size footprints. I sank into the recliner a few minutes later, grateful that Denny understood without me having to convince him. Yes, I needed a day to rest as my ankle was healing . . . but he knew it would be difficult for me to be there, seeing Edesa with the baby, knowing the inner turmoil Josh was going through, having to make nice, pretending this huge decision wasn’t hanging over their heads. Even if there was more to talk about, Carmelita’s funeral wasn’t the place to do it.

  Was I being a wimp? Probably. At least I had a quiet morning for some much-needed prayer and Bible reading. That part of my day had been buried all week by the weather, early schedules, and the sheer annoyance that everything I did took longer on crutches.

  For a while I just sat, soaking up the quiet. Praying for those at the funeral, and yes, praying for Carmelita’s baby, that a good home could be found for her. Praying for Josh and Edesa and their future, praying for Amanda, who would be home in another week for her monthlong winter break . . .

  Whoa. It was December tenth already. Only two weeks until Christmas! We didn’t have our tree. I hadn’t done any shopping—couldn’t do any shopping until I was more mobile. We hadn’t done any decorating except for getting out our Advent wreath table centerpiece. When was I going to—

  Jodi, Jodi, Jodi. The Voice in my spirit cut into my rising tide of anxiety. Is that what Christmas is all about?

  Well, no, but—

  It’s My birthday! You love to celebrate birthdays. How are you going to celebrate My birthday this year? I don’t need much. I had a pretty simple birth, you know—stable, feed trough, common folks. Of course, there were those magi who showed up with some awesome gifts . . .

  I smiled, my muscles relaxing. Okay, good reminder. Christmas is Jesus’ birthday. And yes, I loved to celebrate birthdays for my family and Yada Yada sisters. I’d been having fun the last few years digging up the meaning of everyone’s names and creating a card or gift to go with the names . . .

  My smile grew bigger. God had many names, didn’t He? I’d never really explored the names of God and what they meant. As long as I was anchored to this chair, why not look up some of the meanings of His names, for His birthday?

  The front doorbell derailed my thoughts. Huh. I wasn’t expecting anyone. Probably the Jehovah’s Witnesses or some political petition. I returned to jotting my notes. If I ignored it, they’d go away.

  Excited, I found my fat study Bible and started to dig. Elohim, “God the Creator” . . . El Roi, “The God Who Sees Me” (Whoa. I’d never heard that one before) . . . Jehovah Jireh, “The Lord Will Provide” . . .Immanuel, “God with Us” . . . Abba, “Father. Daddy. Papa”—

  The doorbell rang again. I sighed. Maybe it was the mail carrier needing a signature or something. I dumped my Bible and notebook on the small table beside the recliner, grabbed my crutches, and made for the door. I peeked through the peephole. Oh. Just a kid with a shovel, probably trying to earn some money. I snickered. Good thing Denny wasn’t here; he always said no, as if it was an affront to his manhood. Me? I was a sucker for kids trying to earn money.

  I opened the door. “Yes?”

  “Morning. Would you like your walk—” The kid suddenly grinned big. “Miz B? You live here?”

  Did I know this kid? I opened the frosty storm door so I could get a better look at him. He was wearing the typical winter gear of urban boys: knit hat, hooded sweatshirt under a padded team jacket. The boy pushed the hood of his sweatshirt back, still grinning. “Don’t you recognize me, Miz B?” And there he stood, big as life. A couple of years older, but—

  “Hakim Porter!” I threw the storm door open wide. “I can’t believe it! Come in! Come in! I was just thinking about you a couple of days ago, wondering what you were up to. And here you are!”

  “Oh, uh, don’t know if I should come in. I was just lookin’ for some shoveling jobs in this neighborhood, and saw your walk needed . . . ” His eyes traveled to my crutches, and he suddenly seemed flustered. “What happened, Miz B? You okay?”

  “Hakim Porter. Get yourself in here! I’m freezing. Then we’ll talk.”

  Reluctantly, he rested his shovel against the porch railing and stepped into the foyer. I shut the door. “Yes, yes, I’m okay. Just fell on the ice, you know. Sprained my ankle.” I started into the living room, but realized he wasn’t following me. I turned back, leaning on the crutches. “How’d you happen to come to this neighbor-hood? Do you and your mom live around here?”

  Not once since the day I’d said a tearful good-bye to Hakim, when his mother pulled him out of my third-grade classroom to get special tutoring for the learning difficulties he’d been experiencing, had I seen Hakim or his mother around this neighborhood or in the stores. I thought they’d moved.

  Couldn’t blame them. After the accident at the intersection of Howard and Clark Streets, it would be tough to go through that intersection again and again without remembering the tragedy that had taken the life of Hakim’s older brother, Jamal.

  It was tough for me.

  “Uh, not really,” Hakim was saying. “Sometimes I stay with my cousins. But after the snow, I was just walking around, looking for people who needed their walks shoveled.” He grinned again. “Like you.”

  I laughed. “Well, that’s the truth. My husband was going to do it, but—hey. Let’s surprise him. He’ll think I did it.” I patted the crutches and laughed again. “How much do you charge? Front and back.”

  He shrugged. “Uh, whatever you want to pay me.” He opened the front door. “I’ll get started.”

  MY HUSBAND WAS not fooled. “Okay, how much are we out for that?” Denny jerked a gloved thumb toward the backyard and its shoveled sidewalks when he came in several hours later. “I said I’d get it done, Jodi. You didn’t have to call someone—”

  “Denny!” I held up my hand to silence him. “I didn’t call any-one. Hakim Port
er showed up on our doorstep, wanting to make some money. I hired him. So shoot me.” I gave him a playful shove. “And you can’t tell me you’d rather be out there shoveling snow, than putting on your slippers, kicking back with a cup of coffee, and watching some basketball on TV.”

  The dimples appeared on Denny’s face. “Sold to the highest bidder.” He shed his coat, gloves, and boots while I followed him around on my crutches. “Hakim Porter, eh? How did he know where we lived? What’s it been, now, since he was in your class—three, four years? How much did you pay him?” He glanced at me as he substituted his slippers for the boots. “He did a good job.”

  “Whoa. One question at a time. I don’t think he knew where we lived—he seemed surprised when I came to the door. And I didn’t ask, but I assume he’s about eleven years old, probably sixth grade. I gave him twenty dollars.”

  “Twenty dollars!” He sighed. “Never mind. It was a big job.”

  I followed Denny back into the kitchen, where he popped a bagel into the toaster oven and poured himself a cup of coffee.

  “So . . . tell me about the funeral.”

  Denny pursed his lips for a few moments. “Simple. Sad. I think the Manna House Foundation kicked in for the casket and funeral expenses. The police are holding Carmelita’s body at the morgue for a few weeks to see if any relatives can be located. If not, she’ll probably be cremated.”

  He read the questions in my mind. “Yeah, I saw Josh. Didn’t get to talk to him much, though. He was one of the pallbearers, also Peter Douglass and a couple of guys I didn’t know. Edesa was there with Gracie, of course. To tell you the truth, Jodi, I’m surprised DCFS hasn’t stepped in and just taken the baby. They have to know about her, since it was the police who found Carmelita . . . say, mail come yet? Haven’t seen my paycheck and it should have been here by now. Probably a slowdown because of the weather.”