The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Real (21 page)

Nony smiled, her lovely face framed by a cascade of long, beaded braids. “Of course! Well, I'll have to check Mark's calendar, but we will make every effort to be there. What a beautiful idea. A rite of passage is very important in African culture, as well.”

Avis moved us on to other prayer concerns. Stu shared about our visit to Becky Wallace the previous day, including the news that a large number of inmates were being given early parole because of the serious overcrowding. “I would like to pray that Becky could get an early parole,” Stu said. “Especially because she's got a little boy who needs his mother—or maybe a mother who needs her little boy. She's clean now; I'd like to see her get a chance.”

The room was quiet. Good thing, or we might not have heard Hoshi speak up in her soft voice. “What if we sent a petition on her behalf? I do not know how it works in America, but I learn in my history class that the government listens to its citizens.”

Florida snorted. “Huh. Sometimes.”

“To serve her time,
that
may be the best thing,” Ruth huffed.

Avis said, “An interesting possibility, Hoshi. We should definitely pray about that and ask God if we should send a letter on her behalf.”

“Might not make a difference.”Yo-Yo shrugged from her seat on a floor pillow. “But what if it did?”

Yeah,
I thought.
What if it did? And what if she slid
right back into drug hell and held up some other hapless victim
at knifepoint? Would we be responsible for that?
Okay, Avis was right—we could at least pray about it. Only trouble was, God had a way of answering Yada Yada's prayers in unexpected ways.What if God answered yes? Then we'd be in a pickle!

“Two more things,” Stu added. “I'm trying to add Andy Wallace—Becky's little boy—to my caseload, so I'd appreciate prayer about that. And we haven't done a church visit since . . .” She took a quick survey around the room. “. . . since we went to Delores and Edesa's Spanish church last fall. Isn't it about time we visited the rest of our churches?”

“That so true!” Chanda crowed. “Yada Yada has not come to me church—though it might not be me church too long a time if dey keep askin' me ta give all me winnin's to de Lord's work. Lord 'ave mercy! De deacons, de elders, de pastors—all been by ta see me. An' me, I hain't seen a penny yet. De state sure be takin' a long enough time.” Chanda folded her arms and wagged her head in disgust.

I cast a quick glance at Avis, and I swear she almost rolled her eyes. Rather quickly she said, “Anyone else we haven't visited?”

“Well, my church,” Stu said, brushing back her hair that had fallen over her shoulder. “That's why I brought it up.”

“But you go to Uptown Community,” I said, “same as Avis and Florida and me.”

“Now
I go to Uptown, since I met you all. And to be honest, I wasn't going to any church for . . . for a while before I came to Uptown. Yet if our idea is to experience different worship traditions, then it's only fair to visit the church I grew up in as well. Lutheran, in my case. I used to be a member of St. John's Lutheran. I probably still know a few folks there.”

So, it was either St. John's Lutheran with Stu, or Paul and Silas Apostolic with Chanda and Adele. I'd been to an Episcopal church with Denny's parents but wasn't sure I'd ever attended a Lutheran church. “Okay,” I said. “Let's visit Stu's church. Can we please just wait until after Amanda's
quinceañera
? I'm frazzled enough as it is.”

“And not the same day as Yada Yada,” Ruth put in. “We go here, we go there the same day—by Monday I'm crazy.”

Avis picked up a desk calendar. “All right, that means . . . the first Sunday of March. Actually, that would be a good day. The schools have Pulaski Day off the next day.”

I grinned. Chicago was probably the only U.S. city that let kids out of school to honor General Pulaski's birthday in deference to its large Polish community.

So it was decided: a Yada Yada visit to St. John's Lutheran in three weeks.

We let Florida's azalea sit on the coffee table unmentioned all through the prayer time, as we poured out all our thanksgivings and petitions to God. Nony closed out with a wonderful prayer from John 13, Jesus' prayer that we “would all be one” and that others would know we are His disciples “by our love for one another.”

As we opened our eyes, Stu picked up the azalea and presented it to Florida—“Our February birthday girl. Because her name means ‘to flower' and ‘to bloom.' ” A jealous corner of myself tried to rear its head, because Stu was doing “the name thing,” which had been my little discovery. But the words of Nony's prayer—that we would all be one—pricked my spirit.
Stuff it, Jodi.What does it matter?
Face it: if it'd been just up to you, there would be no “flowering
blooms” for Florida tonight!
I squeezed my eyes shut for a brief moment.
Oh God, forgive me. I've got so far to go.

“For real?” Florida said, taking the flowers almost reverently, her eyes bright. “Flower and bloom? Well, thank ya, Jesus! I'm gonna sit this bit o' hope in the middle of my table and hope some of that bloomin' rub off on my family!”

I WENT STRAIGHT TO the kitchen calendar when I got home to write in Yada Yada's upcoming visit to St. John's—and got a gift straight from heaven. Lincoln's Birthday and President's Day—both holidays in Illinois—fell in the next two weeks before Amanda's
quinceañera
! I did a little jig right there in the kitchen. “Two whole days off, Wonka!” I hooted, dancing in a circle around the poor confused dog. Which meant I might actually have time to do the stuff on my to-do list: shop for a pair of heels for Amanda (who once swore she'd
never
wear “torture shoes”), call the Bagel Bakery about the cake, meet with Pastor Clark and Denny about the “service” part, send out invitations—

Whoa. The invitations couldn't wait for Lincoln's birthday, which was Wednesday. They
had
to go out tomorrow. I hesitated a brief moment, then picked up the phone.

I could hear Stu's phone ringing faintly upstairs.

“Stu? Hope I'm not calling too late . . . Could I take you up on your offer to help me send out those invitations online? . . . Yeah, tomorrow. Whenever you get home from work . . . Okay. Thanks.”

Denny poked his head into the dining room just as I hung up the phone. “You done yet? Let's go to bed.”

“In a minute.” I grabbed a pad of paper and a pen. “Gotta write down a few names I just thought of who need to be invited to the
quinceañera
.”

I had scribbled half a name when I felt the pen being removed from my hand. “Hey!” I grabbed for the pen as Denny held it out of reach with one hand and pulled me out of the desk chair with the other.

“I hate those words,” he murmured into my hair, wrapping both arms around me in a body lock.

Struggle was useless. I started to laugh. “What words?”

“ ‘In a minute' . . .”

BY THE TIME I got home from school on Monday, I had a decent list of people I wanted to invite to the party: Yada Yada, of course, and their families; Uptown's youth group and leaders; families Amanda babysat for; a few old friends from Downers Grove . . . and I'd better ask Amanda who she wanted to invite.
Huh. Hope they all
have e-mail.

Stu came downstairs after supper that evening and helped me find the e-invitation site on the Internet. The biggest job was entering all the e-mail addresses in the “Send To” box. And—
arrgh!
—everybody did
not
have e-mail. Chanda, for one.Nor Yo-Yo. Didn't know whether some others did or didn't. “Buck up, Jodi,” Stu said. “You're going to have to send a few invites by snail mail. Want me to pick up a box for you at Office Max?”

I wanted to say,
“No thanks, I can do it”
—but knew I wouldn't get a chance at the car till the Wednesday holiday rolled around. “Sure. If it's not too much trouble. Not a box of invitations, though—some kind of festive paper I can run through the printer.”

THE BAG FROM OFFICE Max was stuffed in my mail-box when I got home from school the next day. Bright confetti colors all around the edge of eight-by-ten sheets. Perfect.

I was so busy that week checking things off my
quinceañera
to-do list, baking cupcakes for Friday's Valentine party at school, and trying to keep up with my school lesson plans, that I pretty much tuned out the news that glued Denny and Josh to the TV every night. Didn't work, though. What I missed on the TV got rehashed in the teachers' lounge—more conflicting reports about weapons of mass destruction from the UN inspectors . . . more American troops being shipped to the Middle East . . . angry voices denouncing the registration of immigrants . . .

If I thought too much about it, my insides got all twisted. The whole world seemed to be teetering on the brink of terror and fighting over how to fight terrorism—and yet I could walk through a week with my biggest worry being whether we'd have enough food for all the guests who might show up a week from Saturday. By the time I crawled into the recliner on Saturday morning with a mug of fresh hot coffee and my Bible, I was feeling schizophrenic. And helpless.What could
I
do about it?

Pray, Jodi. You can pray.

I almost laughed. My dad used to say that to me as a kid—
“Let's pray about it, shall we?”
—and it always felt like a cop-out. But I knew better now. A small sense of excitement gripped me.Yes. That's what I could do.
“Pray
the headlines,”
Avis had encouraged us in worship a few weeks ago.

I brought the recliner back to its upright position with a
thump,
nearly clobbering Willie Wonka on the head with the footrest, and darted out into the cold to get the newspaper off the front porch. For the next twenty minutes, I “prayed the headlines”—prayed for the people of Iraq, even that bully Saddam Hussein, prayed he'd turn around, prayed that war would be avoided, prayed for wisdom for the president, prayed for the sons and daughters in uniform, prayed for Israelis and Palestinians, sons of Abraham living side by side and hating each other, prayed for peace, prayed that terrorists would be disarmed and brought to justice, prayed for the big protests planned around the world today to be peaceful—

Loud voices came from the direction of the kitchen. Amanda and Josh, arguing about something. Reluctantly, I made my way to the back of the house.

“Mo-om! Tell Josh he
has
to be at my
quinceañera
practice this afternoon!” Amanda, still in baggy flannel PJs, banged a few cupboard doors looking for a clean cereal bowl.

“Chill, Manda.” Josh shoveled spoonfuls of corn flakes into his mouth while he balanced on the kitchen stool. “I'll be there. I just said I might be late is all.”

“You can't be late!” she wailed. “You're my big brother! And you don't know the dance yet!”

I opened my mouth to ask,
“Why late?”
but Denny came into the kitchen just then wearing his jacket and knit hat. “Men's breakfast,” he explained, pouring some coffee into a travel cup. “Going to pick up Carl.”

The corners of my mouth curled up. “Carl Hickman? How did that happen?”

He shrugged. “Pastor Clark asked if a few of the guys could do some carpentry work around the church after breakfast. So I told Carl we could sure use another pair of hands—and he said okay.”

I could almost hear Florida muttering,
“Thank ya,
Jesus!”

“You guys are going to come to the practice today too, aren't you?” Amanda was still plucking her one-note song. “Da-ad! I'm supposed to do a dance with you!”

Denny looked at Amanda, then me. “Did I know about this?”

I threw up my hands. “Uptown Community at four o'clock. Delores called last night while you were at the game. Sorry, I forgot to tell you.”

He leaned over and kissed my ear. “Sorry 'bout the game schedule —kinda screwed up Valentine's Day, didn't it? Can we go out to dinner or something tonight?”

“Definitely!” I opened the back door for him. “It's a date.”

“
After
the practice!” Amanda wailed.

Josh tossed his cereal bowl into the sink. “Dad, wait! Can I catch a ride with you to the el?” He disappeared for thirty seconds, then dashed out the back door, carrying a huge piece of poster board and his jacket tucked under one arm.

“Josh, where . . . ?” I yelled after him.

But he was gone.

21

D
enny didn't get the car back till almost one o'clock, so I really had to hustle to get my errands done by four. His suit definitely needed dry cleaning, so I headed for Devon's Best Dry Cleaners in the middle of Rogers Park's Pakistani/Indian neighborhood. Dozens of tiny shops featuring flowing, feminine attire nestled side by side with restaurants featuring “Spicy Tamarind Soup” and “Lentil Curry.”
Might as
well scope out a possibility for our dinner date tonight.
That'll be fun.