The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Real (28 page)

Pastor: “We have spoken ill of others and not been diligent
in protecting their good names.”

People: “Forgive us, Lord.”

Pastor: “We have refused to make peace with those who
have hurt us.”

People: “Forgive us Lord.” . . .

I made sure to stuff a copy of the order of service in my
tote bag so I could go over that prayer again.

The congregation sang “What Wondrous Love” from an
actual hymnbook, followed by the Kyrie (“Lord have mercy;
Christ have mercy”) in a singsong chant by the pastor. More
prayers, a scripture—all printed in the order of service—and
then it was time for “A Word for Children.”

The pastor, still in his liturgical robe, plopped down
casually on the wide steps leading up to the platform and
called all the children to come sit around him, casting all formality
aside. Chanda's kids went forward, too, outshining
every child there in their frills and finery, the only dark faces
in the small crowd of European-American offspring. But all
eyes were on “Pastor Bill” as he told the story of the boy who
gave his lunch to Jesus—the lunch that ended up feeding
thousands and thousands of people. Again tears lurked close
to the surface.We used to have a children's sermon back at our
church in Downers Grove, and I hadn't realized how much
I'd missed it.

“But the biggest surprise,” I told Denny, “was the Gospel reading, the story of Mary anointing the feet of Jesus. A drama group did it like a series of tableaus. The reader rang a bell and we were supposed to close our eyes while she read a portion of the story.When the bell rang again, we opened our eyes, and the drama group had arranged themselves in a tableau to depict what had just been read.
Ring
—close eyes and listen.
Ring
—open eyes and see. It was so powerful! I thought the drama group did an awesome job.”

Denny nodded. “Sounds effective. Guess I should've gone, huh?”

It was effective . . . moving, as well, to see the expressions
on the actors' faces frozen in dismay at Mary's “waste” and
the compassion on the actor-Jesus' face.

But maybe the most moving part of the service for me
was Communion. Several pairs of “ministers”—men and
women, all in plain white robes and cloth belts—stood at
the front with a cup of wine and a small loaf of bread as
row by row, the congregation moved forward to receive “the
Lord's body” and “the cup of our salvation.” People who had
colds or didn't want to drink from a common cup could take
a tiny cup from a tray.

For some reason, I felt teary again as I saw my Yada
Yada sisters moving forward in the line to receive communion,
strangers in the midst of this mostly white, upper-middle-
class church . . . and I thought, this is the bottom line.
Not our differences.Not our color or culture.Not our denominations.
But what Jesus has done—for all of us.

Denny stood up. “Well, hope you didn't overdo. Uh . . . mind if I turn on the game?”

I did mind. I wanted to sit there in the quiet and think some more about our visit to St. John's. Because what I didn't tell Denny were the conflicting feelings that had been rising inside since I'd come home.

“That's it? We done?” Florida had hissed in a stage
whisper as the pastor, the ministers, the acolytes—or what-ever
Lutherans called the teenage assistants—all strode
down the aisle to the recessional sung by the choir in the balcony.
The hands of my watch pointed straight up to noon.
Florida fanned her order of service. “Girl, you in trouble at
this church if you can't read all this print.”

But I'd
liked
reading ahead and seeing what was coming next. I liked getting home with half a day still to go. (Wasn't Sunday supposed to be a day of rest?) I'd been missing hymn singing and hadn't even known it. I even enjoyed some of the liturgy. (Surprised myself.) But most of all, I enjoyed not feeling different from these “white-bread” folks.

Did I dare share these feelings with Yada Yada when we talked about our experience at St. John's? What was I doing at hodgepodge Uptown Community, which hadn't really decided what church tradition it reflected? Did I really belong in Chicago's Rogers Park, the most diverse neighborhood in the U.S.? Even among my sisters of color in Yada Yada . . . who was I really?

Am I just a pretender? A seagull, trying to strut with the
peacocks?

DENNY WAS STILL SNORING away at seven thirty the next morning, even though it was a Monday. My teenagers probably wouldn't be up till noon. Josh had taken advantage of the Pulaski holiday and squeaked in by his curfew—but of course that meant I didn't get to sleep till after midnight. At least I got to sleep in an extra thirty minutes. Might've been longer, but Willie Wonka's bladder wasn't on holiday.

Thank you, General Pulaski,
I thought, turning on the coffeepot and making a mental note to tell my third graders about the obscure Revolutionary War hero who gave them a day off from school on the first Monday of March—not that I knew much. Maybe I could track down some info about Casimir Pulaski on the Internet.

The coffee smelled wonderful, but I was still on tea, still nursing my week-old cold. The sky was heavy with gray clouds, ready to dump its load of snow or rain.Who cared? A perfect day to . . .

I groaned. A perfect day to get started on my quilt square, that's what. I had no excuse. So what was I going to do? I got out the square of muslin and the skeins of embroidery thread and stared at them. Nothing. Not a single idea.

I picked up the phone and dialed the Enriquezes' number. “Delores! I can't think of anything to embroider on this quilt square.What am I supposed to do?”

Delores sounded rushed. “Sorry, Jodi. I'm heading out the door to work. And pray for Ricardo. The band has been asked to play—how do you say it?—a regular ‘gig' at La Fiesta, one of the biggest Mexican-American restaurants in the city. Just on weekends, but I haven't seen him so happy in a long time. It's a start anyway.”

“That's wonderful, Delores.” I remembered the look on her husband's face as he stroked that big
guitarrón
at Amanda's party. Tender, mesmerizing . . . “Wait! Delores! About my quilt square—”

“You'll think of something,
mi amiga.
Just work your family names into the design so she'll know who it's from—and don't say ‘Avis and Peter' on it. We'll save a square for their names and the date when they make an announcement. Have to run. Bye, Jodi.”

“When”? More like “if.”
Delores seemed awfully sure about Avis and Peter.

I heard the shower start up in the bathroom. Probably Denny, creating a sauna that would steam the mirror and peel the wallpaper. But Delores's comment about family names rang a bell. I turned on the computer and waited impatiently for it to boot up. Called up the Internet and clicked on “Favorites.”When the name page came up, I typed in the name “Avis.”

There it was. “Refuge in battle.”

I sat and looked at the meaning of her name for a long time . . . and an idea began to percolate. If only my embroidery skills weren't so lacking!

THE LONG WEEKEND HAD BEEN GOOD for me. I felt nearly recovered from my cold and encouraged that I had an idea for my quilt square. I knew drawing was out—unless I did stick figures. Now that'd be a hoot! But words . . .

Stu dropped in that evening with a big pot of
carbonara
pasta. “Too much for just me,” she said. “Thought I'd bring it down to you guys.”

Uh-huh. Now that I'm recovered. Go figure.
“Thanks. The kids will love it.”

She sat down on the kitchen stool and hooked a foot on one of the rungs. “So you had the day off? I should've been a teacher. No such luck for social workers.”

She didn't make any move to leave, so I counted out five plates and handed them to her. “Why don't you stay and eat with us?”

“Okay.” She got up, added five water glasses to the stack of plates, and took them into the dining room.

“What's happening with Andy Wallace's foster case?” I called after her, wondering how to keep the
carbonara
warm till we actually ate it.

She appeared back in the doorway. “Oh.Guess I didn't tell you.Yeah, they transferred Andy to my caseload. Good news, I guess.” She busied herself counting out five sets of knives, forks, and spoons. “Did find out something interesting. The foster parent is Andy Sr.'s mother—a real tiger, they say. Black and proud. She's filing to adopt and wants Becky to lose her parental rights, especially now that she's in prison. Guess the woman has a pretty good case since she's a family member.”

“You're kidding. Becky didn't know Andy had been placed with the grandmother? Sheesh.”

“Of course, her case would be weakened if Becky got paroled. Even DCFS tries to keep children with a natural parent if possible.”

Stu disappeared into the dining room. I sank down on the stool.
Oh God. Forgive me for dragging my feet. Guess
Stu was right to hurry up that petition. Might be Becky
Wallace's only chance at keeping her son—

“Know what, Jodi?” Stu was back, looking around my kitchen with a gleam in her studious eye. “Some color would really brighten up this kitchen—something tangerine and yellow with blue trim. What do you think? I could help you paint.”

28

N
ow that my head didn't feel like a lump of cold oatmeal, I tried to do some planning for March—and Stu painting my kitchen was
not
on my priority list. Denny was still talking about driving to New York during spring break, but that wasn't till April. That left March wide open. Good. I needed some extra time to update my lesson plans.We were starting several new units in math, science, and social studies. But, different year, different kids—I needed some different approaches.

Still, maybe I could do something with MaDear this coming Saturday. I checked the calendar to be sure the date was clear and noticed the month of March had two Yada Yada birthdays—Ruth and Stu.
Hm. Makes sense to
celebrate them both at the next Yada Yada, which is meeting
at . . .
I checked the calendar again. Ha! Ruth's house. That would be a hoot. Knowing Ruth, she'd say,
“Birthdays, smirthdays.Who needs them!”

I sent an e-mail to Yada Yada—minus Ruth and Stu—suggesting we bring cards for both sisters and offering to make a cake. I even phoned Chanda and Yo-Yo to give them the heads-up, since they didn't have e-mail, though all I got was a busy signal for Yo-Yo. Sent a separate e-mail to Stu saying it was Ruth's birthday, and I was making a cake. Couldn't tell Ruth we were celebrating Stu's birthday, though, since Ruth's came first—she'd know something was up.

Felt proud of myself being so organized after dragging around like an old shoe all last week.

As usual, the school week consumed my time, making it hard to remember my commitment to “pray the head-lines.” I tried, though, even if I sometimes did it on the run trying to get to school on time. I felt a surge of hope when I heard Iraq had begun to destroy its missiles. Pundits called it too little, too late. Our troops were still gathering in the Middle East, preparing for war. I thought about all those mothers and fathers who were sending their sons and daughters into harm's way—and Josh was eighteen. Not likely he would volunteer, given that protest march. But what if they reinstituted the draft, like Vietnam? “Oh God! Please don't let—”

This isn't just about you, Jodi—or Josh either. Centuries
of hatred and violence in the Middle East have left generations
of hurting families in their wake.

I hardly needed the Voice in my head to know my prayer was self-centered. It was just too overwhelming. How could I know what to pray?
Oh God, teach me how
to pray!
I cried silently, pulling open the front door of Bethune Elementary for the zillionth time and heading for my classroom.
Wait a minute. The disciples said exactly
that to Jesus—and He taught them what to pray!

I'd repeated the Lord's Prayer—King James Version—since I was in the Sunbeam Sunday school class back in Des Moines. Hadn't said it for years, though, mostly because it became rote, and I was into spontaneous prayers. But what if I prayed it like Nony prayed Scripture, personalizing it, applying it to everyday life?

“
OUR FATHER
,
WHO ART
in heaven, hallowed be Thy
name . . .”