The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Real (45 page)

Carl with a job? With benefits? We'd been praying for months—why was I so surprised? Did I have so little faith? Or had I just pegged Carl as “permanently jobless”?

Florida sat down again, fanning herself with her hand. “You gotta pray for me I don't nag him 'bout this job, though. So afraid he gonna do somethin' dumb and lose it. But job training starts tomorrow, so we'll see.”

“Don't worry. He'll do great!” Stu beamed. “You should've seen Carl work the day of my move. Took someone like Peter Douglass to see his potential.”

I was so happy for Florida, I wanted to hug her. I wondered . . . maybe the Guys' Day Out had started something.

Nony had the second praise report. Her contacts in Washington had assured her that Congress was set to pass an AIDS bill to fight AIDS globally—“with some of the money earmarked for abstinence education, praise Jesus,” she glowed. “Please pray with me, sisters, that this money actually reaches my country of South Africa, before we lose this next generation.” Her eyes filled with tears, a mixture of joy and sadness.

And for you, Nony,
I added silently.
I know your heart is
still in your country.
I would hate to lose Nony from my life, but I found myself praying,
Oh God, if it's in Your will, open
the door for Nony to return home—with her whole family.

“Now you, Avis,” Adele ordered. “When this wed-ding gonna be?”

I thought Avis might be on the spot, but she seemed amused by the question. “Next week.”

We all laughed. “Yeah, right.” . . . “When, for real?”

“Like I said, next week—for real.”

Send a shock through a group of twelve women, and they all react a different way. It was pandemonium for about sixty seconds, but Adele said, “Will you all just shut up? Let the sister have her say.”

We shut up. “Thank you,” said Avis. “Well, neither Peter nor I want a long engagement or a big wedding. I think we both know it's not the
wedding
but the
marriage
that's important. We”—now she did get embarrassed—“want to get on with it.”

I cast an anxious eye at Delores, trying to project my thoughts:
What about the quilt?
But her round face was serene.
No problemo
. . . I hoped.

“. . . during worship next Sunday at Uptown,” Avis was saying. “You are all invited, of course. My daughters and the grandbabies are coming. Otherwise, that's it.”

Sheesh. She's actually serious!

Ruth frowned. “Your happiness we want, Avis! But isn't next Sunday the day Yo-Yo wants to be baptized?”

Yo-Yo blinked, like she had just put two and two together. “Uh . . . don't worry 'bout it, Avis. I can do that some other time. August, maybe. When it's hot. Or next year.”

Avis laughed. “No, Yo-Yo. That's the whole point! That's why we chose next Sunday. Everybody wants to come to your baptism—right, sisters?” Heads bobbed around the room. “So if Peter and I get married during the service, then everyone will already be there for your baptism at the lake!”

“Oh.” Yo-Yo considered that. “So that means I probably gotta go to church with you all.”

We all cracked up. Yo-Yo had managed to miss all our Yada Yada visits to each other's churches. “Gotcha!” Florida yelled.

When we'd all wiped our eyes and settled back down, Avis gave me a meaningful look. “Uh, Jodi and Edesa? Don't you have something . . . ?”

Edesa and I split for the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with candles flaming on the lemon cake and singing “Happy Birthday.” I hadn't had time to make a card, but after a flustered Delores had blown out the candles, I said, “Delores, do you know what your name means?”

She nodded, even rolled her eyes.
“Sí.
It means, ‘Sorrows.' ”

“Exactly!” I crowed. “But do I have a song for you!” On our player I had cued an Israel and New Breed CD to the popular Darrell Evans gospel song and turned it up.
“I'm trading my sorrows, I'm trading my shaame, I'm
laying them down for the joy of the Lord!”

It was the perfect song for Delores. It got all of us to our feet as New Breed—supported by twelve Yada Yadas—belted out,
“Yes Lord, yes Lord, yes yes Lord! . . .”

In the chair just outside the circle of upraised arms and singing women, I noticed Becky quickly brush a hand across her eyes, as if afraid someone might see.

Maybe it was the perfect song for Becky Wallace too.

44

T
he answering machine light was blinking furiously when I got home from school the next day—mostly from Yada Yadas buzzing about Avis's wedding. “Ain't she takin' the concept of ‘church wedding' a bit too literal?” Florida fussed. Delores left a message that the “quilting lady” broke her wrist, so please pray that the quilt would get done in time, and could I send out an e-mail to that effect? Ruth wanted to incorporate an idea from traditional Jewish weddings “as a surprise for Avis and Peter.” Then another message from Ruth: “Cake? A cake she has to have! Should we get one from the Bagel Bakery?”

Sheesh,
I thought, scribbling notes so I could erase the messages.
This could get complicated.
Didn't Avis say she wanted to keep it simple?

A knock at the back door interrupted my reading a slew of e-mail messages along the same general thread, plus Yo-Yo's baptism.
(Who's going to bring towels? A
blanket? Should we give her flowers afterward? What if it
rains?)
Becky Wallace stood at my back door, still wear-ing the same jeans and tank top she'd arrived in.

“Hey, Becky. Come on in.”

She didn't budge. “Nah. Just wanted to know if you want to do somethin' 'bout them flowerbeds.” She jerked a thumb at the pathetic flowerbeds that ran the length of the small backyard along both sides. “I could dig 'em up for ya.”

“Oh, you don't have to do that!”

“Know that. But I'd kinda like to, if ya don't mind.” She shrugged. “Need somethin' to do, an' I got myself on the garden-and-grounds crew at Lincoln a couple of months ago. Learned a few things—didn't get to plant any flowers, though.” Her laugh was hollow. “Not that I wanted ta stay longer jus' ta stick in a few marigolds.”

“Well . . . sure. Help yourself. Tools are in the garage—I'll unlock the door.”

Armed with a long shovel, Becky tackled the weed-choked flowerbeds with the determination of a prisoner-of-war digging an escape tunnel.Willie Wonka seemed fascinated by all the activity and settled on his haunches nearby like a sidewalk supervisor. It took a gulp of faith for me to go about my business inside the house and leave my dog outside with the same woman who'd threatened to “cut him” during the robbery.

Okay, Jesus, I know I'm a little anxious, and I'm probably
being silly.
I chopped vegetables for a pot of soup with unnecessary vigor.
But we could use a few guardian angels
on the job, if You don't mind. One for Willie Wonka too.
I stepped over to the back door and watched Becky work-ing up a good sweat with the shovel. Only God knew what was going on in her mind and her spirit these days. Maybe
she
was anxious about
us.

And a guardian angel for Becky too,
I added.

The phone rang again . . . and continued all week as calls flew back and forth between Yada Yadas about the big weekend coming up. Avis's wedding and Yo-Yo's baptism were briefly overshadowed when the president held a press conference on May first and announced that the fighting in Iraq was over. “Now it is time to rebuild!” I wanted to rejoice, I really did; but something deep in my spirit said it wasn't time to stop praying. I even sent an e-mail to Yada Yada early Saturday morning saying, “Sisters! Keep praying for true peace in Iraq and in the Middle East. Prayer is our battleground, and the battle is far from over.”

I studied the e-mail a few moments before I hit
send
. That was certainly a New Jodi prayer focus—if I practiced what I preached. Already I was tempted to skip my prayer time that morning because of the busy day ahead. Josh had to take his SATs today, Amanda and I both had hair appointments at Adele's Hair and Nails, and Ben Garfield wanted to deliver something to Uptown Community for Avis's wedding—the “surprise.” But I managed to squeeze fifteen minutes for prayer between Willie Wonka's first trip to the yard and the first phone call.

It was Yo-Yo. “Hey, Jodi. You said my name meant ‘lavender flower,' right?”

“That's right, Yo-Yo.What's up?”

“Oh, nothin'. I was just thinkin' about what to wear tomorrow.”

I nearly dropped the phone.Yo-Yo was thinking about
what to wear?
Was it possible she might even show up in a lavender
dress?

“Mom?” Josh grabbed a banana as he headed out the door to catch the eight o'clock start time for the SAT. “A couple of friends of mine at Jesus People want to visit Uptown Community sometime. Think tomorrow would be okay?”

“Uh, it might be kind of packed tomorrow with Avis getting married, but . . .” I couldn't bring myself to say no to any young person wanting to come to church. “You guys might have to stand.”

“No sweat. Oh. Not guys. Girls.” And he was out the door.

Girls?

I thought he was gone, but sixty seconds later Josh stuck his head back inside the kitchen door. “Hey, Mom. We usually get you some flowers to plant for Mother's Day, right? Would you mind if we got them early so Becky could get them in the ground rather than make her wait a whole week?”

What could I say? I loved flowers in the yard! I loved the
idea
of planting them myself. Yet the kids knew me too well. Last year half the sets they bought me for Mother's Day died before their little roots ever touched the flowerbeds.

EXCITEMENT WOKE ME THAT first Sunday of May even before Willie Wonka's bladder did. I lay in the semi-darkness, enjoying the stillness of the morning before the day's events took over. A year ago this very weekend, I'd been sharing a king-size bed with Florida Hickman at the Embassy Suites Hotel, where we'd met for the first time at the Chicago Women's Conference. Actually,
not
for the first time, but neither one of us had known it then. The same weekend God assigned me to Prayer Group 26, which we laughingly called Yada Yada, and changed my life forever.

Oh God, You've truly brought us a mighty long way—

I sat up suddenly. What was that noise? I listened carefully then quietly raised the window blind.
Rain!
I sank back onto my pillow in disappointment.

There was nothing to do but get ready for church anyhow. Rain wouldn't stop Avis's wedding—though what was going to happen about the baptism? I put on the coffee and looked out the window into the backyard. At least the Johnny jump-ups, petunias, and zinnias that Becky Wallace had planted yesterday—my Mother's Day gift from Josh and Amanda one week early—were enjoying the good soak.

The clouds still hung low over the city as we headed out the door to church, but at least the rain had stopped.
Maybe . . . just maybe . . .

We waved at Stu and Becky as they took off in the Celica, having gotten permission from her parole agent to attend church and the baptism—especially when assured that she would be in the company of other members of the household. By the time we parked and got upstairs—twenty minutes early for a change—we barely found two seats together.

Uptown's sanctuary was packed.

To the casual eye, it wasn't apparent that a wedding would be taking place that day. No flowers, no candles—no “surprise” from Ben and Ruth? Just bunches of grinning people in their own version of wedding finery. Avis, introducing her daughters and grandbabies to various folks, was dressed in a creamy suit with a feminine cut that made her look like a double latte, her hair done in braided extensions that swept upward and twisted into an elegant knot on the top of her head. The Sisulu-Smiths were dressed in the exotic matching outfits they'd brought home from South Africa. Chanda and her three kids arrived, dressed like an Easter parade. Except Chanda's face was the inverse of her sunshine yellow suit.

“You okay, Chanda?” I asked.

“T'ree days!” she grumbled. “Dat mon, 'e be gone
t'ree days
wit'out telling me where 'e go or calling home or anyting. I'm fin' his suitcase on de sidewalk in one more minnit—Dia! Quit dat runnin'! Dis be a church, even it don' look like it.” And she stalked off.

About time she tossed him out the door.
But I felt badly for Dia and Chanda's other kids.
If only DeShawn—

I was distracted by a female voice calling, “Hey, Josh! We made it!” Must be the girls from Jesus People. Had to admit the green and pink spiky hair, nose rings, and tattoos curling around their necks took me aback. Same with the big hugs they gave Josh.