The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Real (8 page)

On the other side of Denny, I saw Peter Douglass's eyes follow Avis as she walked back and forth off to the side, giving herself up to worship with raised hands and tears while the music group of guitars, keyboard, drums, and vocals plunged forward with song after song of victory and praise. A small smile tipped the corners of his mouth.

And then it hit me.
That man is head over heels in love
with Avis!
I was so taken aback I hardly knew what to think.

But my thinker was pulled back to the service when Pastor Clark began his sermon. All over Christendom, he said, churches were celebrating Epiphany—the visit of the wise men to the child Jesus. “It's an old, old story. Yet it's a story that's still being written.Wise men and women—children too—are still bringing their gifts to Jesus.”

And then he told the familiar story of the boy who came to hear Jesus teaching in the countryside one day, bringing along a lunch his mother had packed for him—five small loaves of bread and two dried fish. And he gave them to Jesus. “Jesus used that little gift,” Pastor Clark said, “to feed and bless and refresh thousands of people who were hungry and tired. A miracle, we say. But Jesus is still waiting for
us
to bring
our
gifts to Him, so that He can continue to feed and bless and refresh a hungry and hurting world. That is the question I'd like each of you to ask yourself as you head into this new year: ‘What is the gift that's in my hand? Am I willing to give it to Jesus?' ”

Being the first Sunday of the month, the service ended with a simple communion. After I'd taken my piece of bread and sipped from the goblet of wine, I closed my eyes, thinking about Pastor Clark's question. Did I have any gifts in my hand? I couldn't think of any. Certainly not like Avis, who had the gift of worship . . . or Nony, who seemed to be a wellspring of memorized scriptures that came pouring out in her prayers. All I could come up with was teaching third grade at Bethune Elementary.
That's it, Lord? My job?

WELL
,
YEAH
,
I THOUGHT, as I dumped my tote bag on the teacher's desk in my third-grade classroom the next morning and changed out of my walking shoes.
I'm a
teacher, so guess that's what I've got in my hand.
But how could I give my teaching to Jesus? I certainly couldn't talk about God in a public school!
So? Just be a good
teacher,
I told myself.Yet sometimes I felt as if I was barely hanging on with my fingernails. This school was better than a lot of Chicago public schools—especially with Avis Johnson at the helm—but I still felt overwhelmed by a classroom so diverse, English was the second language for almost half the children. And the parents! Back in Downers Grove, my classroom had thrived with lots of parent involvement and support. Here? I
still
hadn't met some of the parents, even on report card pickup day. And some kids got dropped off at seven in the morning and didn't get picked up till six at night, like the school was expected to provide breakfast, child-care, after-school supervision, discipline, healthcare, and—oh, yes—the ABCs too.

And then there was Hakim. Correction: Hakim's
mother.
She hated me—with good reason. I'd killed one son in that auto accident; why
should
she let me teach her other son? Was she still trying to get him transferred? I didn't really blame her. And now that I knew Hakim's identity, it wasn't easy to see the personification of my guilt staring back at me every morning in the classroom when he took his seat.

About once a week I felt ready to pack it in and try waitressing.

I took a deep breath. Almost time for the bell to ring.
Okay, God. It doesn't feel like much to me, but it's all
I've got in my hand right now. A new year . . . one teacher
scrabbling for a foothold . . . one troubled boy who needs
redemption . . . and thirty other squirrely eight-year-olds. If
You can do anything with that, it's all Yours.

7

W
e'd packed the Christmas decorations over the weekend, but I still lit a group of pillar candles on the dining room table as I called Josh and Amanda for supper. It felt good to be back on some kind of schedule after the holidays—maybe we'd even sit down at the dinner table all at one time. At least soccer was over and Josh had a couple of months before baseball practice started at Lane Tech. Right now Denny's after-school schedule was the wild card since he was assistant coach at West Rogers High for several team sports—soccer, basket-ball, baseball. But I expected him any minute.

Sure enough, Denny walked in just as we were serving the scalloped potatoes and leftover ham. “Hey! Candles! What are we celebrating?” He tossed his jacket on top of Willie Wonka, dumped his sport bag in the corner, and planted a kiss on my forehead.

“First day of school in 2003, what else?” Amanda smirked, beating me to the punch.
Hmm.
My kids knew me well.

“So. What's new at Lane Tech?” Denny piled the creamy potatoes on his plate and sprinkled them with grated cheese. Ever the optimist.Whenever I asked that question, it was like talking to empty air. How could a whole school day be summed up as “Nothin' ”?

Amanda shrugged. “Not much. Oh. I joined the Spanish club. Meets on Thursdays after school.”

Denny and I looked at each other. Why weren't we surprised? “That's great, kiddo,” he said.

“Just so you don't have to come home in the dark,” I added.

Amanda gave me the “look”:
Parents. So predictable.

Josh helped himself to seconds. “What about you, Josh?” I asked, trying not to notice how the candlelight danced on his shaved head.

He chewed thoughtfully a few moments. Then . . . “What do you guys think about the death penalty?”

I blinked. “What?”

“You know—it's been in the news a lot. Governor Ryan's just about to sign a bill turning over the verdicts of everybody on death row. All the kids are talking about it at school.”

“He's gonna let them all out?” screeched Amanda.

“Yeah, and they're all going to come after
you,
Piglet.”

Amanda swatted her brother with her napkin.

“That's enough,” growled Denny. “Not ‘turning over' the verdicts, Josh. ‘Commuting their sentences'—probably to life without parole. I think a moratorium would be good; there are too many holes in the system. If you've got the money for a big-name lawyer, you're not going to end up on death row. The whole system needs an overhaul.”

My mind scrambled. I did remember hearing something about the debate going on in Springfield—especially after a couple of verdicts got overturned when new DNA evidence proved the guys were innocent. “I . . . don't know what I think. Someone like John Gacy, who killed all those teenage boys?” I shivered. “He was a monster.”

“Yeah, well, who are we to take someone's life?” Josh's voice raised a notch. “That's playing God, don't you think? It's pure and simple revenge—an eye for an eye. I agree with Dad. Life without parole is sufficient to protect society from people like Gacy.”

“I don't
disagree,
Josh—”

“Anyway. The debate club at school is looking for new members to debate current events. I signed up to support doing away with the death penalty, period.” He gathered up his dishes. “Can I be excused?”

I stared at my son's back as he took his dishes to the kitchen and then disappeared in the direction of his bedroom.When did Josh Baxter suddenly get political?

Denny corralled Amanda to help load the dish-washer, so I commandeered the computer to check e-mail while I had a chance. I scrolled through the list—
aack!
I hated all that spam!—till I came to one addressed to “Yada Yada” from “BlessedRU.” Ha! That was Nony.

To: Yada Yada
From: [email protected]
Re: YY at my house?

Dear Sisters,

THANK YOU to everyone who has called or e-mailed a “welcome home” since we've been back. Sorry I haven't been very good about contacting you all individually. There's SO much to do after being gone for two months!

But how about having our first Yada Yada meeting of the New Year at my house this Sunday? I brought gifts for everyone—smile.

Love, Nony

Gifts? Yum. Anything Nony picked out would be fabulous. As for Yada Yada meeting at her house . . . I racked my brain. For the life of me, I couldn't remember if someone else had volunteered. Better check with Avis; otherwise, why not?

I skimmed through the rest of the Inbox till I found one addressed to Baxter Bears—Denny's too-cute “addy” when “Da Bears” were actually playing good football—but who was [email protected]? That wasn't Hoshi—oh, wait. Mark Smith! I clicked it open.

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: Nony's birthday

Dear Jodi,
Thought Yada Yada might like to know that Nony's birthday is coming up January 20, two weeks from today. She'll be 37. (I'm in trouble now!) I know she wants the prayer group to meet at our house this coming Sunday—that's a week early, but thought you'd want to know.

Mark Smith

I grinned. That was cute—Mark letting us know about Nony's birthday. It fell between two Yada Yada meetings, but why not celebrate at the first one? Kind of a “welcome home” and “happy birthday” rolled into one!

I forwarded Mark's e-mail to everybody else on the Yada Yada list, adding, “Why don't we surprise Nony with a card shower? Anyone want to volunteer to make a birthday/welcome home cake? She won't be expecting anything since we're meeting at her house.” I hit Send.

“Mom? You done yet? I want to research some stuff about the death penalty.” Josh loomed over my shoulder.

“Give me five more minutes, okay? Sheesh.”

The Hulk disappeared, muttering under his breath. I sent the spam e-mail to oblivion, called up the Internet, and clicked on Favorites. There it was . . . my “Meanings of Names” Web site. A brief search found nothing even close to “Nonyameko.” Figured. Maybe I could Google it—why not? I called up the search engine and typed “South African names female.” Sure enough, there it was. Within a few seconds, I was looking at the meaning of Nonyameko Sisulu-Smith's name:

“Truth and Justice.”

Ohmigosh.
Could anything fit Nony better than that?

“Mom!”

“Okay, okay.” I shut down the window and turned the computer over to Josh, an idea for Nony's birthday already percolating in my brain.

BY MIDWEEK, CHICAGO'S TEMPERATURES hovered in the midfifties. Unbelievable! It felt like spring. I almost expected to see tiny lilies of the valley or crocuses peeking out of the grass as I walked to school each morning. Then again, Chicagoans had a pessimistic attitude about their weather: “Wait five minutes; it'll change.”

But the unseasonably warm weather quickly lost the contest for shoptalk by the end of the week with head-lines that trumpeted: US TROOPS DEPLOYED TO THE GULF and ILLINOIS GOVERNOR COMMUTES SENTENCES OF 167 ON DEATH ROW. Josh could hardly talk about anything else.

For some reason I felt heavy in my spirit as I drove to Nony's house late Sunday afternoon to meet with the Yada Yada Prayer Group. It sure felt like the country was gearing up for war—and Josh was eighteen. What if they reinstituted the draft? Or what if he joined the army? He'd teased us about it when he turned eighteen last September. But with the possibility of a real war on the horizon, it wasn't funny.

Oh God, I'm not ready for my kids to grow up!
I moaned as I parked the van along the curb in front of Nony's house. Several cars were already there, and the el was just a few blocks away for those without wheels. Then I noticed a car I hadn't seen in months: Adele Skuggs's blue Ford Escort.

Adele had come back to Yada Yada! We'd only had one meeting in December and still no Adele—probably too soon after our reconciliation with MaDear. But seeing the blue Escort lifted my spirit. I wanted to shout, “Thank ya, Jesus!” like Florida, right there on Nony's front sidewalk. I settled for a whispered, “Thank You, Jesus,” as I rang the doorbell.

Within twenty minutes, everyone had arrived and we were talking nonstop like a bunch of windup toys. When I saw Delores, I suddenly remembered I'd never called her to talk about the
quinceañera.
“Gotta talk to you,” I buzzed in her ear, “about . . . you know.”

Delores beamed.
“Sí.
Anytime. I'm home by three o'clock this week.”

“Hallelujah!” Avis said, finally calling for attention. “Look at this—all twelve of us!”

“Like de twelve
dee
-sciples,” Chanda George cracked, generating a ripple of laughter. Her Jamaican accent was always fun to decipher.

“Adele, we are so glad to see you again.” A chorus of “Mm-hm” and “Yes!” met this statement.