2-in-1 Yada Yada (11 page)

“Oh, is that what we did? I thought it was you saying
you
didn't want any beer in the house. Though you don't seem to mind the occasional bottle of good wine.”

“Yeah, but . . . that's different.” Denny knew my background; why was he being so cavalier about it all of a sudden? I was too little to remember much about my father's drinking—just the feeling of panic when the yelling started, my big brothers holding me in one of the back bedrooms, covering my ears to drown out the sounds of my father shouting at my mother and the crash of things getting thrown around. But then my father got saved at a little Bible church—saved and “delivered from the demon of alcohol,” my mother often said. After that, drinking of any kind —along with smoking, gambling, and cussing—was right up there with the seven deadly sins. To my mother's delight, we became the church-goingest family in Des Moines, and everyone had marveled that Sid Jennings was a changed man.

Denny, on the other hand, came from a mainstream church background, where drinking wine and even beer was an accepted part of the social culture. By Denny's own admission, he'd been more of a church attender than a Christ follower till college, even got a little wild with the weekend parties. But then he'd had a real renewal of his faith with a Christian college group on the university campus—somewhat to the bewilderment of his parents, who were a little worried he might turn “fundy.”

Denny's parents had graciously offered to buy the wine for our wedding reception, nearly giving my parents apoplexy. We managed to convince the senior Baxters that
not
serving wine at the reception dinner would be more “sensitive” to my family, who didn't drink— and besides, would save tons of money.

They gave us two nights in a luxury hotel instead.

“How different?” Denny's tone was not confrontive, but also not concerned.

“Just . . . different.” I felt on the defensive. “People don't go out and get drunk on
wine.
But you hear about all these stupid beer parties at the universities, and . . . and, who do the cops pull over for DUIs? Beer drinkers!” Now I was finding my groove.

“Hey, hey, hey! Wait a minute.” Denny's tone went up. “When did we jump from drinking a beer while watching a Cubs game to getting pulled over for drunk driving?”

“Well . . . it starts somewhere.”

“Jodi Marie Baxter. You're being unfair. I'm totally on the same page with you about drunkenness! It's wrong. It's stupid. The Bible warns against it. But drinking a glass of wine with our meals—as you do from time to time—or drinking a beer with the guys in my own living room is not a sin. I didn't even buy it. Larry brought it, and I made the decision that to make a big deal about it would be to push him away, a ‘holier than thou' thing. Especially when we drink wine from time to time. What kind of hypocrisy is that?” He paused. “Besides, remember that Bible study we did on Jewish festivals? Wine is a symbol of harvest, of God's blessings. You know that.”

“Wine, not beer,” I said stubbornly.

Denny stood up abruptly. “Oh, good grief, Jodi. Let's not fight about this. It's really
not
a big deal. Look, you just got home . . . I'm glad you had a good time . . . the kids and I managed fine . . . this is the first time the other coaching staff have been to my house, and they had a great time . . . Let's leave it at that.” He picked up the tray and headed for the kitchen.

I sat motionless on the couch, wishing I still had his arm around me, wishing I hadn't said anything. Tears threatened again, but I blinked them back stubbornly. Maybe Denny was right. Maybe I was inconsistent. Still . . . I didn't like him drinking beer in our house, not with the kids around, for sure, and I wished he wouldn't. For me, if nothing else.

The clock on the mantel of the gas fireplace struck six. I shook myself. I needed to go over my lesson plans for tomorrow—we were working on one-digit multipliers in math, and I'd wanted to develop some games to make it fun—and do the prayer group e-mail list.

A surge of energy got me up off the couch. The prayer group. If we were going to hang together as the Yada Yada Prayer Group, I needed to get on the computer and send out that list.

11

I
settled down at the computer in the dining room— might as well do the list first, I reasoned, before the kids got home, suddenly remembering that they still had homework— and got out my notebook with the page the prayer group had filled out. As I started to type in names, addresses, and e-mails, I couldn't help but guffaw. I could practically guess whose e-mail address belonged to whom, even without looking at who wrote it down.

[email protected] . . . Avis, of course.

[email protected] . . . guess who.

[email protected] . . . oh, that
was
funny. Ruth, the Yiddish Dish. Ha!

[email protected] . . . had to be Adele's shop.

Nony's was easy: [email protected].

Stu's was blatant advertising: [email protected].

I felt a little silly typing our family e-mail address on the list: [email protected]. Denny's idea, of course, when the Chicago Bears were hot. But now it sounded like a children's picture book. Oh well.

Hoshi had a Northwestern University address, and I didn't have anything for Delores or Edesa yet. Chanda and Yo-Yo did not have e-mail—hopefully Adele and Ruth would help us stay in touch with them somehow.

“Whatcha doin'?”

I turned to see Denny leaning in the doorway between the dining room and kitchen. His gray eyes were gentle, a little sad—that puppy dog look he got when he wanted everything to be okay.

“Making a list, checking it twice . . . to see who's been naughty or nice.”

That got a laugh. So I told him about our conference prayer group wanting to stay in touch, even choosing a name for ourselves.

“The
Yada Yada
Prayer Group?”Now his eyes were crinkled up in silent laughter, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“Don't laugh,” I ordered, but I was grinning myself. “If you met all these women, you'd see it fits this group perfectly.”

“And it means . . .?”

“Don't have a clue. ‘Whatever.' ”

Denny moved behind me and massaged my neck. “Hungry? You want to go out for a bite somewhere? Kids aren't back yet . . .”

The last bit of tension between us seemed to evaporate. It was tempting . . . but. “Sounds great . . . but I want to get this done before Josh and Amanda get back and tell me they've got a ten-page paper due tomorrow morning, and will I
please
get off the computer?” I looked up hopefully. “But a toasted cheese sandwich sounds good. With horseradish. And a pickle. If you're offering.”

“Coming up.”

Denny went back into the kitchen, and I stared once more at the blinking cursor on the screen. Okay, I had the list done and ready to send, but I needed to make an address subgroup so I could send it with one click. And maybe I should summarize what different women had asked prayer for during the weekend and send that, so we could keep praying for those situations.

The foster family who has my little girl seems to have disappeared.

Flo's words popped into my head so strongly, I actually looked around, thinking she was standing right there telling me again. Ohmigosh. If we were going to be a real prayer group, we certainly should be praying for
that.
But . . . Flo had only told me because I'd blundered into her business. Would she mind if we prayed about it as a group? Why would she?

At least I could ask.

Working quickly, I created a subgroup in my address book called “Yada Yada,” then copied the list into an e-mail message and hit “Send.” Then I called up a new message:

To: Florida Hickman

From: Jodi Baxter

Subject: Prayer for your daughter

Flo! Hope you got home okay. How are the boys?

I'm wondering . . . could Yada Yada pray about finding your daughter? Ever since you told me that the foster family has disappeared, I've been thinking THIS is the very reason we need to continue the prayer group. Please consider letting the group know how we can pray. In the meantime, I will pray . . . hard.

I stared at the message on the screen, realizing how little I knew this woman. Then a troubling thought crossed my mind: if Flo had e-mail, that meant she had a computer. A computer . . . but no beds for the kids?

Odd.

BEEP
. . .
BEEP
. . .
BEEP
.
I automatically flung out my arm and hit the snooze button on the alarm. For a moment, I was confused. Had the prayer group decided to pray before breakfast again? Had my snoring chased Florida out of the bed again?

Then I felt movement in the bed, and Denny's arm pulled me close under the comforter. I smiled sleepily as I pressed my back against his warm, bare chest. This was definitely better than sleeping by myself in the corner of a king-size hotel bed, even without maid service.

Five minutes later, the alarm went off again, and I flung off the comforter. Monday morning at the Baxter household had begun.

One hour and thirty minutes, four rounds of banging on the bathroom door, two slices of burnt toast, one shoe hunt, pooling pocket change for city bus fares, and three wails of “Where's my whatzit?” later, I headed out the front door for the fifteen-minute walk to Bethune Elementary. I felt like a bag lady in walking shoes, a bulging backpack (extra sweater and flat shoes to change into) slung over one shoulder, a huge canvas tote bag full of rectangle shapes (baking pan, old Christmas card boxes, box of cereal, and the like) for my students to measure the perimeter of rectangles in math, and my smaller canvas lunch-bag-with-water-bottle in the other.

“C'mon, hon! I'll give you a ride,” Denny called, letting the engine of the minivan run while he cleaned bird poop off the windshield. My mistake. I'd left the car parked on the street last night after picking up the kids from church. Usually there weren't any parking places on the street—at least we had a garage off the alley— but yesterday, there it was, a parking place
right in front of the house.
An urban miracle! It would've seemed a shame to leave it empty.

But I forgot about the bird poop.

“No thanks! Need the exercise.” I lifted the tote bag in a half-attempt at a wave and set off down the sidewalk at a good pace. Walking was my fifteen minutes of mental space between household chaos and school chaos every day.

I hummed as school kids passed me on the run, their book bags bumping on their backs like loose turtle shells. “Hi, Miz Baxter!” a few of them called. But for the most part, they seemed to function on the principle that school hadn't started yet and therefore they weren't obligated to acknowledge adults. That was all right with me. All too soon we'd all be on the conveyor belt that pulled us through the school day. Bells ringing . . . announcements on the loudspeaker . . . passing out worksheets . . . moving desks into modules for science projects . . . the constant hum of thirty eight-year-olds, like a classroom of crickets . . .

I'm coming back to the heart of worship . . .

It's all about You, Jesus . . .

I realized I'd been humming some of the worship songs from the conference. The words carried me along like inner breezes.

The playground was full of kids running—always running— backpacks and jackets dumped along the tall chain-link fence or against the deep red brick of the old school building. The May sunshine tempered a chill wind coming off Lake Michigan and prowling through any available open space.

I pulled open the double doors and stepped into the relative quiet of the before-school hallway. Glancing into the school office, I saw Avis talking with one of the secretaries. She caught my eye, and I gave her a smile, but I thought,
Good morning, Ms.
Johnson. Back to the real world.

But to my surprise, she held up her index finger in a wait-a-minute signal.

I lowered my tote bag to the floor. In less than a minute, she came out, dressed in a cranberry suit and chunky gold earrings. Were school principals supposed to look that smashing?

“Hi, Jodi.” She smiled, but I wasn't sure if it was a “friendly principal” smile, or a warm now-we-know-each-other-a-little-better smile. “Recover from the weekend yet?”

“Not sure I want to. It was . . . great.”

“Yes, it was. And you did the group list already! I was so surprised to get it this morning when I came into the office. That's great.”

“Good.” I nodded. “I'm glad.”

“But I wanted to ask you . . . do you want to go see José Enriques tonight? And hopefully Delores, if she's there.”

José! I had totally forgotten I'd signed the list to go with Avis tonight. I hadn't told Denny or checked to see if he needed the car or anything.

“Oh! Yes . . . I want to. Can I let you know for sure a little later?” I probably should offer to drive, since Avis had ferried me to the conference and back. But did I really want to drive around the Near West Side at night? Not really.

Avis agreed with a wave and turned toward her inner office while I picked up the tote bag once more and headed for my third grade classroom. It was pretty much as I had left it on Friday, except the floor had been swept, the trash emptied, and the desktops had been scrubbed free of dried paste and eraser marks. Bless the janitor. Through the bank of windows along one side of the classroom, I could see the blur of feet dancing in and out of a set of twirling jump ropes to the tune of a timeless childhood chant:

Strawberry shortcake

Huckleberry Finn

When I call your birthday

Jump right in . . .

January, February, March, April . . .

Still a few minutes to get ready for the day. I unloaded my bags, changed my shoes, and stowed my lunch in the desk drawer . . . noticing the paperback New Testament I kept there. Kept there, and it usually stayed there, too. This was a public school, for goodness' sake. But this morning I pulled it out. In my head I could hear Nony “praying Scripture,” one verse after the other. I felt an inner longing to be that full of God's Word, so that it came pouring out like that.