The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Caught (45 page)

Whoa
. I heard
“back off ”
and
“don't want you and your perfect little family to feel sorry for me.”
But if I hung up that phone—no. I got stubborn. “Don't do that, Florida. Don't bottle it all up and try to carry this on your own. Isn't that what we've learned in Yada Yada? That Scripture tells us to carry each other's burdens? ”

“Know what, Jodi? I'm not bottling it up or goin' out of my mind, like you said.Not feelin' all upset. I'm really OK. Fact is, you really want to know what I'm feelin'? ”

“Well . . . sure.”

“Relieved.”

42

Relieved?
Didn't understand it at first. But I shut up and listened. Flo said she'd been sick with worry for months, dreading that Chris would get caught up in a gang, end up in jail, or get shot in a drive-by like so many other young black men.

“But I been prayin' for that boy, Jodi. Askin' God to do whatever it takes to turn him around.An'while I was sittin' there at the police station, bein' ignored by the officers, waitin' ta find out what was happenin' . . . I suddenly felt the peace of God come all over me. Like God was sayin',
Well, you said, ‘Do whatever it takes.'
An' this mornin', when I woke up after gettin' a few hours' sleep, I realized I wasn't worried for the first time in months. Felt big relief, in fact. I knew where Chris was. He wasn't out on the street. He wasn't dead. He wasn't skippin' school. Did you know they got a decent school at juvie? Kids can keep up with their schoolin', even get their GED while they waitin' for the system to bring up their case.” She snorted. “'Course, can't promise you I ain't gonna be mad again on Monday.
Mm!
Jesus, help us!”

I SAW FLORIDA TALKING TO AVIS the next morning at church. Made me realize a
lot
had happened since Yada Yada met a week ago at the Sisulu-Smiths, stuff that couldn't wait until our next meeting to pray about. And then there was Hoshi—had anyone called her to find out if she'd talked to Sara since the fiasco last Sunday night? I knew I hadn't—not with everything else that had happened this week.

But I saw her come in with the Sisulu-Smith family, so I pulled her aside before the service started. “Hoshi, I'm so sorry I didn't call you this week. I've been praying for you and Sara, though.Did you get a chance . . .? ” I stopped as her almond eyes lowered. “Hoshi? Are you OK? ”

She nodded. “But Sara didn't come back to class all week. I am so worried. Now that I know her background, I realize entering university was a big step for her. I wish I knew where she lived or had a telephone number for her. But . . .” Her eyes lowered again. “I don't know if she will talk with me again.”

“We'll keep praying, Hoshi. I don't believe God is finished here yet, like Adele said. God chose you to be her friend.”

I was going to ask if she was at peace with Mark and Nony over what happened last Sunday—but just then the sax player and praise team launched the worship service with “Let everything that hath breath praise Him!” Hoshi quickly slipped into the row next to Nony, who gave her a sweet smile.Guess that answered my question.

The gospel song was new to me, but Denny and I sat next to Debra and Sherman Meeks, which helped. “Lift up those hands and praise Him . . . Clap those hands all ye lands . . .” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Little Andy Wallace in the aisle clapping his hands happily, then jumping up and down when the praise team sang, “Move those feet, get out of your seat, It's time to praise Him!”

Oh God, thank You for bringing Becky into Your kingdom! Lord, for Little Andy's sake,we want to take back all that Satan stole from her.

To my surprise, the praise team wound up the worship with a hymn: “On Christ the solid rock I stand, all other ground is sinking sand . . .” Everyone seemed to know the words; the singing was deep and soulful. As we sang the third verse— “When all around my soul gives way, He then is all my hope and stay” —I heard Florida shout, “
Thank
ya, Jesus! Thank ya! Oh, thank ya.” And on the other side of the room, I heard Avis cry, “Glory! Glory to You, Jesus!”

The hymn stuck in my throat. I couldn't imagine being in their shoes—my daughter and grandson in a shelter? My son arrested for an armed robbery he didn't do? —and yet there they were, shouting, “Thank You!” and “Glory!”

Oh God! Give me that kind of faith! Faith in You, no matter what.

I SENT OUT AN E-MAIL to Yada Yada that afternoon with new prayer requests, tried to keep it brief and not say more than necessary about Avis's daughter or Chris Hickman. Also included the news that Becky had moved over to the Hickmans, needed a lot of household stuff, and could we give her a housewarming party?

Chanda was the first one to respond—by phone. “Sista Jodee!

What you tinking 'bout where to have dat party? Mi tinking me house would be good.”

“Really? That'd be great, Chanda. Except . . . aren't you still getting those radiation treatments? You said fatigue was a big problem.”

“Oh, girl. Dat be true. Mi boobs draggin' like a cow wit short legs. But dis week be de last. I'm tinking if we can wait till Tanksgiving weekend, mi have one whole week ta be mi self.”

I laughed so hard over the “cow with short legs” that I forgot to tell her that one week to recover from six weeks of radiation didn't sound realistic to me. But I let it go. If Chanda thought she could, maybe it was good therapy.

That third week of November passed in a blur. At school, Carla came with her hair uncombed and took it out on the other kids. But this time I saw the scared little girl, afraid her family was falling apart again. At lunchtime, I asked if she'd like to eat in the classroom with me. “S'posed ta get a hot lunch,” she said warily. “But Mama forgot ta give me money.”

“My treat,” I said, though how anyone could call a slice of cold cardboard pizza and canned fruit cocktail a “treat” is beyond me. I added chocolate milk. As we munched, I told her I knew about her brother being in jail, how sorry I was, and anyone would be upset. I gambled: “Would you like to move your desk close to mine this week? ”

Her eyes narrowed. “You givin' me a punishment? ”

Bright little girl. But I shook my head. “Nope. A treat. You could be my special helper, pass out papers, pick them up, stuff like that.”

She frowned.

“And,” I added, “having your desk close to mine would remind me to pray for you and your mom and dad and Chris.”

“An' Cedric? ”

I smiled. “And Cedric.”

“An' Becky? She livin' in our house now.”

I smiled bigger. “And Becky.”

BY THE TIME THE WEEKEND ROLLED AROUND, the temperature had moved back up into the sixties and it felt like Indian summer again. Half my class had sniffles from the up-and-down temperatures, and I didn't feel so hot myself. But Yada Yada was meeting at my house that Sunday, so I bucked up, sucked on my zinc lozenges, and downed copious amounts of orange juice. I really didn't want to get sick with Thanksgiving right around the corner. Who wanted to spend a four-day weekend in bed?

Thanksgiving . . . hadn't given it much thought. But the bowl of candy corn I put out for Yada Yada Sunday night got me thinking. Last year—
oh Lord, was it only a year ago?
—Nony and the boys had been in South Africa, so we invited Mark Smith and Hoshi Takahashi to be our guests. On the way to our house, Mark and Hoshi had been pulled over by police for no reason except “driving black” in a white neighborhood, and maybe to check out why a black guy was driving with a “light” girl.
Sheesh.

But it gave me an idea. Maybe we should do a reprise and invite
all
the Sisulu-Smiths for Thanksgiving this year, and Hoshi too. Might be good for Mark to get out of his housebound state.

The doorbell started ringing; Yada Yadas started arriving. Well, I didn't have time to ask Denny about it, but maybe I could check it out with Nony tonight, see if they had any other plans.

We had a good turnout that night—even Ruth showed up with her inexplicable knitting, every part of her rounder and plumper than the last time I'd seen her. “You are looking
good
, girl!” I laughed, giving her a big hug.

“
Humph
,” she snorted. “Mashed-potatoes-slathered-in-gravy good? Or a one-humped-camel good? Water I'm storing like one.” She sank onto the couch like a sinking ship settling underwater. I did wonder how many of us it would take to get her up again.

I thought maybe we'd skip worship and spend more time in prayer, given the number of critical situations that needed prayer this week. But Avis took us to Isaiah 61, reading the first three verses in her New King James Bible. “The Great Exchange,” she called it: “Beauty for ashes! . . . the oil of joy for mourning! . . . garments of praise for a spirit of heaviness!”

“Here. Let me read that in my Bible,” Florida insisted. We ended up reading it four or five times in different versions, each one driving the words deeper and deeper into our spirits. I heard sniffles all around the room.

“That is so beautiful,” Hoshi said, her voice almost a whisper. “‘Beauty for ashes' . . . That is what I want to pray for Sara.” Seeing the questions about to pop, she held up a slim hand. “Yes, I have a little good news. Sara came back to class this week. She avoided me the first day, but on the second day, we talked a little.”

“Uh-huh. All right, now!” said Adele.

“She was nervous but finally told me she had hoped to be anonymous on this campus, just go to school and put all that White Pride stuff behind her. So when I brought her to Yada Yada, and she saw Dr.Smith and recognized the house—recognized you, too, Jodi, from the rally—she was afraid her past had caught up with her. That's why she didn't come to school the next week. I tried to tell her the Smiths were grateful for what she did, telling the authorities who was responsible for the attack on Dr. Smith, but she didn't want to talk about it. But” —Hoshi smiled at Adele— “if God chose me to be her friend, I won't stop now.”

“Oh, thank You, precious Lord, for those promises!” Nony cried out. And there we were, pouring out our hearts in thanksgiving—
thanksgiving!—
that God was bigger than all the trouble in our lives. Bigger than Mark's long road back to health . . . bigger than the shock of discovering Hoshi's friend Sara had been in the White Pride group . . . bigger than Chris Hickman ending up in the juvenile detention center for an armed robbery he hadn't committed . . . bigger than Rochelle's flight from her desperate marriage, with nowhere to go . . . bigger than Ruth (oh dear, I snickered at that, couldn't help it) getting pregnant “late in life.”

But my private smile quickly faded and I added my own P.S. to the prayers for Ruth:
Oh God, Ben is still scared about the possibility of Tay-Sachs.Thank You, God, that You are bigger than Tay-Sachs! Bigger than Ben's worry! Bigger than—

The prayers had quieted. A rustling filled the room as heads lifted, noses were blown, people helped themselves to another cup of tea from the carafe I'd set out on our beat-up old coffee table. Stu cleared her throat and broke the silence. “Well, if I say it, then I have to do it, right? ”

“Say what? ” Yo-Yo said.

Stu took a deep breath. “OK. I've been thinking maybe I should go home for Thanksgiving—you know, visit my mom and dad.”

“Gracias, Jesús!”
Delores lifted a hand in the air.

Stu tucked a stray wisp of blonde hair behind her ear. “The family reunion didn't work out last summer—probably wouldn't have been the best way to, you know, get our relationship back on track even if my parents had come. But . . .” She blew out a breath. “Becky's moved on, and Jodi's been telling me it's time to take care of my own mess.”

I hid a grin. Stu was quoting
me?

“Well,my biggest mess right now is that I'm not speaking to my parents, or maybe vice versa. But . . .” Tears slid down her face. “I'm the one who pulled away when I got pregnant. I was too ashamed. Then I got, you know, the abortion, and that terrified me even more, what they'd think of me. But God's been telling me the only way to untangle the mess I'm in is to tell them the truth.You know, that verse we read a couple of weeks back: ‘You shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free.”

“If you abide in My
Word,
” Nony corrected gently, “
then
you will know the truth that can set you free.' ”

“Abide? ” Yo-Yo piped up. “What the heck does
abide
mean? ”

We laughed. Hoshi, of all people, screwed up her face as if searching her English lessons. “
Abide
, I think, means to dwell in it, live in it, comply with it.”

Stu smiled through the tears dripping off her chin. “All right. I got it. But please pray I'll have the courage to ask my parents to forgive me.Not just for the abortion, but for—for cutting them out of my life. But I know if I don't invest anything in my relationship with my parents, it's going to die. Maybe already has. But . . .”