The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Decked Out (11 page)

“Hakim Porter. Get yourself in here! I'm freezing.
Then
we'll talk.”

Reluctantly, he rested his shovel against the porch railing and stepped into the foyer. I shut the door. “Yes, yes, I'm okay. Just fell on the ice, you know. Sprained my ankle.” I started into the living room, but realized he wasn't following me. I turned back, leaning on the crutches. “How'd you happen to come to this neighbor-hood? Do you and your mom live around here?”

Not once since the day I'd said a tearful good-bye to Hakim, when his mother pulled him out of my third-grade classroom to get special tutoring for the learning difficulties he'd been experiencing, had I seen Hakim
or
his mother around this neighborhood or in the stores. I thought they'd moved.

Couldn't blame them. After the accident at the intersection of Howard and Clark Streets, it would be tough to go through that intersection again and again without remembering the tragedy that had taken the life of Hakim's older brother, Jamal.

It was tough for me.

“Uh, not really,” Hakim was saying. “Sometimes I stay with my cousins. But after the snow, I was just walking around, looking for people who needed their walks shoveled.” He grinned again. “Like you.”

I laughed. “Well, that's the truth. My husband was going to do it, but—hey. Let's surprise him. He'll think I did it.” I patted the crutches and laughed again. “How much do you charge? Front
and
back.”

He shrugged. “Uh, whatever you want to pay me.” He opened the front door. “I'll get started.”

MY HUSBAND WAS not fooled. “Okay, how much are we out for
that
?” Denny jerked a gloved thumb toward the backyard and its shoveled sidewalks when he came in several hours later. “I said I'd get it done, Jodi. You didn't have to call someone—”

“Denny!” I held up my hand to silence him. “I didn't call any-one. Hakim Porter showed up on our doorstep, wanting to make some money. I hired him. So shoot me.” I gave him a playful shove. “And you can't tell
me
you'd rather be out there shoveling snow, than putting on your slippers, kicking back with a cup of coffee, and watching some basketball on TV.”

The dimples appeared on Denny's face. “
Sold
to the highest bidder.” He shed his coat, gloves, and boots while I followed him around on my crutches. “Hakim Porter, eh? How did he know where we lived? What's it been, now, since he was in your class—three, four years? How much did you pay him?” He glanced at me as he substituted his slippers for the boots. “He did a good job.”

“Whoa. One question at a time. I don't think he knew where
we lived—he seemed surprised when I came to the door. And I didn't ask, but I assume he's about eleven years old, probably sixth grade. I gave him twenty dollars.”

“Twenty dollars!”
He sighed. “Never mind. It was a big job.”

I followed Denny back into the kitchen, where he popped a bagel into the toaster oven and poured himself a cup of coffee.

“So . . . tell me about the funeral.”

Denny pursed his lips for a few moments. “Simple. Sad. I think the Manna House Foundation kicked in for the casket and funeral expenses. The police are holding Carmelita's body at the morgue for a few weeks to see if any relatives can be located. If not, she'll probably be cremated.”

He read the questions in my mind. “Yeah, I saw Josh. Didn't get to talk to him much, though. He was one of the pallbearers, also Peter Douglass and a couple of guys I didn't know. Edesa was there with Gracie, of course. To tell you the truth, Jodi, I'm surprised DCFS hasn't stepped in and just taken the baby. They have to know about her, since it was the police who found Carmelita . . . say, mail come yet? Haven't seen my paycheck and it should have been here by now. Probably a slowdown because of the weather.”

He disappeared in the direction of the front door.
Guess we're
done talking.
I didn't really expect he'd get a chance to talk with our son, not at a funeral with other people around. But it'd been three days since Josh came home to talk. I'd love to know if he and Edesa had—

Denny reappeared in the kitchen doorway, the mail in one hand and a twenty-dollar bill in the other. “Found this in the mail-box. Any reason why Hakim didn't want to take your money?”

10

T
he snow was still deep, but I wasn't about to miss worship two Sundays in a row, crutches or no crutches, especially at Christmastime. Denny let me off right in T front of the door of SouledOut Community Church, and I braced myself for the barrage of questions and concern the moment the greeters opened the double-glass doors for me. But “I'll be fine, just slipped on the ice,” seemed to suffice, and no one seemed to notice that we brought just a bag of bakery rolls for the Second Sunday Potluck instead of the usual hearty main dish.

“Oh, Sister Jodi!” Rose Cobbs, wife of Pastor Joe Cobbs, bent down and gave me a warm hug after I'd found a seat. Her warm brown skin smelled of gardenias. “Someone told me the Sisulu-Smiths might be coming home soon. I know they were close to you and the Douglasses. Do you have any news?”

I liked “First Lady Rose,” though we hadn't become close friends or anything. She was a motherly sort, fifty-something, with grown kids and grandkids, and she “mothered” the merged congregation with a smiling grace I usually found inspiring . . . that is, except for the times I felt annoyed at her seemingly unflappable perfection. Didn't she ever get mad? Pick her nose? Burn the roast?

The Voice in my spirit gave me a slap upside the head
. When
was the last time you prayed for Rose Cobbs, Jodi? It's hard to be a pas-tor's
wife! Especially when the congregation is a melting pot of races and
cultures. She gets discouraged, just like you do. She needs encouragement,
just like you do. Encourage her!

I hugged her back. “Last I heard, they're coming back to sell their house and return to South Africa on a more permanent basis.” I saw her smile fade. “I know. I'm disappointed too. God has used Nony in my life in a big way. I miss her.”

Rose Cobbs nodded. “Yes. Nonyameko and Mark used to come to our home to pray for us—before Mark suffered that terrible beating, I mean. They were such an encouragement to Pastor and me . . . ” She put on her smile again. “But I just thank God we will get to see them for a little while. When did you say they were coming?”
“They were such an encouragement to Pastor and me”
echoed in my head. “Uh, last I heard, they're coming home sometime the week after Christmas.” I gave a little laugh. “See? I said ‘coming home' too. Nony, no doubt, would say South Africa is home.”

“Yes. Yes . . . well, thank you, Sister Jodi.”

The Voice in my spirit nudged again.
Encourage her!
I grabbed her hand as Rose Cobbs started to leave. “Sister Rose, could we . . . could we go out for coffee or something sometime? After the holidays maybe. I'd love to hear about those grandkids.”

To my surprise, her eyes filled with tears. She took hold of my hand with both of hers. “Yes! I'd like that very much. As for the grandkids . . . ” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Please pray for our oldest. Janiqua, she's autistic—and thirteen now. It's getting very hard for her parents.”

Autistic . . .
Oh Lord, I had no idea.

I pulled out the small notebook I kept with my Bible and wrote
J-a-n-i-k-w-a (sp?)
just as the lights dimmed. Denny joined me in the seat I'd saved for him. The eight teenage girls Amanda had trained took their place at the back with lighted candles. The saxophone opened up with a few bars of “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel,” but kept low beneath the words of the young soloist off to the side:

O come, thou Key of David, come

And open wide our heavenly home . . .

Once again, the dancers in their dark skirts and white blouses stepped confidently and in unison up the two aisles between the three sections of chairs.

Make safe the way that leads on high

And close the path to misery!

As the girls fanned out at the front, the hand holding the can-dle lifted up high, while the other hand pushed backward as if closing a door on misery.

The congregation joined in:

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel

Shall come to thee, O Israel
!

Three pairs of girls stepped forward, each pair lighting one of the candles of the Advent wreath.

Third Sunday of Advent . . . one to go. And then Christmas.

Pastor Clark—a widower who'd been pastor of Uptown Community (mostly white) before we merged with New Morning (mostly black) and became SouledOut Community Church—preached on the Old Testament prophecies that the coming Messiah would be the “Son of David,” born in “David's city,” Bethlehem. Then he used New Testament scriptures to show how Jesus had fulfilled those prophecies, but He had come as a Servant King, con-founding those who'd been expecting a political deliverer and warrior.

“How little we understand the true nature of the kingdom of God,” Pastor Clark said as he closed his Bible. “Even today, we still have a hard time comprehending Jesus' teachings that the
last
shall be first, the
least
will be the greatest, the
meek
will inherit the earth, and
dying to self
leads to life.”

The praise team closed the service with a slow, worshipful ver-sion of “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” After Pastor Clark's sermon, the words of the third verse took on more meaning:

No ear may hear His coming,

But in this world of sin,

Where meek souls will receive Him,

Still the dear Christ enters in.

Whew.
The promised Messiah definitely showed up in a way the “religious” folks didn't expect—in a stable with the animals.

But it was the meek folks—the shepherds—who ran to welcome Him . . .

Afterward, as chairs were pushed back and tables set up for the potluck, I was grateful my sprained ankle gave me an excuse to stay anchored for a few more minutes, thinking about Pastor Clark's sermon.
His low-key style didn't compare to Pastor Cobbs's dynamic preaching, and his voice was a bit raspy with age—but the man was deep. And what he said was true: I still struggled to understand God's “upside-down kingdom.”

Father . . . Abba . . . Daddy God,
I prayed silently as lively com-motion swirled around me,
forgive me for being such a knucklehead.
Even though I've heard the Christmas story a zillion times, help me to
hear the story this year with open ears. I want to know You and Your
Son and Your Holy Spirit even more this year. Help me to look for You
in unexpected places. And thanks for giving me Yada Yada sisters who
aren't afraid to get in my face and—

“Yo, Jodi!”

I opened my eyes. Florida was snapping her fingers in my face.

“What? I was praying.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Florida plopped down in a chair beside me. “Thought you'd zoned out. Want me to get you a plate of food? Ruth brought some blintzes, whatever they are. Says it's a family recipe.”

I declined with a shake of my head, noticing her “Zulu knots” were still holding. She craned her neck, looking around the room. “Where's Josh at? Haven't seen him for a couple of Sundays. He and Edesa goin' to her Spanish church these days? Thought they was doin' every other Sunday. Sure too bad about that Carmelita girl—an' her leavin' that poor baby without a mama.
Mm-mm.
Wonder what's goin' to happen to her?” Florida prattled on, but now I did zone out.

Exactly what I'd like to know.

AFTER THE POTLUCK, the teens invited any adults to stay who'd like to help them decorate the sanctuary, but Denny and I cut out. “I feel like a wimp, just sitting around not doing anything,” I said as Denny took my crutches and hoisted me into the front seat of the minivan.

“That's it! You're a wimp!” Denny grinned at me as he climbed into the driver's side. “I always knew there was something special about you, just couldn't put my finger on it.”

He had me laughing by the time we got to the house, listing all my special qualities that had surfaced with my spill on the ice: a Cinderella foot that fit perfectly inside that foam-and-Velcro “slip-per”; a sexy swing of the hips as I perfected walking on crutches; a laid-back attitude toward life, letting the laundry pile up; the—

Denny stopped midsentence as we came in the back door. The lights were on and music was playing in the living room. Denny and I looked at each other. “Hello?” he called out.

The music flipped off. “Oh, hey, Mom and Dad.” Josh met us in the hallway, shirt hanging out beneath a pullover sweater. “It's just us—Edesa and me. We were waiting for you.” He waved us toward the living room.