Who Is My Shelter? (6 page)

Some Christian I was.

Sighing, I closed my Bible and pulled one of my mom's old afghans around me. It wasn't just Philip's safety that was distracting me. It was what he'd said in the hospital the morning after he'd been attacked. I could still hear the words, hear the pain in his voice.

“Gabby, I've messed everything up so bad. I don't know what to do! You . . . you were the best thing that ever happened to me, and I . . . I drove you away. Please . . . please, don't leave me. You have every right to . . . to walk out of here, but . . . can you forgive me? I'm begging you! Please . .
.”

I shuddered. Lee Boyer—my lawyer friend, who'd started to become “something more”—had shown up at the hospital right then. Told me what Philip was saying was a load of crap. Practically made me choose then and there. Either stand by Philip—in a crisis of his own making, Lee reminded me—or come away with him. Choose?! How could I choose! Lee had become a real friend, the kind of guy I should have married—down to earth, casual, fun, kind. Except he wasn't interested in God or church or faith. And all that “religious stuff,” as he called it, had once again become very important to me.

Something deep down—God?—wouldn't let me walk away from my husband right then, even though months earlier Philip had thrown me out of the penthouse, left me homeless and penniless, and taken our sons back to Virginia to stay with their grandparents without telling me. Even though it hurt like hell to see Lee walk away that day in the hospital. But I'd told Philip I couldn't answer his question right then either.

I needed time.

That was a week ago. A week ago today. And he hadn't brought it up again.

Oh God, what am I supposed to do?

Arrgh
. I needed more coffee. Knowing I was procrastinating, I threw off the afghan and took my empty coffee mug back to the kitchen for a refill. As I grabbed the coffee pot, I glanced up at the card I'd taped to the cupboard with the scripture Jodi Baxter had given me back when she first agreed to be my prayer partner. I'd been obsessing about whether my House of Hope idea would ever get off the ground. There it was, the verse from the book of Proverbs that had sustained and guided me through the whole House of Hope process.

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and don't lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will direct your paths.”

In all my ways
.

Including the next steps for the House of Hope? Hadn't God been faithful so far? Couldn't I still trust Him?

In all my ways
.

Including my relationship with Philip? Hadn't God picked me up, dried my tears, given me hope when it looked as if my entire life had fallen apart? Could I still trust God about Philip?

Acknowledge Him, and He will direct my paths .
. .

Forgetting my coffee, I sank down into a chair at the kitchen table and put my head in my hands. “Jesus, I'm so sorry,” I murmured. “Sorry that I take my eyes off You so easily. I want to trust You—I
do
trust You! Just . . . show me the way to go. Show me the next steps for the House of Hope. Show me if I should take Philip's plea to forgive him seriously. Because, okay, I admit it, I'm scared. What would it mean to forgive him? I don't know! And . . . I'm scared to find out. And show me—”

Loud knocking at my front door jerked my head up just as I was going to pray about whether I should encourage Philip to get out of the penthouse or not, and my eyes caught the hands on the wall clock.

Ten minutes to nine!

Worship at SouledOut started at nine thirty. And Precious said she wanted to go with me since Josh had recruited Sabrina and some of her friends for the Lock-In. But I hadn't showered or gotten dressed or anything!

chapter 5

Precious and I were a few minutes late arriving at SouledOut Community Church, but I needn't have worried. Chairs were still being set out, replacing the sleeping bags that had been rolled up and stacked around the edges of the large room that functioned as the sanctuary. I didn't see many of the teenagers, but I heard music coming from the back rooms and a rhythmic thumping. Working on their “special presentation,” no doubt.

When the service was finally ready to start—only fifteen minutes late—Avis Douglass announced the call to worship from Psalm 73. The fifty-something African American woman was my favorite worship leader at SouledOut, though I wished I knew her better. I'd first met her at the shelter—she was the wife of Peter Douglass, the Manna House board chair—and at first I was intimidated by her serene presence. Then I found out she was also the no-nonsense principal at Bethune Elementary where Jodi Baxter taught third grade
and
she led Jodi's Yada Yada Prayer Group, which I'd visited a few times. Avis had prayed a few passionate prayers on my behalf in the group, which had touched me deeply. Still, I had yet to have a personal conversation with her.

“ ‘. . . is what the wicked are like,' ” Avis was reading, “ ‘always carefree, they increase in wealth. Surely in vain have I kept my heart pure . . .' ”

I quickly flipped pages in my Bible to find Psalm 73. Kind of a strange call to worship.

“‘When I tried to understand all this,'” she read, “‘it was oppressive to me'”—here Avis paused dramatically, lifting her chin—“‘until I entered the sanctuary of God.'”

“Oh yes!” someone shouted from the congregation. “That's right” . . . “Thank You, Jesus!”

Avis continued, “ ‘Then I understood their final destiny. Surely you place them on slippery ground; you cast them down to ruin.' ”

“That's right, that's right!” . . . “Lord, have mercy!” The comments and affirmations from the congregation almost drowned out Avis's voice as she continued to read the doom and judgment that was going to happen to the wicked.

But then she paused, waiting for the room to quiet before she read the last few verses. “ ‘Whom have I in heaven but you, Lord? Earth has nothing I desire beside you! My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever!' ”

“Hallelujah!” . . . “Praise the Lord!” . . . “Oh, thank You, Jesus!”

Two members of the praise band with violin and keyboard played a short introduction and then the praise team began to sing a hymn lifted straight from that psalm:
“Whom have I in heaven but Thee? My flesh and my heart faileth, but God is the strength of my life . . .”

Wow
, I thought, when we finally sat down. That psalm felt as if it had lifted thoughts and feelings out of my own experience the past few months—except the psalmist had written them centuries ago. Guess King David knew what it was like to be down-and-out, too, with nowhere to go but to God.

Pastor Joe Cobbs bounced up onto the low platform, grinning from ear to ear. He was a short, sturdy black man—and seemed even shorter when he stood next to his copastor, Hubert Clark, an older white man with whom he shared the pulpit since their churches merged a few years ago. Today I noticed that Pastor Clark seemed paler than usual and stayed seated even when the rest of the congregation stood, though he seemed fully engaged, smiling and nodding.

“Praise God, church!” Pastor Cobbs said. “Our service will be a little different today, as you've probably already guessed by the special decorations around the room.” People laughed as he swung an arm to indicate the piles of sleeping bags and duffels piled against the walls. “Praise God, this room was full of young men and women last night—our own teenagers and youth we invited from the neighborhoods here in Rogers Park—having a Lock-In. And if your kids were here, you
know
they weren't hanging out on some street corner last night, gangbangin' or doin' drugs, praise God.”

Laughter swept the room and some people clapped. Which felt odd to me, since my boys wouldn't be out “gangbanging” or “doing drugs,” whether they were at the Lock-In or not. Probably talking about the non-church kids they'd invited.

“Well, you know they made a lot of noise, ate a lot of pizza, played some crazy games, and listened to music that would bust our ears.” Pastor Cobbs stuck a finger in his ear and wiggled it. “Mine anyway.” Which got another laugh. “But they also got into the Word—and I believe they have something to share with us this morning. Brothers and sisters, the SouledOut Steppers!”

Heads turned and necks craned as the double doors at the far end of the room opened and two lines of teenagers walked in, both boys and girls, and even a couple of the youth leaders—Josh Baxter and another guy whose name I didn't know—all wearing black T-shirts. As the congregation murmured and threw out smiles to their kids, the teenagers lined themselves up at the front of the room two deep, some on the six-inch-high wooden platform, the rest on either side. I tried to catch the eye of my sons—P.J. was in the group on the left, Paul on the right—but both of them avoided looking at me.

“Where's Sabrina?” Precious whispered, scanning the group. “That girl better not be tryin' no steppin', not in her condition!”

“There,” I whispered, pointing to where Edesa Baxter stood off to the side holding little Gracie, Sabrina by her side. The pretty girl looked as if she'd been crying. Poor thing. The reality of being a teenage mom-to-be was hitting home.

A good-looking young man I hadn't seen before—he looked college age, not high school—took the mike. “Thank you, Pastor Cobbs. Good morning, church. My name is Omari Randall. I'm a junior at Northwestern University, majoring in African American studies. Some of you may have heard about our gospel choir at NU, and we've expanded our repertoire a bit.”

“All right now!” The mood in the room was definitely going up.

“I was invited by your pastor to come to the Lock-In, and I gotta say—you folks here at SouledOut have some great youth leaders and a great group of kids. Let's give it up for these folks!” Omari Randall led all of us in giving the youth and leaders a standing ovation—which was funny in a way, since they hadn't done anything yet.

But as soon as we all sat down, a CD began to play through the sound system, more of a beat than actual music, and suddenly the kids on the “stage” began to clap in rhythm . . . slapping their chests, their arms, their thighs . . . then clapping their hands under one leg, then another. After a noisy prelude, Omari started to rap into the mike as the kids clapped, stomped, turned, and slapped in rhythm.

Gettin' down an' gettin' dirty (
clap, slap, stomp
)
Not knowin' what we missin' (
slap, slap, stomp, stomp
)
Smokin' hash an' talkin' trash (
clap, slap, stomp
)
But it was God we was dissin' (
stomp, stomp, clap-clap-clap
) . . .

The grin on my face was replicated on nearly every face in the room. A few people stood up, calling out encouragement as the “Steppers” performed. The teens on the wooden platform in the center were obviously the most experienced, doing more complex rhythms while the two groups on either side kept it simple. I caught enough of Omari's rap to appreciate his straightforward gospel message. And then with a final
stomp!
in unison, they were done.

Now the room
did
give them a standing ovation. I grinned until my face hurt. Never in my life had I imagined P.J. and Paul— two white boys from Virginia—would be doing a Chicago-style “stepping” performance. In church, no less. Giving honor to Jesus.

The service was shorter than usual, probably in deference to the kids and leaders who hadn't had much sleep the night before. “Come
on
, Mom, let's go,” P.J. said for the third time, holding his sleeping bag, duffel slung over one shoulder.

“Hang on a couple minutes, kiddo. I have to talk to somebody. Look, here're my keys. You and Paul go wait in the car.” I craned my neck, trying to find Denny Baxter in the crowd around the coffee pot. Not there. If he really wanted to go with me to talk to Philip, we needed to make plans—oh, there he was, talking to Harry Bentley over by the front windows. I threaded my way past the coffee klatch and headed their direction, hoping the men wouldn't mind an interruption. I did need to get the boys home. Precious and Sabrina too.

“Look, it's just a bad idea,” Mr. B was saying as I came up to them.

“Yeah, yeah, see what you mean.” Denny shook his head. “I just think we—oh, hey, Gabby.”

“Hi, guys. Sorry to interrupt, but can I talk to you for a minute, Denny? I'm going to go see Philip this afternoon, and last night you said—” Denny and Harry exchanged glances. “What?”

“That's just what we were talking about,” Denny said. “Harry, here, reminded me that Matty Fagan—the rogue cop we all presume is behind this attack on your husband—lives here in Rogers Park. In fact, just one street over from our house. He's just across the alley and one house down.”