2-in-1 Yada Yada (46 page)

Hoshi was probably the quietest person in the Yada Yada Prayer Group, but her story had come out in bits and pieces. She had come to the U.S. a year ago to attend Northwestern University as a history major, ending up in a world history class taught by Dr. Mark Smith—Nony's husband. At a student reception for history majors, Nony invited the Japanese student to visit their home and also invited her to their “church of all nations” in Evanston, the Worship Center. Now Hoshi's decision to follow Jesus was about to be tested: her Shinto parents were coming from Japan to visit their daughter, and we'd been praying for Hoshi to have the courage to tell them about her newfound faith.

“No,” Hoshi replied to Avis, “but soon.” She was fairly tall, with silky black hair often pulled back into a simple ponytail at the base of her neck, and she had a tendency to nod a lot while she was speaking. “My parents—they will be coming in three days, for my birthday next week. Two weeks they will stay.” A pink flush appeared on Hoshi's smooth cheeks. “I am scared so much to tell them that now I love Jesus. They will . . . feel very bad, very hurt. Maybe not speak to me again.” Her eyes glittered with unshed tears.

“What are the names of your mother and father, Hoshi, so we can pray for them?” Delores's tender question broke Hoshi's reserve, and she started to cry.

“Takuya Takahashi, my father . . .” The tears slid down her cheeks. “And Asuka, my mother.”

Nony moved quickly to the side of the student she had befriended and simply started to pray. “Thank You, Jesus, that You have said You will never leave us nor forsake us. We are bought with a price, therefore we glorify You in our bodies and in our spirits, which belong to You . . .”

I recognized the scripture Nony was paraphrasing, but as usual, I couldn't pinpoint the reference. I'd have to look it up in the concordance when I got home.

Several other sisters prayed for Hoshi, then Avis suggested we take turns calling Hoshi during the next two weeks to encourage her, to pray with her. Stu, of course, had a “better” idea. “Why don't you bring your mother to the next Yada Yada Prayer Group, Hoshi? To meet your new friends. If that seems like a good thing, of course.”

“Oh, I don't know . . .” Hoshi was wide-eyed. “Please, I don't mean I am ashamed of you, but, I don't know. My mother . . .” She shook her head.

I wasn't sure it was a good idea either. The culture clash in our group could be pretty overwhelming, even for women who shared Christian faith in common. And somebody's mother, visiting from a foreign country, steeped in a foreign religion—it sounded like a recipe for disaster to me. But Avis said, “Well, you know she's welcome if you decide to bring her, Hoshi.”

We moved on to the latest news in Florida's efforts to get her daughter, Carla, back from foster care. She'd been taken away before Florida got “saved and sober.” Nothing could get Florida's eyes sparking like the subject of Carla. “I keep tellin' them that school is starting in two weeks, and it wouldn't do no good to Carla to start her in one school then transfer her to another, you see what I'm sayin'?” Her crown of copper ringlets bobbed as she jabbed a finger in the air. “Then they have the nerve to say, well, then, maybe Carla should stay with her foster parents another year. Almighty Jesus! Sometimes I am so tempted to lose my religion, just long enough to punch that social worker in the nose.”

I didn't blame Florida one bit. I could hardly imagine all the red tape she was going through now that Carla had been located—so close, and yet still so far from “coming home.”We prayed, stirring up a good storm in the heavenlies, binding Satan, rebuking red tape, and praying a hedge of protection around eight-year-old Carla.

As the prayers for Florida and Carla were winding down, I glanced at my watch. It was almost time to close, and nobody— not Avis or Florida or Stu—had brought up what happened at Adele's beauty shop last Wednesday. I wished
somebody
besides me would bring it up. Denny and I felt caught in the proverbial Catch-22 and certainly could use some prayer. Or would that be “telling tales” since Adele wasn't here? But all Avis said was, “Any other things that need prayer?”

“Yeah,” I jumped in, but I chickened out about MaDear and offered up something safe. “Denny hasn't heard yet whether he still has a coaching job at West Rogers High. We're feeling pretty desperate.”

“T'ree weeks till school be startin' and him still not know? Or it only be two? Well, no matter.” Chanda shook her head. “Mm-mm-mm. Next t'ing they be tellin' us is the teachers on strike and our kids not goin' ta school.”

The prayers of my sisters wrapped around my anxiety. Maybe this is what we needed to pray about anyway. First Ruth blurted, “Shake loose this constipated school system, God,” which provoked a few chuckles. Then Nony prayed, “Oh God, the psalmist said he had never seen the righteous forsaken or their children begging for bread, so we ask You, Lord God, to be with Denny and Jodi right now, to provide for them beyond their expectations . . .”

I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Nony's husband. Mark held up a cordless phone. “For you,” he whispered.

I felt awkward leaving the group when the prayers were for Denny and me, but I slipped into the kitchen with the phone. “Hello?”

“Jodi.” Denny's voice. “Sorry to bother you in the middle of your prayer time, but . . . we got some good news.”

“Good news?” My heart leaped.
His job!

“Yeah. The mail that came while we were gone? The insurance company sent us a check to cover the car. Won't cover a new one, but—”

“That's the good news?” I couldn't believe it. “You called me in the middle of our prayer time to tell me we got the insurance check?” I mean, of course I'd be glad to get rid of that borrowed clunker we'd been driving, but it could've waited.

“Partly, but thought you might also want to know I got my letter from the high school. Since Yada Yada was probably praying about my job tonight.”

I sucked in my breath.
Uh-oh.Here it comes. The good-news/bad-news
bit.

“Somehow it got sent to the wrong address—can you believe that? Anyway, I was supposed to get it weeks ago.” I could almost hear him break into a smile on the other end of the phone. “Good news, babe. They renewed my contract to coach another year.”

8

Denny's news got a round of whooping and hollering when I came back into the family room grinning from ear to ear. “Thank ya, Jesus!” Florida cried. “Ain't that just like God—right on time.” She punched the air in a victory salute.

More like right under the wire,
I muttered to myself, remembering how much Denny had been sweating it out all summer. Yet I wasn't about to complain. At this point
any
job sounded like good news to me, and to be able to coach the same kids he'd had last year? Icing on Denny's cake.

We had a few more rounds of prayer and praise before Avis closed us out, and in the hubbub of everybody talking and leaving, we somehow also managed to agree that our next church visit would be at Iglesia del Espirito Santo this coming Sunday, and the next meeting of Yada Yada would be two weeks from today at my house.

I dug in my tote bag for my datebook to jot it down and realized with a jolt that two weeks from today was Labor Day weekend. Chicago schools would begin right after Labor Day, and I hadn't even started to prepare.

Huh.
I was gonna need prayer for
sure.

THE NEXT WEEK rushed at me like a NASCAR video game— especially when it hit me on Monday that Amanda's birthday was only three days away, and I'd been so busy trying to pull off my Starved Rock surprise that I hadn't planned a thing. But while furiously sewing a set of curtains for a family at Uptown Community— I was going to pay off our Starved Rock getaway before school started or die trying—I got an idea: I'd make new curtains for Amanda's room for her birthday; maybe get her a new comforter too. The bedrooms in our two-flat were rather small and dark. Maybe she'd like to paint it a sunshiny yellow—though they probably called it “lemon chiffon” or “sunrise mist.” Maybe I could talk Josh into helping me with painting.

Denny thought it was a great idea, though I'm not sure he really heard me. Every spare minute he wasn't at the high school getting ready for his new coaching year, he was looking in the
Tribune
for a good, used minivan. Besides, I knew he'd probably get Amanda a little something “just from Dad.” He always did that. I'd be thinking our Christmas gifts to the kids were from both of us, and then little things we'd never discussed would show up under the tree “from Dad.”

Monday night was the first evening we'd sat down to supper as a family in four days. I made chicken fajitas—tasty and easy, twin requirements for a five-star rating at the Baxter household. “Oh, Mom,” Amanda groaned, holding up a store-bought flour tortilla that I'd lightly seared over the gas flame on the kitchen stove.

“This is truly pathetic.”

“Pathetic? I thought you loved fajitas.”

“I do. Did.” She flopped the thing onto her plate. “But that was before I ate
real
tortillas in Mexico.” She pronounced it “Meh-he-co,” showing off her new aplomb at conversational Spanish.

“You don't want that?” Josh reached across the table with his fork and speared the lonely tortilla on his sister's plate, flopping it next to his own overflowing fajita.

“Give it back!” she screeched.

“Hey!” Denny yelled. “Josh, give the tortilla back to Amanda. Amanda, eat—and spare us the food critique.”

Denny and I exchanged looks. These two were supposed to be young adults?

I passed Amanda the chicken fajita filling. “Speaking of food, what would you like for your birthday dinner?” For years that had been a safe question, since the answer was usually pizza or spaghetti. Last year, though, Josh had requested shrimp kabobs and twice-baked potatoes. I might have to ask for three choices and pick the one I could actually cook.

By now Amanda had stuffed half a fajita into her mouth. “Oh! Could I invite Edesa and Emerald to my birthday supper?” At least, that's what I think she said. It came out rather garbled. She swallowed. “And ask Edesa for her recipe for enchiladas. She made them for me this weekend, and they were
sooo
good.”

That was different. Usually Amanda wanted a sleepover with some of her friends—but that had been back in Downers Grove, where she'd practically grown up with the same pack of girls from kindergarten through middle school. Last year at this time we had just moved to Rogers Park, and she'd settled for just one friend from our old church to come spend the weekend.

Now she was asking for her Spanish tutor and Delores Enriques's daughter, who was two or three years younger, to be her birthday guests. Was this the same teenager who'd been on the verge of failing first-year Spanish just a few months ago?

“Sure, but I'm not making any promises about the enchiladas.” I caught Denny's eye again.
“Go ahead, tell them,”
I mouthed at him.

Denny cleared his throat. “Got good news,” he said, refilling his own plate. “My contract at West Rogers High has been renewed.” “Great,” Josh said. “Is there any more chicken?”

Denny opened his mouth then closed it again. Obviously the kids hadn't wasted any time worrying about it.

After supper, Josh took Willie Wonka for his evening walk, Denny and Amanda went out to look at used cars, and I tackled the final set of curtains for the Gage family. When would I be able to get to Vogue Fabrics up in Evanston to get some material for Amanda's curtains? Denny had preseason soccer practices at the high school, which meant no car during the day. Maybe tomorrow evening—if I could interrupt the car hunt—and then I'd have to find time to sew when Amanda wasn't around.

This might be more complicated than I thought.

I was almost done sewing the rod pockets when Denny and Amanda came in. “No luck on the car,” he said and disappeared into the kitchen. A few minutes later he was back in the dining room, where I'd set up the sewing machine. “You about done?” He held up two sweating glasses. “Decaf. Iced.” He headed for the back door with both coffees. “Come on out to the back porch when you can.”

I sighed. I wasn't quite done, but Denny obviously wanted to talk. I turned off the sewing machine. Probably a good thing.My leg and midsection were starting to throb.

Denny was sitting on the back steps sipping his iced coffee. The cicadas were putting on a thunderous concert—if you call sawing away on one note a “concert”—but I liked it. Nature's refusal to take a backseat to urban noise.

He handed me my glass as I lowered my aching body to the steps. “Did, uh . . . did Adele or Avis say anything to you last night about MaDear?”

I shook my head. “Adele wasn't even there. Made me feel funny. Like she was staying away on purpose. I kinda hoped somebody would bring it up—after all, Florida and Stu were there too. But nobody said anything, so I didn't either.”

Denny spit out an expletive under his breath. “Well, I'm gonna call Adele. It's driving me nuts. I feel bad for MaDear—but it's killing me, her thinking I'm some redneck racist who killed her brother. We gotta set this straight somehow.” He stood up.

“Now? I mean, it's kinda late.” I squinted at my watch. Nine-forty, to be exact. I wanted Denny to call—and didn't want him to call. Adele wasn't the easiest person to “get real” with.

Denny went inside to call Adele, and I prayed fervently into my iced coffee.
Jesus, we need some help here. Give Denny some peace
about what happened—maybe erase MaDear's memory again.
Wouldn't that work? Don't let Adele blame us for something that's not
our fault—