2-in-1 Yada Yada (47 page)

The back screen door banged. “No answer.” Denny sat back down beside me. “I left a message.” His shoulders hunched as he leaned his elbows on his knees. We both knew she wouldn't call back.

WITH AMANDA'S BIRTHDAY COMING UP, my sewing projects to finish, and school just around the corner—which meant shopping for school supplies and clothes for the kids, getting my classroom ready, updating my lesson plans, and attending the obligatory Professional Development days next week—temptation pulled me in two directions the next morning: roll over and go back to sleep, or hit the floor running.

Willie Wonka helped me decide by licking my hand and face—whatever skin he could reach with his doggy tongue—then clicking rapidly on the wooden floors toward the back door for his morning pee.

Okay, so I was up. As I waited for Willie Wonka to finish his business, I faced my next daily struggle: grab my to-do list or grab my Bible? Avis constantly reminded the Yada Yada sisters that the busier we got, the more we needed to “stay in the Word” and to pray. I knew for a fact that a morning devotional time would be hard to come by once school started, so as the dog came back into the house I muttered, “Okay,Willie. I'm gonna slow down these last two weeks long enough to get a half-hour for Bible reading and prayer before the rest of the family gets up. Hold me to it, okay?” Not that the deaf-as-a-doornail dog could hear my vow, but it felt good to tell
somebody.

With a mug of fresh coffee in one hand and my Bible in the other, I draped myself in the recliner by the fan in the front window while Willie Wonka plopped down at my feet to start work on the first of his many daytime naps.

Prayer . . . It was still a challenge for me to get beyond my laundry list of “Dear God, bless so-and-so and please do such-and-such,” a prayer routine perfected by family devotions as a kid, not to mention forty-plus years of Sunday school and church. Avis and Florida had given me several gospel and praise CDs when I was laid up after the accident, and that helped me focus on who God is and do some praising. But I couldn't exactly play loud praise music at six o'clock in the morning, or the neighbors upstairs would be knocking on the floor with a broom handle. And turning the volume low enough not to bother anybody didn't do justice to Donnie McClurkin or CeCe Winans.

My other challenge was a mind that skipped around like a pinball— and today was no different.
Two weeks till school starts—sheesh.
I'm sure not ready for that emotional marathon.
I tried to tell myself that I enjoyed teaching, that I loved third graders, but my first year at Mary McLeod Bethune Elementary hadn't exactly been a stellar experience. Half the kids in my room spoke something besides English at home, which made parent-teacher conferences like a debate at the UN—without the headphones and translators.
If
the parents bothered to show up. The no-show parents really made me mad. Out in the suburbs, I'd been used to a close partnership between school and home, but here, a good percentage of kids came to school without the supplies they needed. Or breakfast. A few of my students could barely read or write, but the school district seemed to push them along year after year, regardless of skill. And classroom management—don't even get me started.

My primary saving grace had been Avis—“Ms. Johnson” to the staff—who was the principal of Bethune Elementary. Yet she couldn't hold my hand all the time; she had eight grade levels and a large staff to oversee.

Trying to corral my thoughts, I opened my Bible to the Gospel of Mark, which I'd been reading in bits and pieces over the summer. Several of the women in the Yada Yada Prayer Group could quote reams of Scripture promises from the Old Testament—even from those pesky Minor Prophets—but my motto tended to be: “When in doubt, check out what Jesus said. And did.” And right there alongside the little black ribbon that marked my place was the story of Jesus blessing the children: “ ‘Let the children come to me!' . . . Then he took the children into his arms and placed his hands on their heads and blessed them.”

Sudden tears filled my eyes. I'd read that story a zillion times at least. This week, though, it seemed like Jesus was giving it to me because I needed to carry it with me as I started my second year at Bethune Elementary.

The phone rang. So early? I could hear the shower running— Denny must be up—but someone answered, so I just shut my eyes, squeezing tears down my cheeks.
Okay, Jesus, You love the children.
I guess that's why I'm at this school, so You can love them through
me. But it was hard to love some of those kids last year, and now I'm
going to have a whole new class. Everything from “sweeties” to “beast-ies.”
You're going to have to help me big-time—

“Mom?”

I opened my eyes. Josh, pushing six feet, towered over my chair in a T-shirt, sweat shorts, and bare feet.

“Uh, Pastor Clark is asking if I'd take some kids to the beach today. He's helping their mom get signed up for Section 8 housing or something. I know I said I'd go with you to pick out paint for 'Manda, but . . .” He stared at me. “You okay?”

I gave him a bleary smile. “Yeah. God's just getting me ready for school.”

9

A
manda's birthday dinner was a great success. At least if you count that we laughed a lot. Edesa brought Emerald, who seemed delighted to be the only member of her large family invited.

My enchiladas, however, didn't measure up to Edesa's, even though she gave me her recipe—I could tell by the way Amanda politely said, “Good, Mom.” Usually what I got from Amanda when I tried something new was either, “Eeewww, gross!” or “This is
so
to die for!” Guess company brought out her manners.

I'd taken the El up to Main Street Evanston to get material for Amanda's new curtains from Vogue Fabrics, and Denny and I got out to Home Depot in the evening to choose paint on the way to look at another used car. “Are you sure she'll like yellow?” Denny had asked—
after
the clerk had already mixed two cans of “summer sunflower.”

I glared at him. “She better.”

I had hoped to shop for a matching comforter, but Denny wanted to look at a promising Dodge Caravan he'd seen in the paper. The Caravan was only a couple of years old and in great shape, but the family who was selling it had decided they “only” needed two cars. “Understandable,” Denny had said with a straight face. We bought it on the spot and drove it home—well, Denny drove it, and I followed in the clunker. By the time we returned our borrowed car to the Uptown family—bless ‘em— who'd kindly loaned it to us after I totaled the Voyager, it was too late to shop for a comforter.

So I just made a coupon—“Good for a New Comforter!”—and stuck it in Amanda's birthday card. Josh paid for one of the cans of paint and promised to help paint her room—though I had a momentary heart palpitation when she said, “Can I exchange the paint? I was thinking of doing my room in red.” But she gave it up when we said she'd have to pay for
that
herself.

My “fruit pizza” dessert with fifteen sparkle candles
did
go over big, as did Edesa's birthday gift: a Spanish-English New Testament. Emerald, looking like a Latina Alice in Wonderland with her thick mane of dark hair tied back with a baby blue ribbon, gave her a cloth bookmark that she'd stitched herself with Amanda's name. The way Amanda carefully put the bookmark in the Spanish Bible then hugged the book to her chest, I knew Amanda's fifteenth birthday would be held in her heart a long time.

And of course there was the “little something” from Denny: an ankle bracelet. How cool was that?

Denny and Amanda gave “The Two E's”—Josh's shorthand for our guests—a ride home in our “new” minivan while I cleaned up the kitchen. Emerald gave me a hug before she left and whispered, “When
I'm
fifteen, my parents will give me a
quinceañera
—a big fiesta. You will come,
si?”

“Si,”
I replied, which used up my entire Spanish vocabulary, though I could only guess what a
quinceañera
was. “See you Sunday?” Emerald nodded happily before scurrying out the door after Amanda.

Visiting Edesa's and Delores's church on Sunday would be a treat.
Wonder who else from Yada Yada will show up? Does Adele even
know about it?
I was usually the communicator to folks who missed a meeting, but I hadn't e-mailed Adele yet.

I gave the kitchen counter a last swipe with the dishrag, turned out the kitchen light, and limped into the dining room. My leg was
really
tired today. Maybe that physical therapy tomorrow would be good stuff. I lowered myself into the chair in front of the computer, turned it on, and called up our e-mail.

I scrolled past several birthday greetings for Amanda and the usual spam that made it past our blocker. Then I called up a note from Nony.

To: Yada Yada

From: [email protected]

Subject: Hoshi's parents

Dear Sisters . . . By the grace of God Hoshi's parents arrived Wednesday. Mark and I and the boys (Hoshi, too, of course) picked them up at the airport. We offered our guest room to them during their stay, but Mr. Takahashi bowed quite formally and said they had instructed Hoshi to make reservations at the Orrington, so we just took them to the hotel.

Well, that made sense, since the Orrington in downtown Evanston was within walking distance to Northwestern's campus. On the other hand, so was the Smiths' house. Nony didn't sound offended, but it made me curious. Had Hoshi told her parents that her mentors were African-Americans? If this was their first visit to the United States, they were probably already in a state of culture shock.

The rest of Nony's e-mail was just a reminder to pray for Hoshi and to remember her birthday next week.

I called up a new message and typed in Adele's address:

To: Adele Skuggs

From: Jodi Baxter

Subject: YY church visit this Sunday

I stared at the blinking cursor for several minutes, wondering what to say. Just tell her about the church visit? Say nothing about MaDear? We'd left at least three phone messages for her, asking her to call. Surely she knew we wanted to talk about what happened last week. And why hadn't she come to Yada Yada last Sunday?

God, why does this feel like a minefield? I don't know what to say.

I need some help here!

It took me ten minutes of writing, deleting, and rewriting, but I finally ended up with:

Hi, Adele. Jodi here. You were missed Sunday evening! Delores and Edesa invited Yada Yada to visit Iglesia del Espirito Santo this coming Sunday (last Sunday of August). Can you make it?

Also, if you get a chance, Denny and I would like to talk about what happened last week at the shop. Avis told us a little bit about why MaDear was so upset. We are truly sorry your mom experienced such a tragedy in her past, but it feels bad to just leave it as is, given such a huge misunderstanding about who she thinks Denny is. Let us know when would be a good time to talk. Thanks.

I read it over at least twenty times . . . and finally hit Send.

SUNDAY MORNING wasn't too bad for Chicago in August: heading for the low eighties and humid. I had no idea what kind of church building Iglesia met in, but I tucked a couple of bottles of water in my tote bag along with my Bible and notebook just in case. Uptown Community wasn't air conditioned, just ceiling fans, and sometimes all those bodies in that second-floor room on a hot day could get stifling.
And
rather smelly if it was potluck Sunday, which always drew more street people with bathing issues.

I knew Amanda was eager to go with me this morning, even though she'd just been to Edesa's church last week. I was surprised, however, when both Denny and Josh said they'd like to come too. Denny hates to miss any Sundays at Uptown. But he'd spent all day Saturday there, coordinating the crew of volunteers who came from suburban churches to participate in Uptown's outreach to the homeless, so I guess he figured he could be absent with a clear conscience. He'd been one of those “commuting” volunteers for eons till last year, when the Baxter family had moved into the wildly diverse Rogers Park neighborhood near the church—a move I was still trying to reconcile with the girl who grew up with picket fences around our all-white neighborhoods in Iowa.

At least Denny remembered some of his high-school Spanish. Maybe he could help me decipher the worship service at Iglesia del Espirito Santo.

When we got to the address Delores had given to me in one of the west Chicago neighborhoods, all I saw was a large industrial-type building with no sign. I was about to wonder out loud if we were at the right place when Amanda said, “This is it.” She practically skipped inside, where Delores and Emerald and a few of the younger Enriques children were standing in the foyer, waiting to meet us.

I wanted to ask why there wasn't any sign, but several good-looking young men in black suits and classy ties stepped up to greet us—Denny and Josh had come in slacks and silk sport shirts, considered “summer dressy” at Uptown—and directed us into a large room with tweedy, blue carpet and matching chairs. “Whoa,” murmured Denny. “Bet this room could hold about a thousand folks.” Whatever its former life, the factory had been transformed into a bright and pleasant sanctuary. I poked Denny and waved my hand in front of my face.
Ahh. Air conditioning.

Delores stayed in the foyer to wait for any other Yada Yada visitors, but Emerald took Amanda by the hand and led us to the left side of the building. “They have English translation here,” the youngster chirped, leaving us for a moment then returning with four headsets. “But just during the message—oh! There's José!” She motioned to him vigorously.

Emerald's older brother sheepishly made his way toward where we were sitting. I could hardly believe he was the same boy I'd last seen lying in a hospital bed last May, shot in the back. His dark hair was nicely combed, he had on a white dress shirt and tie, and a healthy color warmed his cheeks.