2-in-1 Yada Yada (6 page)

“All right. All right. I'm blessed. Highly favored by the Lord and coming into my prosperity. You?”

“Saved, sanctified,
and
satisfied. Can't complain.”

The two women burbled on, but I closed my eyes and leaned against the industrial-size toilet paper dispenser. What was I
doing
here? These women talked a whole new language! I'd been a baptized Christian for thirty-plus years—forty-two, if I included my childhood years when “Jesus Loves Me” was my favorite goodnight song—but when someone asked how I was doing, I usually said, “Great,” or “Fair” or “Not so good,” depending on how I felt at the moment.

Either these women had cliché buttons that played on automatic, or they had an inside track on God's blessings.

I stayed in my stall until the other women left, then washed my hands with the perfumed hotel soap and hit the button on the hot-air dryer.
So, what is it, God? Am I blessed? Is that the same as
being thankful for my blessings?

I GOT BACK TO THE BALLROOM in time to hear another dynamo speaker who barely needed a microphone, then we were instructed to return to our prayer groups and pray for each other, that God would reveal the obstacles keeping us from living out our destiny.

Here we go again,
I thought as the flood of estrogen energy flowed through the doors and into our respective meeting rooms. My “destiny”? I didn't have a clue. And I wasn't sure I felt that comfortable with the jargon. I mean, we're supposed to do God's will as revealed in the Bible—obeying the commandments and stuff like that. And “bloom where we're planted,” to borrow a worn-out cliché. As in, be faithful where God puts you. But living into our destiny? What did that mean?

Florida plopped down in a chair beside me in Group Twenty-Six. “Where were you?” I asked. “I saved you a seat.”

“Oh, girl, I got there late and didn't want to walk all the way up to the fifth row.” She leaned toward me with a conspiratorial whisper. “We gotta deprogram Avis, you know. The fifth row isn't any more spiritual than the fifteenth.”

I chuckled. My sentiments exactly.

To my surprise, everyone from last night's circle showed up for this prayer time. Even Adele. Even Yo-Yo. Maybe Ruth dragged her since they came to the conference together. Again there was a bit of awkward looking at our shoes, wondering who would start this thing.
I
sure wasn't going to jump in again.

Finally Delores Enriques spoke up. “Why don't you get us started, Avis? You're the senior
señora
here, I think.” She looked around the circle.
“Si?”

There were murmurs of assent from several in the group. I was sure Avis felt put on the spot. But Delores was right. Avis was the natural spiritual leader in the group as far as I knew.

But the woman with all the earrings—Leslie Stuart—spoke up. “Why do we need a leader?” she said. “Let's just start, whoever wants to.”

I wasn't the only one who glared at the woman with the long blonde hair who wanted to be called “Stu.” She had a right to her viewpoint, but it felt like a put-down after Delores had suggested Avis.

Avis got off the hot seat. “Well, Stu is right. We can just go right to prayer. We don't need to know specifics in order to pray for each other. We can pray in the Spirit, mention each person by name. God knows better than we do what our destiny is, or the obstacles in our lives.”

True, I thought, but I felt disappointed. I liked being able to pray specifically for a person—and sharing was a way to get to know each other.

But Stu wasn't finished. “I didn't mean that. I think whoever wants to should share what they'd like prayer for, and then we can pray for that person. I just don't see that that needs a ‘leader.' ”

Now I was really irritated—especially since I half-agreed with her about the sharing part and praying specifically. But I felt defensive for Avis.

Adele, on the other side of the circle, was sitting with her arms folded and foot tapping. “Leslie, is it?” she said in a voice that made me think of a teacher with a ruler. “I think I heard most of this group agreeing that we'd like to appoint a leader, and Avis is it. Let's not waste a lot of time here. I think you'll agree.” The woman who operated Adele's Hair and Nails nodded at Avis. “Go ahead.”

Zingo!
Good for Adele, I thought. She had just redeemed herself in my eyes—for the moment anyway. But I sure wouldn't have wanted to be in Stu's shoes.

I felt a poke in my side. “Adele knows how to kick a little butt, don't she?” Florida whispered. Again I wanted to laugh.

“Well, I don't know that we really need a leader either,” said Avis graciously. “But why don't we quiet ourselves and get in an attitude of prayer. Then if anyone has something to share that needs prayer, just speak out. No one has to share if they don't want to, but let's try to pray for each person during this time. Let the Holy Spirit be our guide.”

She closed her eyes, lifted up her face, and began to murmur, “Thank You, Jesus. Thank You for who You are . . .”

Others around me began to pray in a similar way, all at the same time. Beside me, Florida rocked side to side, her eyes squeezed shut. “Thank ya,
Jesus!”
she said. No murmuring there.
“Thank
ya!”

My heart felt stretched. What had just happened here? I couldn't close my eyes. I just wanted to memorize the faces in this group. Even Stu seemed pacified. For a reason I couldn't fathom, I felt teary. I thought I had just seen spiritual leadership at work— though I'd be hard-pressed to explain it.

As I soaked in the murmured prayers and gazed around the group, I suddenly noticed something.

Nails. Lots of painted fingernails, no two shades of red alike. Not only that, but every dark hand, whether African or Caribbean or American, had painted nails. I glanced on either side of me. Even Avis and Florida. But most of the pale hands—Yo-Yo, for sure, but also Ruth and me and Hoshi—had bald nails, though Hoshi's looked carefully manicured with very white moon-slivers at the tips.

Stu was the exception. Her nails were long, blue, and glittery.

Good grief, Jodi! Stop it!
I squeezed my eyes shut.
Dear God, I'm
sorry for getting distracted. Help me to stay focused . . . focused on You.

6

B
y the time we stopped for lunch, we'd only prayed for half the group. Edesa asked us to pray for her family back in Honduras. (Honduras! Of course. No wonder she attended a Spanish-speaking church. I wondered what percentage of blacks lived in Honduras. That would be interesting for my third-graders to study.) Edesa's parents were believers, she said, but their town had been devastated by Hurricane Mitch in 1998. She felt guilty being away from home and experiencing so much plenty in the States, when her extended family was still struggling with grinding poverty.

Encouraged by Edesa, who mentioned families, Hoshi spoke up. Her parents were coming to Chicago to visit this summer and would be extremely displeased that she had forsaken the Shinto religion for Christianity. She wanted prayer to be strong to share her new faith.

“As long as we're praying for parents, y'all can pray for my mother. And me. I take care of her. And—you know—it's like having another kid.” Adele spoke into the circle then retreated behind arms folded across her ample bosom.

Adele took care of her mother? I knew firsthand that was no picnic. Grandmother Jennings had lived with us for a time when I was a teenager. She had dementia (my brothers called it “demented”— but not in front of my parents, of course), and nothing my mom or dad did for her was right. As the only girl, I had to share my room with Grandma. One time I caught her going through my drawers and throwing out birthday cards and notes I'd saved under my sweaters and underwear. Boy, did I yell! When she died and I got my room back, I felt relieved and guilty at the same time.

I corralled my thoughts and tried to focus on Chanda, the Jamaican woman who said she cleaned houses on the North Shore. Had been doing it for ten years, had a good clientele. But the focus on “living into your destiny” had stirred up feelings of dissatisfaction. “I wan' to be doin' someting else, but I don' know what,” she said. “Got tree kids, no mon. It's hard to jump the train.”

Whew. I was glad people were opening up. Chanda was somebody you didn't really notice just sitting there. Average height, dowdy skirt and blouse, short black hair, cut but not styled, nothing that stood out. But the idea that God had created plain Chanda to be a “woman of destiny” tickled my fancy. Wished I had the gift of prophecy and could zap her with a “word.” Well, not really. People who tried that at Uptown Community made me feel uncomfortable, even though I knew
some
people must have that gift because it was in the Bible.

Noting the time, Avis moved us into praying for Edesa, Hoshi, Adele, and Chanda, even though we hadn't gotten around the circle. Well, there was always the next time.

AT LUNCHTIME, the lines for the pay phones just off the lobby were three and four women deep. Lines probably would have been longer, but I saw a lot of women standing in the line for the lunch buffet holding one hand to their ear talking on their cell phones. I did a double take when one woman came marching through the lobby talking loudly to herself and making emphatic gestures— then I realized she had one of those handsfree cords hanging from her ear.

As I waited for a phone, bits of one-sided conversations merged in space above the pay phones, like little cartoon balloons.

“What color is it? . . . Orange? Sure it wasn't just a hairball? . . . Okay, okay, I know it's yucky . . . No, you
can't
leave it for me to clean up! . . . Just
do it,
Morris.”

“I want to cancel my Saturday three o'clock . . . Do you have a two o'clock on Monday? . . .
Friday?
I'll look like my mother by Friday!”

“Of course I miss you, honey . . . You broke what? . . . No, no, Mommy's not mad . . . Why were you using my good— . . . Put Daddy on the phone.
Now.”

Phones got hung up, and the lines inched forward. A new voice ahead of me sounded familiar, but I couldn't quite place it. “Tomas? . . . Did ya check me lottery numbers on this morning? . . . On the refrigerator door, where they always put! . . . Gwan do it . . . Yes, I wait.”

Dying of curiosity, I shifted my position, trying to identify the woman whose back was to me. Then the woman turned, caught my eye, and we both gave a slight nod of recognition. Chanda George.

Good grief! Chanda played the
lottery?
On a cleaning woman's pay? It might be legal, but surely it was unbiblical, or . . . or at least irresponsible. Didn't she have three kids? I strained my ears as she turned back to the phone. “Ya sure? . . . Ya double-check? . . . I was
sartin
I gwan be a winna . . . 'cause I been prayin' 'bout it all weekend.”

Oh, brother. The prayers God had to sort through. I was afraid Chanda would speak to me when she hung up, and she'd
know
I was rolling my eyes. But just then one of the pay phones got free, so I dropped in thirty-five cents and punched in my home number.

The phone picked up. “Yeah?”

“Josh! Don't answer the phone like that!”

A pause on the other end. “Hi, Mom. Whassup?”

“Just calling to see how everybody's doing.”

“Fine.”

I leaned my forehead against the phone box. Why did talking with my seventeen-year-old always feel like Chinese water torture? “Where's Amanda and Dad?”

“Out somewhere.” I ground my teeth, but Josh added, “I think they went out for brunch—you know, one of those dad-daughter things.”

“Thank you, Josh,” I said, my irritation somewhat pacified by this information. That was Denny, Mr. Spontaneous. A dad-daughter brunch—that was nice.

“Well, I'll be home tomorrow afternoon. Maybe we can go out for pizza tomorrow night. We'll do Gullivers—make it special.”

“I think Dad said we're gonna order pizza tonight. Besides, the youth group is having a planning meeting for our summer trip tomorrow night.”

“Oh.”
Might as well stay another night,
I grumbled to myself.
Baxter household's not planning a big Mom homecoming.
“Well, tell Dad I called, okay? Love you.”

“Sure, Mom.”
Click.

Right. I had as much confidence that Denny would get that message as I did that the phone was going to give me my money back. I checked the little slot. Nope.

I went through the lunch line by myself, but the buffet was good: a salad bar with lots of different pasta salads, spinach, and arugula greens (usually $4.99 for eight ounces at Whole Foods), lots of fresh fruit, and crusty bread. The hotel had a women's conference pegged right down to the menu.

“Darn,” said a familiar voice behind me at the condiment bar. “Where's the mac 'n' cheese? I need me some greens.”

I looked up and grinned. “Hi, Florida.” (Well, maybe the hotel didn't have
this
women's conference pegged.) “You eaten already?”

She picked up a grape. “If you call this eating? Think they got a Popeye's nearby?”

“You're kidding, right?”

“Girl, no! I'm hungry. Wish I had some crispy fried chicken right about now. Anyway, gotta run. What time's the next session?”

“Uh . . . two o'clock, I think, followed by the prayer group. Then I think we break to get ready for the banquet tonight.”

“Oh, yeah! The banquet.” Florida perked up. “Maybe they'll have chicken. We gotta get sharp tonight, right?”

Right. I'd almost forgotten dressing up. Had seemed kind of silly to me at first, but maybe it would be fun after all.

I TURNED ON THE HOTEL SHOWER as hot as I could stand it and let the pulsing jetspray massage my head. Ahhhh. Now this was luxury. At home we barely got the “hot” water temperature in our old frame house past lukewarm. Not to mention that when the family on the second floor of our two-flat was doing laundry in the basement, the water pressure in our shower slowed to a trickle. But I'd paid for two nights in this hotel room,
all utilities
included,
and I intended to get my money's worth.