The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Caught (29 page)

It was Saturday before I got online to add Chanda's e-mail to my eaddress book. Our inbox was stuffed; hadn't checked e-mail since school started.
Grr.
Most of it was junk.Didn't want to deal with it now. So I called up a new message and began to type:

To: Yada Yada
From: [email protected]
Subject: Chanda's got e-mail!

Hi sisters! Everybody survive the first week of school? The Baxter Barn is still standing, in spite of barnyard squabbles over our solitary bathroom. (I'm thinking of running for president of the U.S. on a platform of “a chicken in every pot and TWO bathrooms in every house.” Probably won't get the vegetarian vote, but it'll be a landslide with parents of teenagers.)

Wish we were meeting this weekend to pray over all our school kids—that fifth Sunday in August throws us off, making it THREE weeks between YY meetings. But guess we should stick to the schedule. Second Sunday at Adele's, right?

Speaking of that fifth Sunday last week, Uptown Community had a business meeting accompanied by dramatic drum rolls (well, thunder). But we made an awesome decision: to merge Uptown Community with New Morning Christian (Nony and Mark's church), which has been using Uptown's space for worship Sunday afternoons all summer. It seems God has been putting our two churches together for a reason. Have to admit, I'm still astonished at this turn of events, have no idea what it will actually mean, but I think it's a big HALLELUJAH!

Oh, don't want to forget: Chanda's finally got e-mail! Here's her addy:[email protected] you get this, please send her a howdy and
your
e-mail address, OK? I think that makes us 100% online now! Yea!

Hugs! Jodi

I hit Send, feeling smug that I'd thought of a way for Chanda to get everybody's address without me having to go to all that work copying them into an e-mail for her. Then I reread all that “barn-yard” and “howdy” stuff and groaned. The hick-chick from Iowa in me was leaking out.

Denny had to be at school all day Saturday—still working out kinks in the high school schedule between academic classes and sports—which meant he couldn't make it to the workday at the new building.We'd gotten a letter that week from Pastor Clark and Pastor Cobbs inviting everyone handy with a hammer or a paintbrush to join the Saturday work crew the month of September, hoping to have the building habitable by the first Sunday of October for our first worship service as a combined congregation.

Rick Reilly rounded up the Uptown teens, however, and they put in three hours sanding drywall in exchange for several buckets of hot wings and a case of soda. I figured Josh and Amanda counted for the Baxter contribution today; I'd go next week when they were ready to paint.

My e-mail about the church merger sparked a flurry of Yada Yada messages. Nony said she hadn't gotten to church at all last weekend and only just now heard the news. “Mark had to have a laser treatment on his ‘good' eye; the doctor discovered some tiny retinal tears,” she wrote. “Losing the sight in his left eye is frightening enough. Please pray, sisters, for protection of his other eye! But I am so glad to hear about ‘two' becoming ‘one.' Praise Jesus! He is true to His Word that every valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill brought low! Let us pray that the crooked places ahead for this church merger will be made straight and the rough places smooth.”

Hadn't thought about Isaiah 40 in this context, but it sure fit.
How does Nony pull out just the right scripture?
I wondered, clicking on Avis's message, which was short and to the point: “Please keep Rochelle, Dexter, and Conny in your prayers too.”

Over the weekend there were also e-mail messages from Florida ( “Carl still pinching himself, can't believe Uptown voted themselves out of a church” ), Becky and Yo-Yo, basically saying “Welcome, Chanda” and giving up their own e-addresses, and Delores asking, “Anyone know how Ruth is doing? I tried to call but only got the answering machine.”

Ruth.
That's
what I wanted to do after church: go see Ruth! She hadn't called or anything the last two weeks.That wasn't like her.Ben either. He and Denny and some of the other guys—Peter Douglass, Carl Hickman—had become pretty close this past summer after the attack on Mark Smith. I knew Denny was all geared up to watch a football game on TV that afternoon, but I asked him anyway if he'd go with me to visit Garfields. “I think Ben needs our support during this pregnancy as much as Ruth, but if I go alone he'll just leave us girls to ourselves. Hey, maybe we could meet them at the Bagel Bakery or something, like we did that first time when we met Ben.”

Denny had that sour look on his face, that feeling-put-uponby- good-deeds-when-his-heart-wasn't-in-it look. “
Man
, Jodi. Not fair to spring that on me at the last minute. You knew I wanted to see the Bears play the Forty-Niners.”

“Fine. I'll go by myself.” I started off to look for my purse.

“Oh, great. You make me feel like a jerk if I don't go.”

“I did not. I just asked. You can say no.” Well, I had laid it on pretty thick. “Isn't the game usually over by three? We could go after that.”

Denny rubbed the back of his head. “Problem
is
, they're playing in San Francisco, which means the game won't start till around three . . .OK. Look. I'd like to see Ben. If he's planning to watch the game, we can go over there. We'll watch the game while you and Ruth visit. Deal? ”

Which is how we ended up in the Garfields' compact brick bungalow in Lincolnwood that Sunday afternoon, Ben and Denny totally absorbed in armchair quarterbacking, snarfing up bowls of chips and salsa, not to mention a couple of cold beers. Ruth made tea for us, and we sat in the dining room making small talk. I didn't like what I saw. Her face and hands were puffy, and at the same time her skin looked sallow, hanging loosely on her arms. She was into her sixth month, but it was hard to believe she was carrying twins. She wasn't that big.

“—have to visit this product of a mixed marriage,” Ruth was saying, referring to the church merger I'd just told her about. “Will you hyphenate your name, like they do nowadays? Uptown Community–New Morning Christian Church . . . or maybe New Morning Christian–Uptown Community Church.” She poured herself another cup of peppermint tea. “Always wondered about those hyphenated names. If Jimmy Smith-Jones marries Susie Brown-Miller, will their kids go to school with names like Oscar Smith-Jones-Brown-Miller? Now
there's
a teacher's nightmare, Jodi Baxter.” She snorted, blowing tea out of the cup and having to wipe it up with her napkin.

“Don't you usually put honey in your tea? ” I asked her, noticing its absence.

She fluttered her hand. “Too many calories. Had to give it up.”

“Ruth!” Ben's voice yelled over the sports announcers in the living room. “We got any more chips? Baxter here cleaned me out.”

Ruth started to push herself up. “Let me get them,Ruth,” I said. “Where are they? ” But she shook her head, disappeared into the kitchen, then walked through with a bag of chips in her hand. A moment later, I heard Ben say, “Put that back, Ruth! No salt, remember? Baxter! How'd your wife keep her girlish fgure after two kids? Maybe the trick is to have them one at a time!” I heard Ben guffawing at his little joke.

Of all the rotten . . .
For one nanosecond I hoped Denny would knock his teeth in.
Just kidding, Lord,
I hastily amended. “Ruth,” I hissed, when she lowered herself back into the dining room chair, “what are you eating?
Less
salt, not
no
salt. You don't look so good. And is Ben always like this? That was mean.”

Ruth fluttered her hand dismissively again, but the spitfire wasn't there. “Don't mind Ben; he means well. Watching I don't eat too much, just because I'm carrying twins. And this . . .” She patted her puffy cheeks. “Like a goldfish bowl I look. But Jodi. Did you ever try to eat food without salt? ” She crossed her eyes, made a gagging noise, and I burst out laughing.

But when we left a couple of hours later,my insides were frowning. Something wasn't right.

THE SECOND WEEK OF SCHOOL included an anniversary I dreaded: 9-11. If I closed my eyes and ran backward with my thoughts, I could still see the horrific images of passenger planes crashing into the Twin Towers in New York, the mighty buildings crumbling into mere particles of dust, carrying thousands of lives with them.

It wasn't a day I wanted to remember. But how could I avoid the issue when replays of crashing planes and terrorist mugshots flooded the TV with 9-11 images? My problem, I told Avis in her office, was that my third-graders were only
six years old
when 9-11 happened and probably had no memory of those events.Why pour fear and horror into their souls? Not to mention that several kids in my class were Middle Eastern. Kids could be cruel.

“It could be a teachable moment, Jodi,” Avis said. “A chance to say that here in the United States, here in our school, we
can
live together with respect, no matter what we look like or where we're from.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Well then,” she said, “just observe the minute of silence and say we are honoring the people who died when the Twin Towers collapsed. Maybe they won't ask questions. Sometimes we tell kids more than they want to know.”

I did as our venerable principal suggested, but I should have seen it coming. An eight-year-old is curious by definition, especially about the adult world. The questions flew thick and fast after the moment of silence.
Why did the buildings fall down? Who was in the planes? Did any kids die? Was it an accident? Why would somebody do that?

“Because they hate us, that's why,” Carla said, nose in the air.

“Yeah. They hate Israel too. I heard on TV that somebody blew himself up at a bus stop in Jerusalem and killed lots of people.” Caleb Levy's voice squeaked.

That
nearly scrambled the rest of the day.
Oh God! I wish I could use a scripture like ‘God so loved the world' or ‘love your enemies.' Or just gather all these kids into a big circle and hold hands and pray for all the people who are hurting.
But this was public school, so I did my best to make it a teachable moment, telling them that it was important to respect differences, that violence was never the way to solve problems, that “tolerance” didn't mean everybody had to agree about everything, that in fact “tolerance” was most important when you
disagreed
with someone.

By the time I got home from school, my emotions were frayed. If I ever thought teaching third grade was a walkover, I revised my thinking: I'd just been walked over.

Which is why I probably shouldn't have punched the blinking New Message button on the answering machine.

“Jodi? ” Adele's contralto voice was tight and off-tune. “You got a car? Somebody might want to get over to Florida's place. There was, uh, some trouble on Clark Street in front of my shop not fifteen minutes ago when Sullivan High School let out. I called the cops, wanted to nip it in the bud before somebody got hurt. But” — I heard Adele suck in a breath— “I think I saw Chris Hickman get tossed in the backseat of a squad car.”

27

M
y insides twisted.
Oh no, oh no, oh no.
But I guess adrenaline kicked in. I called Adele at the shop to get more details.

What happened?
. . . She wasn't sure, big melee mostly between black kids and Latino kids, probably gang wanna-bes trying to be tough . . .
Does Florida know?
. . . Yes, she'd called Florida, who needed to get to the police station . . .
Can't help, the car's not home.
But I did call Denny at his office (of course he wasn't there; it was four o'clock, so he was probably out on the athletic field somewhere) and left a message to come straight to Florida's house.Then I half-ran, half-walked the ten blocks to the Hickmans' new home, sending warning messages up my thigh from the rod screwed into my left leg.

Only when I rang the doorbell and no one answered did I think to fuss,
Wait a minute.Why me? What did Adele think I was supposed to do about it? She was the one who called the cops. I don't even understand what it's all about.

I sank down onto the front steps
.
Why hadn't I called Florida first?
Now
what? But no way was I going to walk all the way back home. Besides, I'd told Denny to come here. I'd just wait on the porch until Florida or Carl got home or Denny arrived—whoever showed up first.

I leaned against the slightly wobbly handrails. Florida's fantasy of white wicker porch furniture would be nice about now.

Pray, Jodi,
prodded the still, small Voice in my spirit.
You don't have to know what it's all about to know that Chris and his parents—and maybe a lot of other kids and families too—need a lot of prayer right now.