2-in-1 Yada Yada (58 page)

How Amanda talked us into letting her take the el to Iglesia del Espirito Santo by herself, I'm not sure—especially since she had to transfer. But she did the good-grief-I'm-not-a-baby-anymore bit and promised, “I'll take the cell and call you when I get there, okay?”

She must have gotten on the phone with Edesa because a short while later she popped her head into our bedroom and said, “All set!”

YADA YADA took Ruth up on her invitation and met at her house Sunday evening. I didn't want to leave before Amanda got home from the parade, but she called around four-thirty just as she was transferring to the Red Line, so Josh met her at the Morse Street station, and they walked from there to Uptown Community for youth group. Denny and I would have to hear all about the parade later.

Denny got the bright idea to drive me to the Garfields' and get Ben out of the house.
For a drink?
I wondered. Ben Garfield certainly liked his beer, and it wouldn't be the first time if he asked Denny to join him. But I needed to let Denny handle that. I'd gotten myself in enough trouble nagging Denny about it and jumping to conclusions.

The Lincolnwood area where Ruth lived wasn't easy to reach by public transportation, so everybody got a ride with somebody. Chanda called us at the last minute saying she needed a ride, so Denny and I swung by her apartment building in Juneway Terrace, a depressing concrete jungle that straddled south Evanston and Rogers Park.

“Ooo, that Ruth got herself a real cute house!” Chanda gushed as we parked in front of the Garfields' twenty minutes later. I glanced at the small brick bungalows lined up along the street like square Monopoly pieces. Frankly, they pretty much looked alike to me: Three concrete steps up to the front door, a tidy bay window on the right, one window on the left. The only variations were the curtains in the windows and what flowers or shrubs flanked the steps. Ruth obviously had a green thumb, because a profusion of black-eyed Susans, decorative grasses, and fall mums brightened up the front of her house.

Ruth's husband—number three—opened the door when we rang the doorbell. Ben Garfield's silver hair was brushed back from his broad forehead in a wave reminiscent of Itzhak Perlman. “Where all of you women are going to sit in this shoebox is beyond me,” he grumbled, waving us into the small living room behind the bay window, “but that's your problem. Denny, here, has taken pity on an old man, and we leave you to your prayers.”

“Oh, take yourself out of here, Ben Garfield,” Ruth fussed. “Thank you, Denny.” She pecked Denny on the cheek. “Now shoo, both of you.” Ruth shut the door behind them and rolled her eyes. “Men.”

“Humph. Should be t'ankin' God you
got
a mon,” Chanda pouted, plopping down in a big easy chair.

We chattered for about ten minutes, emptying the bag of day-old
rugelach
Yo-Yo had brought from the Bagel Bakery while waiting for the latecomers. Chanda downed at least six pieces of the rich Jewish pastry as the others straggled in.

“Hey, Jodi. How ya feel?” Florida gave me a quick hug in passing as she and Avis shed their coats. We hadn't had much time to talk that morning at worship—she'd brought the kids again—and I wondered how her second week had gone with Carla at home. Figured I'd find out soon enough.

Stu arrived last with her carload; they'd been delayed by Mexican Independence Day traffic. Somehow we all found places to sit in the small living room. It felt odd to be together again after the robbery two weeks ago. We hadn't talked about it much online or even by phone. But it was comforting too. Hoshi got a lot of hugs and seemed a little overwhelmed by the attention. “I think everyone's here,” Avis said finally.

“ 'Cept Adele,” Chanda said with her mouth full. “She not comin'.”

I'd pretty much guessed as much when Chanda called us for a ride. My feelings were mixed—again. With Adele not here, at least I could relax about that whole mess. On the other hand, wondering why she didn't come left me feeling annoyed. Like
we'd
done something to
her.

“We should get started then,” Avis said. “Does anyone have a song of praise to start us off?”

For some reason the hymn that had been bouncing around in my head the last two weeks popped out of my mouth. “Does anyone know, ‘Take your burden to the Lord and leave it there'?”

“Oh, sure.” Avis hummed a few bars. “One of Charles Tind-ley's hymns.”

“Wait a minute. You know who Charles Tindley is?”

“Of course. Famous African-American preacher from Philadelphia. He wrote hundreds of hymns.”

“My mama used to sing Tindley hymns when we was comin' up,” Florida chimed in. “She was so proud of that man. She'd tell us the story—born a slave, taught himself to read, ended up the preacher of a huge church in Philly. My mama said they called him the Prince of Preachers. Ain't you never heard of him, girl?”

I shook my head.

“Huh. Well, I ain't surprised. White folks ain't been givin' black folks any credit if they can help it.”

That stung. Yet I couldn't argue with her. We'd sung his songs, all right—at least the two in our red hymnal. Maybe more. But no one had ever bothered to mention that the songwriter was black or tell his story when they told stories about other famous hymn writers like Charles Wesley and Fanny Crosby.

“I'm sure Tindley wrote his hymns for everyone,” Avis said, saving me from having to respond to Florida. “Whoever knows it, join in.”Without further ado, she began to sing the words to the first verse, which I didn't know by heart, but I joined in with several others on the chorus:

Leave it there . . . leave it there . . .
Take your burden to the Lord and leave it there;
If you trust and never doubt, He will surely bring you out
Take your burden to the Lord and leave it there.

In gospel fashion, we ended up singing the chorus a couple more times before Avis led out with an impassioned prayer that we'd take the words of this hymn to heart “and bring our burdens to You, Jesus, and leave them there rather than dragging them around, letting Satan beat us down, all hangdog and discouraged.” She could've been an old Baptist preacher herself, for she sailed right back into the last two phrases of the chorus:
“Mmmm-mmm
. . .
If you trust and never doubt, He will surely bring you out . . . Take your burden to the Lord and leave it there . . .
mmmm-mmm.”

I stifled a grin. What would the teachers at Bethune Elementary think if they could see
this
side of their cool-headed principal? God must have prompted me to suggest that song because singing “Leave it there” with my sisters calmed the anxious spirit I brought to the meeting, though I wasn't exactly sure why I felt so unsettled. Too much unfinished business, I guess.

“These last two weeks been one thing after another, know what I'm sayin'?” Florida piped up after the prayer. “Ain't had no time to think about that robbery, though I get hot as pepper sauce when I do. But can't afford to be mad, 'cause I got a little girl who's mad enough at the world and especially me right now 'cause I took her away from her foster mama. Though it ain't all bad,” she hastened to say. “We doin' all right. She out with her daddy and brothers tonight eating pizza.”

Nony reached over and laid a hand on Florida's knee. “Please let us know what we can do.”

“Probably what you doin' now—prayin'. Got sheets, thanks to Jodi.Now anybody who's got some sassy girl clothes to pass along, could use some of them. But you ain't no help in that department, Nony.” A grin softened Florida's worry lines. “All you got is those two handsome boys.”

“I've got girls,” said Delores. “They wear out their clothes pretty bad, but I'll see what we can come up with.”

Chanda's pout deepened. “Mi still hain't heard what happened at sista Jodee's house. Start at da' beginning.”

Avis quickly discouraged simply rehashing the details. “We need to help each other move beyond the trauma to a place of faith.”

“Uh-huh.” Ruth considered that. “So spiritual, I'm not. Exactly how do you do that?”

Stu snickered. “You sound like Yo-Yo.”

Yo-Yo, sitting cross-legged on the floor and cleaning her fingernails with a pocketknife, just grinned.

Avis took the question seriously. “By confessing the Word—”

“Avis! Plain English!” This time Yo-Yo did speak up.

“All right, plain English. But it's an important concept, so I'm going to break it down.
Confessing
—it literally means ‘to tell, to make known.'
The Word,
of course, is what God says in the Bible. So we can either go around
confessing,
‘Oh, wasn't that awful' or, ‘I'm so scared' or, ‘I'm so angry about what happened.' Or we can
confess
the
Word:
‘I'm created in the image of God.' ‘God knows and cares when even a sparrow falls to the ground; how much more He cares about me!' ‘All things work together for good for those who love Him and are called according to His purpose'—to name just a few. That's what I call ‘confessing the Word.' ”

I knew I needed that kind of encouragement, to actually
speak
the Word. Say it out loud. Remind myself what
God
said about stuff that happens when my feelings are flying off in every direction. I certainly didn't do that last night when Denny told me that Bandana Woman had pled guilty and skipped a trial. On the other hand, that seemed like asking a lot of somebody who'd just suffered a trauma—especially Hoshi, who was suffering a lot more than the rest of us as a result of the robbery. Still, I was a little shocked when Stu put my thoughts into actual words.

“Avis, isn't that expecting people to deny their feelings?” Stu's voice got sarcastic. “I just got robbed at knifepoint—well, praise the Lord! Hoshi's family has disowned her—but all things work together for good!” Stu's chin went up. “I mean, maybe praise and thanksgiving are
your
first reactions when something bad happens, but I'll bet most of us would like somebody to say, ‘Gee, that's tough,' or ‘You have a right to be upset!' ”

It suddenly felt like all the air had just been sucked out of the room. No one spoke. I didn't know where to look, so I stared at the curlicues in the carpet. Even Yo-Yo quit cleaning her fingernails. I felt defensive for Avis. Stu had just rejected everything she'd just said. At the same time, I'd been thinking pretty much the same thing—maybe others had too.

Finally Avis spoke. “Stu, I don't mean to deny anyone's feelings. We all have natural feelings—including me. Yes, I felt angry. Yes, I was upset. I don't think one day has gone by that I haven't cried about Hoshi's pain, and I don't know how God is going to work that together for her good. It looks pretty bad. But I do know that if I stay there in the natural, focusing on all my feelings, Satan gets a foothold in my heart. I begin to doubt God's love. My trust slips—is God really in control? All I'm saying is, what I need to do is confess the promises of God, and I need to do it right away. ‘Satan, you're a liar!' ‘God, Your ways are above my ways, so I trust You!'—even if I don't feel like it. Because that's the only way I can keep my feet on solid ground and my heart from giving in to fear.”

Fear . . .
had to admit that was usually my first reaction. Not just physical fear, but fear I'd look stupid or make the wrong decision. I glanced sideways at Stu. Avis had won that round in my book, but would Stu come out swinging?

It was Hoshi who spoke. “Thank you. It is what I needed,Avis. My heart is shaking. It is hard to trust God. I am new Christian and don't know all that God says. All I know is, I can't go back. God has been good to me, and what happened at Jodi's house— that was not God. Satan wants me to go back to my old religion, but I will not go back. Please, show me what God says to make me strong and not so afraid.”

The carpet blurred beneath my wet eyes. I understood what Stu had been saying. To be honest, I felt that way too. But this—
this
was moving us toward faith.

21

D
elores Enriques spoke up. “Fear dogs my footsteps every day, especially for José. He's a good boy, but . . . what if those gangbangers come after him, to make sure he won't talk? I have to keep telling myself, ‘God hath not given us a spirit of fear but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.' ”

Good verse,
I thought,
if you can get past ye ole King James
English.
It still surprised me when Delores and some of the others in Yada Yada quoted the old KJV with all its “haths” and “comeths.” Nobody at Uptown Community used King James.

Well, maybe Avis. And Florida. None of the WASPs, anyway.

Soon Bible promises were popping like popcorn from others, not just for Hoshi, but for all of us struggling with anger and fear after the robbery. “Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by your name; you are Mine” . . . “I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future” . . .

I was scribbling references down as fast as I could so I could look them up later—and almost missed Florida's question.

“I wanna axe you all somethin'. What about this woman—the one who robbed us? She ain't that different from me five years ago, you know, 'cept I faint dead away at the sight of blood, so you know I ain't never gonna take up no knife.”

The thought of Florida fainting dead away over blood stirred up some chuckles. “You didn't faint when Hoshi's mama was bleeding,” I kidded.

“Too scared.
Couldn't
fall out.”

Now we did laugh, and the atmosphere lightened up, like someone had opened a window. “Yes,” Nony seconded, “I wonder about her too. How do we find out what's happening?” She held up her left hand with its bare ring finger. “And I want my wedding ring back.”