The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Caught (33 page)

Once again we slept that night with our backs to each other.

“DID YOU CALL HIM, DAD? What did he say? ”

When I came into the kitchen the next morning, Amanda was grilling her father, who was getting ready to jog over to the men's breakfast at Uptown Community before heading over to the Howard Street shopping center to put in another Saturday workday laying floor tile in our new sanctuary.

Our
and
sanctuary
still felt a bit of a stretch.

“Yes, pumpkin, I tried to call Mr. Enriques—twice last night.” Denny poured himself a second slug of fresh coffee. “Left one message on voice mail, one with some little sweetheart—Emerald, I think. But he hasn't called back.” He touched a finger to her nose. “I don't think he wants to come, Mandy. I don't want to bug him.”

“But Da-ad! You said he was real nice to you and Mom when you went to that Mexican restaurant on your annivers—oh, rats.” The front doorbell sounded unnaturally loud at eight o'clock on a Saturday morning. “That's my ride. Gotta babysit all day for the Three Terrors.” She pulled a long face. “They better pay me
good
.”

I was grateful when the house emptied, except for Josh,who had come in after one o'clock and would probably sleep until eleven. I knew something was desperately wrong, and I needed to figure out what it was. For one thing, I hadn't even touched my Bible that whole week. My prayers had been one-liners. “Quiet time” was a joke. A hole seemed to be growing inside me—empty, yawning, slowly sucking my soul into a bottomless pit.

Willie Wonka followed me outside while I filled the birdfeeder.
How long had it been since I'd filled the birdfeeder? Had the birds given up? Would they come back?
I settled on the porch swing with my Bible and a large mug of coffee,Wonka sprawled at my feet. Tears blurred my eyes. I didn't even know how to start.

“Can I back up, Lord? ” I whispered. “Where did I get off? ”

You've been rushing, Jodi.
The Voice in my spirit whispered back.
Not taking time to listen.

I sighed.
But it's hard during the school week. Every day is so hectic.

No, even before that. Last weekend. You were so busy with your thoughts, your ideas, your plans, you didn't stop to ask for My wisdom.

I thought about that. The lemonade stand. Hadn't God given me that idea?
It seemed so . . . brilliant. Corny, yes. But simple, a way for us ordinary women to make a connection with kids in the neighborhood. What was wrong with that?

The Voice continued.
Stop it, Jodi. The idea's not the problem! But you ran with it in your own strength. Admit it. You pushed that one through Yada Yada in spite of some serious doubts from others.

Well, yeah . . . but—

And you didn't trust your husband. That should have been a clue.

Trust? What does trust have to do with it? I just knew he'd get all worried and think of all the things that could go wrong. Don't know what he's so mad about.Nothing happened! We managed just fine.

Did you? Weren't you grousing five minutes ago because not enough Yada Yadas showed up? Did you really have enough people “to be a presence on the street” if any violence had gone down?

I kicked the swing into motion, uncomfortable with how this inner chat was going.
But it was a good idea,
I thought stubbornly.
And I think we made a difference.

Maybe. But you got all caught up in your good works, Jodi.

Good works? The words jogged my memory bank. “Not by works of righteousness that we have done but according to His mercy He saved us.” Must be one of those Sunday school verses I'd memorized back in sixth grade to get my Bible Warrior pin. Was that how it went? Maybe I could find it . . .Titus something.

I paged through the Bible on my lap and there it was:Titus 3:5. My modern language translation said, “He saved us, not because of the good things we did, but because of His mercy.”

My Old Jodi response tried to dismiss it.
Nah, doesn't apply. Paul was talking to Titus about our salvation.
But I pondered. If good works couldn't “save” us,maybe the same principle did apply to other things. Like the lemonade stand.My good idea. Maybe . . . maybe the only reason “nothing happened” was because of God's mercy.

I dug deeper for a little honesty.To be truthful,Yo-Yo, Edesa, and I would've been no match for those bullies if they'd gotten rough. If Adele and the Curler Brigade hadn't marched out there . . .

God's mercy.

It suddenly hit me, like a Saturday morning cartoon when a piano falls out of nowhere on a passerby below. Got my attention.
If
they'd gotten rough? They
had
gotten rough. That big kid grabbed Edesa's arm. Had practically accused her of being a race traitor, on the wrong side. That in itself had been frightening. And I'd been so busy justifying to myself and my family that everything went fine, what was the big deal—did I even call her later to see how she was doing? She must have been terrified!

Pianos must have kept falling on my head, knocking sense into me, because I suddenly knew why Denny was so upset. I'd shut him out.Yes, I knew he'd be concerned, wouldn't think it was such a hot idea, and I'd basically said I didn't care. Didn't even give him a chance. I wanted to do it my way. I'd pronounced it “good” and nobody—not Denny, not Yada Yada, not even God—was going to change my mind.

My head sank into my hands. “Oh God,” I groaned. “I'm so stupid, stupid.” Denny wasn't mad.
He was hurt.
How would
I
feel if
he'd
done something behind my back? Without wanting my input? If he'd shut me out?

“Uh,Mom? You OK? Didn't you hear the phone ring? ”

I raised my head. Josh was standing behind the screen door in his sweat shorts, bare chested, tattoo bulging on his bicep, with a serious case of bed head. I shook my head.
No, I didn't hear it ring.
Then nodded.
Yeah, I'm OK.

He opened the screen door and handed out the phone. “Anyway. For you.”

I grimaced, covering the mouthpiece. “Sorry if it woke you up.” He just waved me off and disappeared back inside.

I took a deep breath to rein in my bucking thoughts, then ventured, “Hello? ”

“Sista Jodee? ” The voice was high, almost hysterical.

“Chanda? Chanda! What's wrong? ”

I waited several moments while Chanda broke into muffled sobs. Then she blew her nose. “Dey just got mi test results back, Jodee.Mi doctor is very concern. He tinks dat lump . . . it might . . . it might be . . .” The sobbing started again.

But I knew what was coming before she managed the word. “. . . c-cancer.”

31

Cancer? !
Wait, wait—she'd said,
“might be.”
I shored up my own ragged emotions, which had already been close to tears even before the phone rang. “Chanda, now wait. Don't run ahead of the facts. Sounds like they don't know anything for sure yet.What do they want to do? ”

Between sobs and nose blowing, Chanda managed to tell me her doctor had ordered both a mammogram
and
an ultrasound earlier that week. It was
not
a cyst. She had to go back the next day for a “core needle biopsy,” taking some cells from the lump . . . just got a call from her doctor . . . cells were abnormal, but inconclusive . . . but her doctor and the radiologist agreed: the lump should come out.

“Dey want me to talk to a surgeon next week. Surgeon, Sista Jodee! Dat mean dey going to cut it out! Oh, Jesus, Jesus, help mi, Jesus!”

I didn't know what else to do, but I offered to pray with Chanda on the phone. Felt like a hypocrite, when my own prayer life had been suffering big-time lately.
Oh God, forgive me,
I prayed, a silent rider hanging on to my out-loud prayer.

“Tanks, Jodee,” Chanda sniffled. “Uh, one more ting.Mi really don't want to go alone talkin' to dis new doctor. Could you . . . do you tink—? ”

“I teach every day, Chanda. It'd have to be a four o'clock or something. Don't know if they make appointments that late.”

“Mi try dat. Let you know.Tanks.” And the phone went dead.

I sat a long time on the swing, feeling like my emotions had just been run through a spin cycle. I tried to unscramble my brain and refocus on what God had been saying to me just before Chanda called. I'd taken my “good idea” and run with it. I'd shut Denny out. And maybe my idea wasn't that good after all. Good intent, maybe. But poor implementation. Maybe even poor context. So we gave the kids lemonade.What kind of follow-up was possible?

Zero. Nada. None.

Willie Wonka lumbered up with difficulty and stuck his wet nose into my lap. “Whaddya think,Wonka,” I murmured, stroking the white hairs sprouting around his mouth and eyes. “Am I ever going to quit tripping over my own goody-two-shoes? ”

The dog just licked my hand. Good ol' dog. Always thereLike God's forgiveness.
“Just for me, just for me, Jesus came and did it just for me . . .”
The words of a Donnie McClurkin song caressed the soreness in my spirit. I soaked in it for a while, letting the tears run free.
Thank You, Jesus. Thank You.

But I also had some apologies to make—starting with Denny.

THE FOURTH WEEK OF SEPTEMBER bumped along over the usual rocky road of worldwide and hometown turmoil. The U.N. arms-inspection team reported no WMDs had been found in Iraq . . . Earthquakes devastated Hokkaido, Japan . . . Uptown Community was down to the last two Sundays before our official merger with New Morning . . . Carla got in another fight at school, this time with Mercedes LaLuz for “stealing” her mechanical pencil . . . and Chanda made an appointment with the cancer surgeon for four o'clock Friday—on Josh's birthday.

But my wheels had been greased by my talk with the Lord Saturday morning and my talk with Denny Saturday afternoon, and to me the difference between last week and this one was like January and June.

Denny had dragged in about four o'clock that Saturday, covered with plaster dust, obviously weary. I considered a big hug and kiss then discarded the idea. He wasn't exactly huggable in that state; even more to the point,we needed to clear out the garbage between us first.

“I'd . . . like to talk,” I'd said, handing him a glass of ice water. “Maybe after you get cleaned up? ”

He took the water and hesitated. Then tipped the glass and drank. Stalling. I knew I was asking a lot. He was beat, and a “talk” probably seemed as appealing as scooping up after Willie Wonka. A nap in front of the TV would be more like it.

But he came out of the shower looking less like a survivor from a chalk factory explosion and more like my husband. Shaved. Clean. Good smelling. Downright yum—

Nope. Couldn't go there. Yet.

Actually, our talk didn't take long.We sat on the swing on the back porch, more ice water on hand, and I told him I was wrong. I'd suspected he wouldn't like the lemonade-stand idea, so I deliberately didn't tell him until afterward to prove him wrong. But God had showed me my motives were full of pride.Worse, I'd shut him out. Had practically shouted that what he thought wasn't important. A violation against our marriage really. And I was sorry, so sorry for hurting him like that.

I blew out a breath when I was done, and we sat silently in the swing, letting it drift in a small breeze coming in off Lake Michigan. A few birds fluttered to the birdfeeder hanging from the corner of the garage, then flew off. Probably empty again. Then Denny put down his glass of ice water, drew me into his arms, and just held me tight, not saying anything for a long time. But his embrace spoke volumes.

“Thank you, babe,” he finally whispered into my hair. “Funny thing is, I couldn't even pinpoint why I felt so bad. Kept asking myself, what
was
the big deal, anyway? ut when you said, ‘I shut you out'—it was like you touched the sore spot on my heart. That's what I was feeling and hadn't even known how to put it into words.”

We sat on the swing like that for a long time.Then Denny murmured, “Kids gone? ”

“Yup.”

I felt him grin.

JOSH'S BIRTHDAY ALWAYS SNUCK UP ON ME, only a week after mine.Nineteen! But I tried to get things ready the night before for a birthday supper, and Denny said he'd pick up our gift for Josh—several music CDs and a CD case with a shoulder strap. Good thing he was taking care of that, because Chanda had left a message on our voice mail, saying she'd pick me up at Bethune Elementary on Friday afternoon at three thirty.

Pick me up? That must mean . . .

Sure enough. There she sat in the school parking lot behind the wheel of a sleek, brand-new, slate gray Lexus. “Wow!” I said, sliding into the front seat. That new car smell—part leather, part ocean breeze, part excitement—kissed the interior. “You did it! You got your license, you got your car . . . Congratulations, girl!” I leaned over and gave Chanda a hug, then double-checked my seat belt,wondering if I was a guinea pig for Chanda's maiden voyage as a driver.