The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Decked Out (21 page)

STU MUST HAVE got on the phone with the rest of the committee because, sure enough, an e-mail was sitting in my in-box the next time I booted up the computer.

To: Yada Yada

From: YY Reunion Committee
[email protected]

Re: YY Reunion—natch!

Listen up, sisters! WHEREAS it would be hard to compete with the REVELRY we all enjoyed at the Baxter-Reyes wedding, which was A. family friendly;B. a chance to gussy up in our finest; C. alive with music and dancing; and D. attended by all Yada Yadas, spouses, and kidlets were . . .

And WHEREAS one of our Guests of Honor has specifically requested a reunion with “just us Yada Yadas” . . .

Just then Peanut took a leap, landed on the desk, and walked across the computer keys. “Hey, you!” I plucked the black-and-white kitten off the keyboard, nuzzled his cute little wet nose, and snuggled him in my lap as I read on.

. . . The Reunion Committee is hereby recommending we schedule our reunion to coincide with our first Yada Yada meeting of the New Year, this Sunday, same time, at Jodi Baxter's domicile (she's next on the list to host). Never fear, we WILL party the Yada Yada Way—Play and Pray. So bring your favorite Christmas goody, your favorite worship CD, and a simple MEMORY GIFT for your SECRET SISTER, whose name will be drawn by a non-Yada Yada third party and sent to each of you by separate e-mail.

The Reunion Committee

Avis, Stu, Adele, and Chanda

Oh, right.
Avis did
not
write that e-mail. Stu just put her name first to lend weight to the “recommendation.”

I checked e-mail again just before heading down the street late Thursday morning to meet Nony for lunch. Ah, there it was, an e-mail with “Secret Sister” in the subject line, though I had no idea who [email protected] was—oh, wait. That sounded like Rochelle Johnson, Avis's daughter. The message simply said: “Jodi Baxter, your Secret Sister is Adele Skuggs.”

Adele . . . whoa.
That would take some serious thinking what to do for her.

But I shoved it to the back of my mind, bundled up against the damp, just-above-freezing weather, and walked the few blocks to the Heartland Café. After weeks on my crutches, it felt good to walk.

Nony was already seated at a table in the funky café, sipping a cup of coffee. Today she was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt with a UKZN logo. “Do they need
sweatshirts
in KwaZulu-Natal?” I teased.

Nony's eyes laughed at me over the rim of her coffee cup. “No. But I need it
here
.”

A waiter in jeans and a Heartland Café T-shirt brought us menus. Nony ordered the “Three-Scoop Salad Plate” with hummus, guacamole, and tuna salad with pita bread. “Make it two,” I said. Truth to tell, I felt too lazy to make a decision.

I could have listened to Nony's South African lilt all day, but she wanted to know all the news in our family for the past year and a half. “Nony! You
know
all about Josh and Edesa. Amanda is in her first year at the University of Illinois, living in a dorm. So far it's been ‘no news is good news.' Haven't seen her grades. Denny's still athletic director at West Rogers High, and me, I'm still riding herd on third graders at Bethune Elementary. That's it! Oh, except . . . remember Hakim? He's the brother, uh . . . ” I let it hang. It was still hard to say the words,
“the brother of the boy I killed.”

Nony placed her hand on mine. “I remember, though I never met him.”

I told her what had happened earlier that month, the purse snatching, the fall, discovering Hakim's role in it all. “He's not a bad kid, Nony. I can tell he's trying to make it up to me—maybe he even wants me to know. But . . . I don't think his mother wants us to connect again. Too many painful memories.”

Nony could barely hide her smile. “Maybe so. But God is at work, Jodi! Yes, I know it. Do not worry about what happens next. God will show you.”

Our food arrived. Nony held my hand and prayed aloud, earning strange looks from other tables. I didn't care . . . well, maybe a little. God would have heard us if we'd
whispered
a prayer of thanks, wouldn't He?

“Now you,” I insisted, tearing my pita bread and dipping it in the hummus. “Tell me about the boys. How is Mark doing?”

“Marcus and Michael . . . no longer my
boykies
, as you can see. Doing well in school. Enjoying their small celebrity status as
American
blacks.” Mark's memory and coordination continued to improve, she said, though the loss of vision in the one eye often left him frustrated. “But we praise our God it is only his eye, and not his life, that was lost.” She sank into her own thoughts and memories for a moment.

“And you, Nony?”

She shook her head. “Oh, Jodi. The situation in my country is far worse than I realized. Or maybe I knew it in my head, but to see it every day . . . ” The picture she painted of the AIDS pandemic wasn't pretty. The province of KwaZulu-Natal had the highest rate of HIV infection in all of South Africa. Thousands, even millions, of children orphaned. “I have been working with a Christian teacher in one of the schools, teaching HIV/AIDS education, as well as Bible values about respecting our bodies, respecting others, waiting until marriage, being faithful to one's spouse . . . but some-times I feel so overwhelmed, Jodi. There is still so much ignorance! What I am doing is like trying to empty the ocean with a spoon.”

I didn't know what to say. At least she was doing
something
.

My plate of food was almost gone. Nony picked at hers. “But we cannot lose hope. Mark is helping to create some symposiums at the university, bringing together political, religious, and educational leaders to show that this problem must be dealt with on all levels, working together.
That is one reason we have decided to stay—you know how Mark is when he gets a tiger by the tail.” She smiled slightly.

Oh boy, did I. Professor Mark Smith had waded head-on into the fray when a white-supremacist group had dared to recruit on Northwestern University's campus—a tiger-by-the-tail that had left him in a coma for weeks. We Yada Yadas had learned just how real spiritual warfare was—and it toughened our prayer knees. The perpetrators were now sitting in prison serving a long sentence for attempted murder, and the racist group had fractured. Score a big one for God.

Suddenly Nony leaned forward, her dark eyes intense under her sculptured braids. “But I have this idea that won't leave me alone. I want you to pray with me, Jodi. Many young women in the town-ships, destitute and desperate, turn to sex just to survive—but they pay for it with their beautiful lives. I want to help women start their own businesses—weaving rugs and dyeing cloth, selling them, earning their own income to give them pride, to give them a choice to stay pure and safe . . . ”

I smiled inwardly. This was the Nony I knew. Passionate. Determined. On fire. We talked until the waiter removed our plates and brought the check. She suddenly jumped up. “Oh, I must go. By the way, if there is anything you want from our house, Jodi, just come and get it. We have to sell most everything except our personal items.”

We walked out of the funky neighborhood café together. “Pray with me, Jodi. I will ask Yada Yada too. If I know anything, I know this: unless the Lord builds the house, we labor in vain. If this idea is of God, I need prayer warriors.”

“Absolutely.” We hugged, and I watched as she unlocked her car and pulled out of her parking space, pausing as she drove under the el overpass for a small group of boys sauntering across the street. I squinted. One of the boys looked familiar. Could it—

“Hakim!” I waved, my heart pounding. “Hakim! Come here a sec, okay?”

The boys paused, their shoulders hunched, glancing uneasily in my direction. But Hakim separated himself from the other two boys and ambled in my direction. “Hey, Miz B. How ya doin'?”

“Hey, yourself.” I smiled to put him at ease. “I missed you when you shoveled our walk last time. Say, how about some hot chocolate?” I jerked my thumb at the café. “Your friends, too, if you'd like.”
Please Lord, just Hakim, not the friends . . .

“Ah, I dunno, Miz B.” Hakim glanced back at his companions. “They don't want to.Maybe another time.”

“Please, Hakim. They've got great Mexican hot chocolate here. I'm paying.” I smiled and lifted an inviting eyebrow, knowing I was pitting White Woman versus Homeboys. Stupid me. But I held my ground.

Finally he shrugged. “Guess so.” He waved his buddies away . . . and five minutes later we were back at the same table Nony and I had just vacated, this time with huge, soup-bowl-size mugs of Mexican hot chocolate with whipped cream and chocolate shavings on top. Just looking at it put pounds on my hips.

“So . . . I was glad to see you and your mom at Manna House last Saturday.”

He shrugged. “She made me come. It was all right, I guess. But Mom and me—we don't get along too good. Mostly I stay with my aunt and my cousins.”

“Why is that, Hakim?”

Another shrug. “She's so . . . so strict, Miz B. Won't let me do nuthin'! Won't let me hang with my friends, wants me home right after school. She grounds me all the time. I got fed up, ran away a few times. Finally, she agreed to let me stay at my aunt's. It's okay, I guess.” He busied himself with his hot chocolate.

Tread lightly, Jodi.
“She's scared, Hakim.”

His head jerked up, whipped cream across his upper lip. “Whatchu mean?”

“She's scared she'll lose you too—like your brother, Jamal.”There. It was out on the table, the tragedy that bound us together forever.

He frowned. “What happened to Jamal don't have nothin' to do with me. And I don't blame you for it, Miz B. You know that.”

“I know, Hakim,” I said softly. “That means a lot to me.” I paused, praying in my spirit without words. After a long moment I said, “Hakim, I know that you and your friends are the ones who snatched my purse that night. I wanted to tell you.”

To my surprise, he didn't jump and run. Didn't deny it. Didn't do anything. Just sat there, gripping that big ol' mug. But after a few moments, his tortured eyes met mine. “You gonna tell the police?” he whispered.

I shook my head.

“Why?”

“Because I forgive you, Hakim. And I think you've been trying to make it right.”

With a jerk, he brushed the back of his hand across his eyes. I busied myself with my calorie-loaded hot chocolate, knowing he didn't want me to see him cry. Finally he mumbled, “I'm real sorry, Miz B. Sorry you got hurt. It wasn't s'posed to be like that.”

“I know.” I leaned forward. “But I do have a favor to ask. It would mean a lot.”

He frowned. “What?”

“New Year's Eve . . . our church is having a Watch Night service— at SouledOut Community Church, up there in the Howard Street Mall. It's especially for youth.Nine o'clock. Will you come?”

He looked surprised. “That your church? I seen that up there in the mall.” He shrugged. “Guess so. If my stupid mom will let me stay out till midnight—”

“Bring your mom too.”

He snorted and rolled his eyes. “Yeah,
right
.”

I let that one go, paid our bill, and we walked out onto the side-walk together. “Thanks, Hakim. I'm glad we got that squared away. But, um, I've got a question. My husband said you had a black eye and some cuts on your face when you came to the house last time. What happened?”

A lopsided smile eased the tension on his face. “Oh, that. Had to fight my cousin to get them credit cards of yours back. Sorry about the cash, though.”

“Oh! Well, thanks. I appreciate it.” I didn't have the heart to tell him the cards were worthless. He'd gotten that black eye for nothing . . . No, I was wrong. He'd fought for his self-respect and to make things right.

20

I
had no idea if Hakim would take me up on my invitation, but I felt like dancing anyway. Nobody but God could have timed that “accidental” meeting outside the Heartland Café. Now Hakim knew I knew about the I purse snatching. He knew I forgave him. He knew I still cared about him and wanted to be friends. All the doors had been left open.

Had to watch that Mexican hot chocolate, though.

With New Year's weekend coming up and a whole week of school vacation after that, I felt giddy enough Friday morning to call Edesa and ask if she and Josh would like to come for supper Saturday before the Watch Night service. “It's the sixth day of Hanukkah,” I said. “I want to try out Ruth's recipe for potato latkes. Want to come?”

“
Si!
We would love to, Jodi. Except . . . would tonight be all right instead? We will be at Manna House Saturday afternoon and are bringing a vanload of kids to the Watch Night service.”

“Oh, right. I forgot. Tonight, then. Just be sure to bring Gracie with you!”
And take her home again.
Hadn't I heard that somewhere? Oh yeah, a little magnet on my mom's refrigerator.
“A perfect grand-parent
loves them, spoils
them—then sends them home.”
Sounded good to me!