The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Decked Out (22 page)

I called Ruth to get her recipe for latkes. “Um, what happened the other day when I called? Sounded like the twins had a melt-down.”

Ruth snorted in my ear.
“Oy vey!
The little
nudniks
. Isaac dumped a box of matzo meal I'd just opened—table, floor, everywhere! Then Havah danced in it and ran into the living room.
Oy
yoy yoy
. An hour it took me to clean up matzo, floor, rug, kids! A word of wisdom, Jodi. Don't let those kittens get in your matzo meal.”

I laughed, remembering the canister of flour I'd dumped in my haste last week. “Ha. I'm perfectly capable of making my own mess. Now, about the latkes . . . ”

The recipe sounded simple enough. Grated potatoes, chopped onions, a little matzo meal, salt, pepper, baking powder . . . shaped into pancakes and then fried. “Serve them with applesauce and sour cream,” she said.

“Mm. I don't have sour cream. What about cottage cheese?”

“Cottage cheese?! Only a
goyim
would do that!”

“Um, so I guess bacon or sausage on the side would be out . . . ”

I heard a big sigh. “If you
must
, there is such a thing as kosher sausage.”

Oh, well,
I thought as we hung up. I had to shop for groceries sometime this weekend anyway. Might as well be today.

As I pulled the car into the parking lot at the Howard Street shopping center, I noticed the lights were on in the SouledOut storefront. Even though the church was at the far end from the huge Dominick's grocery that anchored the mall, I parked near the church and stuck my head in the door. Rose Cobbs and a few other women were packing up the Christmas tree decorations. A couple of teenagers stood on ladders taking down the Christmas banner and hanging a new one—made by Estelle, I guessed, because she stood at the back like a traffic cop. “Move the right side up another inch, can you? . . . No, no, too high . . . That's good, that's good.”

“Hi, everybody!” I chirped. “I'm on my way to Dominick's. Anybody want me to pick up some coffee or something at the café?”
Duh.
The words were no sooner out of my mouth than I remembered telling First Lady Rose that I'd like to have coffee with her “soon.” How many weeks ago was that?

The pastor's wife smiled. “Thank you, Sister Jodi, we're fine. We've got the coffeepot on. But we were going to stop in a few minutes to pray for the Watch Night service tomorrow night. Would you like to join us?”

I hesitated. I needed to get my shopping done and get back home to make supper. I had company coming . . . but the Holy Spirit nudged me.
Pray, Jodi. Lives are at stake. You invited Hakim,
remember? There's a battle going on. Pray.

I WAS GLAD I'd stopped to pray. For one thing, it helped remind me that my Yada Yada sisters weren't the only “praying sisters” I had in the body of believers. I was touched by the fervent prayers of Rose Cobbs, Estelle, and the two other SouledOut sisters praying for our own youth, praying for the neighborhood youth who had been invited, praying for families and friends of our members that were in town, praying that God would “send us out” in the new year.

That, plus I made a date with First Lady Rose to have coffee next week before school started. A good way to start the new year.

The potato latkes were a big hit with my family, hot out of the frying pan, crisp and golden, with lots of chunky applesauce, sour cream, and kosher sausage. We even came up with a makeshift menorah: eight votive candles in a row in the center of the table, plus a tall one for the
shamash
, the center candle used to light the others. As we passed the
shamash
and lit five of the candles, we recited the blessing Ruth and Ben had taught us: “Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, Who performed wondrous deeds for our ancestors, in those days, at this season.”

“That's beautiful.” Josh seemed especially thoughtful after we lit the menorah candles. “I really like the way Jewish festivals help them remember God's faithfulness. It seems a great way to pass on ‘the faith of our fathers' to the children.” He looked at Gracie, tucked in the crook of Denny's arm, chuckling as her new grandpa made faces at her. “I hope Edesa and I can build these kinds of spiritual traditions into our family.”

I listened in awe as Josh talked about
“our family.”
For a moment, I felt like an historical relic. Whatever we'd done as a family to raise our children was finished. Over. Done. The torch had been passed. Now it was Josh and Edesa who were building a family, using traditions from both sides of the family. His and hers. And theirs. The proverbial “something old, something new.” And maybe “something borrowed,” too, like this time of remembering at Hanukkah, or the traditional Seder at Passover.

And then I realized
relic
was the wrong word. Here we sat around our dining room table, six of us instead of four, establishing a
new
family tradition—the extended family dinner. Three generations instead of two.

A bubble of anticipation about my new role as mother-in-law and grandmother tickled my spirit. One day Gracie would have a brother or sister, or two or three. And down the road, hopefully, Amanda might get married and the table would get even larger. For a moment, I envisioned the growing table, wondering who . . .

Well, not
Neil
anyway.

I WOKE THE next morning while it was still dark. Denny was snoring softly.
New Year's Eve . . . last day of the year.
I heard Patches and Peanuts scratching the bathroom door, sealing my decision to get up, let the kittens out, and enjoy the Christmas tree, which would be good for another week anyway.

I fed the kittens, made coffee, and had just settled into the recliner with a steaming mug and my Bible when I saw MaDear's jar of buttons sitting on our ancient coffee table. It was sweet of Adele to give them to me—

Ohmigosh!
Adele! I nearly spilled my coffee when I remembered. Adele was my Secret Sister, and I was supposed to give her a “memory gift” at our Yada Yada reunion—which was tomorrow!
Ack!
What could I do on such short notice? I eyed the button jar. Unless . . .

By the time Denny and I headed for the Watch Night service at SouledOut Community Church that evening, I'd spent most of the day making my gift for Adele. When we walked into the church at 8:45, the chairs had been stacked out of the way, leaving a large open space. Amanda had come earlier; wouldn't say why. A band made up entirely of youth—wait; was that José Enriquez on the drums?—was already playing a set of contemporary praise music as people arrived. Both pastors plus First Lady Rose and a handful of SouledOut teens acted as greeters, especially trying to make visitors and first-timers welcome.

The fifteen-passenger Manna House van pulled up at 8:55, packed with kids and volunteers from the shelter, followed by a minivan. I recognized Precious and her daughter, Sabrina, in the bunch . . . but so far, I hadn't seen Hakim.

Promptly at nine o'clock, one of the teens in the band took the mic and, in good gospel style, got us clapping and stepping and singing to Israel and New Breed's “I Am Not Forgotten! He Knows My Name!” Amanda and some of the other young women passed out a dozen or more “praise ribbons”—long, wide ribbons attached to a sixteen-inch wand—until the room pulsed with instruments, voices, dancing feet, and a sea of waving ribbons.

Rick Reilly and Oscar Frost, SouledOut's youth leaders, then dedicated the first hour to hilarious games that included everyone: relays, icebreakers, and even “Pin the Diaper on Baby New Year,” which turned out to be the funniest of all.

Denny had just volunteered to try his skills at pinning the dia-per on Baby New Year, when I felt a tug on my arm. “Hey, Miz B.”

“Hakim! You came!”

He grinned and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Yeah. My mom an' my Aunt Gwennie too.”

Sure
enough. Geraldine Wilkins-Porter and another attractive African-American woman with a strong family resemblance to Hakim's mother stood uncertainly among the laughing crowd, their coats still on. “Mrs. Porter. Welcome to SouledOut. And I'm so glad to meet Hakim's aunt.”

The second woman nodded without smiling, but shook my extended hand. Hakim's mother studied me, her eyes guarded. “So. We meet again, Mrs. Baxter. This is
your
church?
You
invited Hakim? I'm not sure we—”

“Yes, I did. I told him to invite you too. I hope that was all right. It's a bit crazy now but—” As if to prove my point, some of the kids screeched and the crowd laughed as a blindfolded Denny stuck the cardboard diaper on Baby New Year's head. I rolled my eyes. “That's my husband up there making a fool of himself.”

Hakim's mother frowned. “I was expecting a Watch Night service, not a party.”

“I think this is just a warm-up. Please stay—oh! Pastor Cobbs!” I grabbed Joe Cobbs as he passed. “I'd like for you to meet one of my former students and his family. Hakim Porter, his mother . . . ”

Thank You, Lord,
I breathed, just as the emcee invited everyone to break for refreshments while a crew set up the chairs. Pastor Cobbs had a way of making new people feel like honored guests, and in a moment, he had both women smiling. Finally, this wasn't just about me.

21

F
ifteen minutes later, the emcee invited everyone to take seats for the next part. We had more people than chairs, so some SouledOut members stood around the walls. Oscar Frost quieted the room with a slow hymn on his saxophone, while Pastor Cobbs stepped onto the six-inch platform to introduce the next part of the evening.

“It's New Year's Eve, people. For many folks, it's simply a secular holiday, a night to party, to ring out the old and ring in the new. However, many churches, especially in the African-American community, have Watch Night services on this night—but do we know why? Let's go back in time and watch as the SouledOut Players bring it to life . . . ”

He slipped away as the back half of the room dimmed. Pastor Clark stepped onto the low platform wearing clogs, white tights, knee breeches, a vest, and puffy shirtsleeves. “My name is Count Zinzindorf,” he announced soberly. “I live on an estate in Berthelsdorf, Germany. One night a young man came to my door, seeking my protection for a group of Christians from Moravia who were being persecuted for protesting excesses of the state church. I gave them shelter and encouraged them to establish their community on my land.”

Pastor Clark certainly looked the part of an eighteenth-century European count with his tall bearing, pale skin, and gray hair. He strode about the platform, his hands animated. “I tell you, I was impressed by their Christ-centered view of the Christian life. So impressed I counted myself among them. These Moravians lived simply, but were extremely generous in giving away their wealth. And their missionary fervor! I'd never seen such zeal to take the good news to those usually ignored—to slaves in various parts of the world and Native Americans in the New World. I threw in my lot with these Moravian brothers, though it meant much opposition and ridicule.”

The “Count” paused in mid-stride. “It was these Moravians who first coined the term ‘Watch Night' in 1733 to thank God for His blessing and protection in the past year, and to dedicate them-selves to God's service in the coming year.” Pastor Clark stepped off the stage, hands clasped behind his back,murmuring, “Yes, yes. I was very impressed.”

Pastor Cobbs reappeared and picked up the thread. “The Methodists adopted the idea of a Watch Night service, and it spread to other groups of Christians as a time of thanksgiving and rededication. But Watch Night had special significance to African slaves in the Confederate states on New Year's Eve in the year 1862 . . . ”

Now a group of actors moved onto the stage at the front, all African-American members of SouledOut, adults, youth, and children, barefoot and dressed in rough and ragged clothing. They huddled together, except for Sherman Meeks, who stood, leaning on his cane. “Children!” His raspy voice quavered. “Pray tonight as n'er before. President Lincoln has issued an Emancipation Proclamation that all—I said
all
—slaves in the states of rebellion will be
free
by
law
at the stroke of midnight tonight!”

“Oh, bless Jesus!” one of the actors cried. I barely recognized Sherman's wife, Debra, a rag wrapped around her head, a soiled apron covering a shapeless dress.

“It's Freedom's Eve fo' sho'. Pray, children, that no hand will rise against this proclamation; nothing will stamp it out. Pray, children! Watch and pray!”

Those of us in our seats held our breath as the group huddled and prayed. Suddenly another barefoot teenager ran into the group, ringing a bell. “It's midnight,” he cried. “We're free! Free!”

Now the crowd joined in the rejoicing, standing to our feet, shouting “Hallelujah!” and “Praise God!” along with the group on the platform. I sneaked a peek at Hakim's family sitting across the aisle from us. Even Geraldine Wilkins-Porter and her sister were clapping and smiling.