Who Do I Lean On? (38 page)

Mabel put me on the agenda for Saturday's board meeting and told me to show up at ten o'clock so I could be first and wouldn't have to stay for the whole thing. I felt a little guilty skipping out on the painting party again, but left two “hostages” in my place under Josh Baxter's supervision. The boys needed something to do anyway.

When I showed up at Manna House, the double doors into the multipurpose room were blocked with bright yellow construction tape and a ladder lying crossways in front of the door. A hand-lettered sign said, “Keep Out! Work in progress.”

I poked my head into Mabel's office. “What's going on?

Where's the board meeting?”

“There you are. We have to meet somewhere else. Had to schedule some last-minute work in the main room. The, uh, contractor could only come in on the weekend.” The director grabbed her purse, took me by the arm, and practically pulled me out the front door and down the steps. “The rest of the board is meeting at the Emerald City Coffee Shop. Knew you wouldn't mind.”

“But I left the afterschool proposal in my office! Maybe I could get in through the side door—”

“I have the copy you gave me and made copies for the board.

Don't worry about it.” Mabel set off for the Sheridan El Station at a good pace, dressed today in jeans, a light sweatshirt, and gym shoes.

This was so unlike Mabel Turner that I wanted to laugh. But, hey, it was good for all of us, even Mabel, to loosen up from time to time. I scurried to keep up. “What do you think about Jermaine and Paul playing for the Youth Jam at SouledOut tonight?”

“I'm glad. Really glad. I just hope . . .” Mabel's voice trailed off. “I worry about him, Gabby. He's my sister's boy, but I've raised him from the time he was five. She . . . never mind. Long story. But I worry every time he's with a new group of kids. He's different, you know. And kids can be so mean.”

I wanted to give Mabel a hug, but we were crossing the street and the coffee shop was in sight. “It'll be okay. Josh Baxter is one of the youth group leaders, and I'm pretty sure Edesa will be there tonight too. They'll look out for him. This might be just the ticket for Jermaine anyway—you know, playing ‘gigs' is a big deal for someone his age. Other kids will be impressed.”

We pushed open the door of the coffee shop under the El tracks and sure enough, most of the Manna House board members were there already. An assortment of chairs had been pulled into a circle near one of the front windows. Mabel and I got coffee and joined the group. I wondered if I had last night's pizza in my teeth because everyone seemed to be grinning at me.

“What?” I said.

Peter Douglass, the board chair, ignored my question and asked Reverend Alvarez to begin the meeting in prayer, which he did in a strong accented voice with no regard for the fact that we were meeting in a public place. I peeked through half-closed eyelids, embarrassed to see several people in the coffee shop frowning at us. “. . . And
gracias
,
Señor Dios
, that You have cut through the red tape and given us the city's blessing on the new House of Hope . . .”

I screeched. “Oh! Oh, sorry. I'm so sorry, but did they—? I mean, is it all—?”

“. . . Amen!” boomed Reverend Alvarez. Everyone laughed. And then Mabel and Peter Douglass were both talking at once, showing me the signed papers making Manna House the official service provider for the Supportive Housing Program, along with “Gabrielle Fairbanks, Proprietor,” providing housing in the six-flat at such-and-such address, and the HUD Trust Fund subsidizing rent monies . . .

I was so excited, I almost forgot to present the proposal for expanding the afterschool program, but when I did, the board decided to take it under advisement, realizing we needed time to add more volunteer staff, equipment, and supplies, as well as look into the legalities. “Start slow, Gabby,” Reverend Liz Handley advised. “You've got good ideas, but it's better to build up a program slowly and have it stick than move too fast.”

Did she know me that well in such a short time? “At least I didn't go looking for this idea,” I said in my defense. “It came knocking at the shelter door.”

Josh managed to entice P.J. into coming to the Youth Jam in spite of the fact that his kid brother was going to play keyboard by saying they needed someone else who could learn to work the soundboard. So I picked up Jermaine and drove all three boys to SouledOut Saturday evening, and then I went to the Baxters' house to hang out until it was time to pick them up again. Denny was at the church as “designated bouncer” in case any of the neighborhood kids mouthed off or got too rough, so Jodi and I had the house to ourselves. We curled up on their couch, each of us with a cat on our lap and a big bowl of popcorn between us, and watched a golden oldie,
The Princess Bride
, laughing ourselves silly every time Vizzini lisped, “Incon
thiev
able!”

As the credits rolled, I jumped up, dumping the calico kitty off my lap. “Sorry, Patches. Gotta pick up the boys.” I headed for the door. “Thanks for letting me hang out, Jodi. Too bad the Youth Jam wasn't Sunday night; then I could've brought the boys and stayed for your Yada Yada Prayer Group”—I almost said,
“since they're celebrating your birthday
,” but realized that might be a surprise. So I just said, “I could use a lot of prayer this coming week. The closing is on Thursday, and hopefully the new tenants”—I winked at her—“can move in on Saturday.”

Jodi, still holding the black-and-white kitty in her arms, followed me to the front door. “Wait a sec, Gabby. Can't you come to Yada Yada anyway? After all, this is a real answer to our prayers for Josh and Edesa to find a larger place to live, and it'd be so neat for the Yadas to hear about it from you, and pray for you
and
for Edesa . . . Hey!” Her brown eyes danced. “Maybe you and Edesa could start a Yada Yada Prayer Group at the House of Hope since you'll be living in the same building. Think about it!” She gave me a hug—giving Peanut a perfect opportunity to take a swipe with claws extended at a stray curl bouncing in his face, but the cat missed and caught my cheek instead.

“Ow!” My hand flew to my face. Blood.

“Oh, Gabby!” Jodi dumped the cat and grabbed a tissue to dab at my cheek. “I'm so sorry. Are you okay? We should clean that with hydrogen peroxide or something.”

I looked in the mirror in their little hallway and groaned. “I'm fine . . . I'm just going to look terrific doing that membership thing tomorrow.”

And I'd invited Lee to come, of all the stupid things.

I guess the Youth Jam was a success because the boys jabbered about it all the way home. “How'd they do?” I whispered to P.J., who was sitting in the front seat with me, casting my eyes toward the back where Jermaine and Paul were still “playing” imaginary keyboards on their knees and making “da da de da” noises.

P.J. shrugged. “Okay, I guess. Some of the kids like that kind of jamming.”

I smiled to myself.
“Okay, I guess
” was pretty high praise coming from P.J.

The boys didn't even seem to notice the long scratch on my face, but I was pretty self-conscious about it when we walked into SouledOut the next morning for Sunday worship—especially when Harry Bentley, wearing a black patch on one eye, looked me over with his good eye and mused, “So what does the other guy look like, Firecracker?”

“Ha! You should talk, Mr. B. Where'd you get the pirate outfit?

It's not even Halloween yet.” Then I relented. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, I'm fine. If Estelle would just give me back my car keys. That woman! Thinks I can't drive with one eye.” He moved off, muttering.

I hadn't heard from Lee whether he was going to come today or not, but I kept looking around during the first part of worship when the whole congregation was standing and singing, half-hoping he'd show up and half-hoping he wouldn't. Then I didn't have time to worry anymore because Pastor Cobbs announced they were going to receive new members into SouledOut's fellowship that morning and would Gabrielle Fairbanks and Harry Bentley please come forward?

Did the pastor say Harry
? We both made our way to the six-inch high platform at the front of the wide half circle of chairs that made up SouledOut's “sanctuary.” “You didn't tell me!” I whispered to him as we met at the front.

“You didn't ask!” he whispered back, but gave me a big grin.

Jodi joined me on the platform, giving me an encouraging hug, but I was surprised to see her husband, Denny, come up and stand alongside Harry.
Not Estelle
? Okay, maybe that would have been too obvious.

SouledOut's pastoral team stood together, smiling broadly at Harry and me. I tried not to think of Jodi's offhand comment once that the two men reminded her of the “Mutt and Jeff ” cartoons—Pastor Cobbs, short and sturdy, Pastor Clark, tall and gangly—and made myself pay attention to Pastor Clark's homily on the meaning of church membership.

“Just as baptism,” the older man was saying, “is a public declaration of one's personal faith, receiving fellow believers into church membership is not only a recognition that this brother and this sister are members of the worldwide body of Christ, but they are an essential part of
this
church family—similar in many ways to a family adopting children, who become just as much part of the family as anyone else. And as the apostle Paul tells us in his first letter to the church in Corinth, the family of God is made up of many different kinds of members, with different gifts and different roles, but
all
the parts need each other.”

He picked up a hammer, grinning mischievously. “And as we know, the different parts of the human body are organically interconnected. I hit my thumb with this hammer the other day”—he held up a bruised thumb—“and you better believe the rest of my body knew about it!” The congregation laughed. “Same when I eat a really good piece of April Simmons's chocolate cake—the rest of me is
really
happy.” More laughter.

Pastor Clark was beaming now, full of spirit in spite of his wrinkles and thinning hair. “So Sister Gabrielle and Brother Harry, we are excited that you have both decided to become members of SouledOut Community Church. We pray that God will meet you here and that you will grow closer to Him—because in the end, it's about Jesus, not us. But we also want you to know that you're family now. When you cry, we will cry with you, and when you're happy, we will laugh with you, not at you . . . Let's pray.”

I barely made it through the rest of the membership service without blubbering. Pastor Cobbs took over and asked each of us questions, affirming our faith in Jesus Christ as Savior and Lord, confessing and receiving God's forgiveness for our sins, and inviting the Holy Spirit to release our spiritual gifts in service to others . . .

The membership questions replayed themselves over and over in my mind the rest of that day, sinking deep into my spirit. I had “accepted Jesus into my heart” at an early age back at Minot Evangelical Church—it pleased my parents to no end—but I'd drifted so far from Him after the failure of my teenage marriage. Since coming to Chicago and falling into the arms of Manna House, both as staff and as a resident, my faith had been fanned back into a burning ember in my soul.

But it felt so good to
say it
. To say it publicly!
Yes! I believe! I'm taking my stand with God's people, a follower of Jesus!
It felt so good, I wanted to celebrate my new relationship with “God's people” somehow, to end the day with a bang, not a whimper.

And I knew just the thing.

Grabbing the phone, I pushed a speed-dial number. “Jodi? . . .

Yeah, it's me, Gabby. Is it still okay to show up at your Yada Yada Prayer Group tonight?”

chapter 37

Jodi gave me directions how to get to Ruth Garfield's house where the Yada Yada Prayer Group was meeting that night. “Don't worry if you're a little late,” she assured me. “I'm so glad you're coming! Everyone will be so excited to see you.”

I left the boys with money for a pizza and strict instructions to finish their homework before watching TV or playing video games, and then stopped at Dominick's to pick up a mixed bouquet of gerbera daisies, tinted carnations, and fall leaves for Jodi's birthday. For some reason, the yellow, orange, and red colors of the sturdy flowers made me smile—they were so like Jodi. Down-to-earth, bright, seemingly ordinary but comforting just by being there. And the colors would complement her brunette coloring . . . which didn't work for
my
reddish hair and fair skin, even though I had a fall birthday too.
Next month
.

My smile turned to a grimace as I headed up Lincoln Avenue toward Ruth's address.
Mercy!
Philip had thought it was such a hoot to put thirty-nine candles on my cake last year and light all of them. Now I was going to turn forty . . . forty and newly single.