2-in-1 Yada Yada (77 page)

I twisted further in my seatbelt so I could see Florida behind me. “What do you mean, Flo?”

“Girl, it's just like Avis said a couple of weeks ago. If Hoshi didn't forgive Becky Wallace, she be lettin' that woman hurt her all over again every time she thinks 'bout what happened. But you watch. A little forgiveness goes a long way. Gonna take the sting out.”

As I straightened around in my seat, I saw Hoshi turn from the window and take Florida's hand, a teary smile on her face.
Huh,
I thought, watching the bleak landscape slide past my own passenger side window.
Never thought about it like that.
I'd always thought “love your enemies” and “do good to those who persecute you” was kind of a be-holy-like-I-am-holy test. Never sounded fair—or even possible!—though of course a good Christian girl from Des Moines, Iowa, would never actually say so. Maybe Florida was right, though: maybe God wanted us to forgive people for our own good too. Even people who didn't say “sorry.”

“For my own good,” I whispered, watching my warm breath spread a misty cloud on the cold window.

THE SNOW HELD OFF till late that night, and then it was mostly lake-effect snow, whipped up by a chilly wind, laying down an inch or two, but not serious enough to even get out the snow shovel.

“Lucky you,” I told Josh as he drove us to Uptown Community Church the next morning. “This was only a teaser. Wait till January. You'll have to set your alarm two hours earlier to shovel us out before school.”

“That's why we need a snow blower,” Josh countered. “Then Amanda can do it.”

“Ha!” Amanda swatted the back of his head with a glove. “Just drive, muscle man. I need to get to church early, remember?”

Denny, riding shotgun in the front seat, didn't bother to tell

Josh that our short sidewalks—front and back—could practically be measured in inches, so forget a snow blower. In fact, Denny had been unusually quiet on the way home from the prison yesterday. Didn't even ask many questions about the youth group's service project at Jesus People USA last night, though both Josh and Amanda had said it was “cool.” Whether they meant serving a couple hundred meals to homeless men and women and scrubbing pots and pans afterward, or just hanging out with a bunch of “Jesus people” who all looked like they'd just been roped in off the streets, I wasn't sure. By the time they got home from taking Pete and Jerry back to Yo-Yo's house after dropping José off in Little Village, Denny and I were heading for bed.

Not exactly the kind of youth-group activities I was weaned on,
I thought as we headed up the stairs at Uptown Community, leaving Josh to go park the minivan.
Bible sword drills . . . Youth for
Christ rallies . . . an occasional roller-skating party—the “sanctified”
substitute for dancing.
I felt a pang. Nostalgia for a simpler time? Or realizing just how unprepared I'd been for how complicated and untidy the Christian life felt at the moment. Ever since the Yada Yada Prayer Group dropped into my life, frankly.

Amanda disappeared to get ready for the Advent candle dance, and Denny and I had our choice of seats for a change. Even beat Stu getting to church—now
that
was a first. She came in a few minutes later, sat down behind us, and leaned forward. “How did the visit to the prison go yesterday?”

“Good,” I said. “Tell you more later, okay?”

I wanted to be quiet for a moment, to focus on the upcoming worship service. An Advent wreath was suspended from the ceiling by purpoe ribbons; four fat candles representing each Advent Sunday nestled among the fake greenery. Advent . . . the beginning of the Christmas season. Communion Sunday, too, by the looks of the small table off to the side, covered with the cloth embroidered with “children of the world” figures.

The upstairs room filled. The lights dimmed. Three recorders began the familiar Advent hymn, and we all joined in on the words: “O come, O come, Emanuel . . . And ransom captive Israel . . .” Josh slipped into the seat beside Denny.
Sheesh. He must've had to
park six blocks away.
And then someone else sat down. I leaned forward.

José Enriques.
Oh Lord, he must've come to see Amanda dance!
This was getting serious.

I was so distracted for a moment I almost missed Amanda and two other teenage girls coming down the aisle like bridesmaids at a wedding, bearing lighted candles—though the black skirts, white socks, and white tops kind of spoiled the “bridesmaid” image. As the music swelled—“That mourns in lonely exile here . . . Until the Son of God appears”—the three girls fanned out gracefully across the front, causing their tiny lights to flicker and dance in the darkened sanctuary.

“Rejoice! Rejoice!” we sang. My eyes were glued to Amanda's face as she lifted her candle heavenward. Her own eyes glowed in the candlelight as she lifted her face, following the light. And then, “Emmanuel . . . Shall come to thee, O Israel.” Amanda and the other two girls turned and dipped their tapers toward the wick of the first candle in the Advent wreath. The room seemed to hold its collective breath until the fat candle glowed, the dancers blew out their tapers, and the candle wreath shone with the first promise of Advent.

Beautiful.
I glanced at Denny. His eyes were swimming.

The lights came on, and I expected Avis to get up and launch us into some spirited praise and worship. Instead Pastor Clark came to the front—
Somebody's got to tell him to lose that awful green
tie—
and said we were going to do things a bit different today. I swept my eyes around the room. Where was Avis, anyway? And then I saw her, sitting toward the back. And there was someone with her—a man. An older man, maybe late fifties, with graying hair at his temples. An African-American man at that.

I faced forward once again, my spine tingling. Avis with a man?
Calm down, Jodi. Maybe it's her brother or cousin or uncle, here
for Thanksgiving.
I grinned to myself.
Yeah, right.

“ . . . not only the first Sunday of Advent,” Pastor Clark was saying, “but the first Sunday of the month, when we celebrate the Lord's Supper.” And the two celebrations, he said, have a great deal to do with each other. “During Advent, we celebrate God's promise to send the Messiah and ‘ransom captive Israel.' Because not only Israel, but all of us are stuck—stuck in our sins. But in breaking the bread and sharing the cup of the Lord's Supper, we celebrate the purpose for which the Messiah came: to sacrifice His own life, taking on Himself the penalty for
our
sin. He suffered whips, humiliation, crucifixion, and finally death—none of which He deserved. That was
our
punishment. For our sins, our mistakes, our oversights, our weaknesses, our failings.” He paused for a long moment, lost in his own thoughts, almost as if he'd forgotten about the rest of us. And then he said simply, “So that we might live. Forever.”

I forgot about Avis and the mystery man. I forgot about José. I almost forgot to stand when it was my turn to go up to receive the bread and wine. For some reason Pastor Clark's powerful words echoed something Mark Smith had said at Thanksgiving:
“Both
blacks and whites in this country end up living with the sins of the past.”

Stuck. That's exactly how I'd felt when Mark said that. Stuck with the legacy of sin hanging over our heads. If Jesus was our example, though, the way out was
repentance . . . forgiveness . . .
ransom . . . sacrifice.
I felt on the verge of something incredibly important—but for the life of me, I wasn't sure what it was.

I put the piece of bread in my mouth.
Christ's body, broken for
me.
I took a sip of wine from the ceramic goblet.
Christ's blood, shed
for me.
I turned, and passed both bread and wine to Denny. “Christ's body, broken for you,” I whispered.

I'll never forget the look in his eyes.

WHEN WE GOT HOME AFTER CHURCH, the answering machine light on the kitchen phone was blinking. I pressed the Play button while I unwound my long neck scarf and unbuttoned my coat, still thinking about meeting Avis's “old friend” from Philadelphia. “Jodi, this is Peter Douglass,” she'd said. “An old friend of Conrad's.” I had tried to give her a meaningful look, which she totally ignored. But she wasn't going to get away that easy.

“Denny or Jodi. It's Mark.” The answering machine sprang to life. “Nony's mother has taken a turn for the worse. Nony called last night, asking me to come . . .”

“Denny!” I yelled. “It's Mark! Come listen!”

“ . . . bit of a mess, with term papers and exams coming up,” Mark's message continued as Denny appeared in the doorway between the dining room and kitchen, “but I think I need to go. So, as soon as I can make arrangements with my department, I'm leaving. Jodi, will you ask Yada Yada to pray? For Nony and”—I almost didn't catch his next words—“for me.”

The machine clicked off. “Wow. Wonder what that means? It's good, I think. Don't you, Denny?”

Denny nodded. “Uh-huh.” He seemed deep in thought— thoughts he'd been carrying for days, it seemed, like Frodo Baggins, intent on getting that ring to Mount Doom in spite of all the obstacles . . . slowly, but surely. I gathered up my coat and scarf.
Guess he'll tell me when he's ready.

I started for the front hall to hang them up, but Denny stopped me. “Jodi, how long does Adele's Hair and Nails stay open on weeknights like tomorrow?”

41

M
onday.
Back to school after the Thanksgiving holiday. Christy James's last week as my student teacher. Back to kids already revved up for Christmas . . . and Hanukkah, and Kwanzaa, and the TV-commercial glut otherwise known as “the holidays.” Back to seeing Hakim from a distance, lining up with the other third-grade teacher, hardly daring to wonder what he must think of me now.

The lady who'd killed his brother.

“Okay, God, I know it's not just about me,” I muttered out loud as I hustled to school with my tote bags, trying to keep warm. The rod attached to my left femur ached in the cold. “So please give Hakim what he needs in the other classroom. Finish what You started in him, okay?”

Denny hadn't told me what he had in mind for tonight, just asked if I would go with him if he went to see Adele and MaDear at the shop.
“But why?”
I'd argued.
“Adele made it clear we would
only upset MaDear.”

He had stood hunched in the middle of the dining room, one hand in his pants pocket, the other rubbing the back of his head.
“I just know it's time. And today during Communion, God gave me
peace that it's going to be all right.”

I pulled open the double door of Bethune Elementary and headed into the welcome warmth of the hallway.
Problem is, “our
time” and “Adele's time” might be light-years apart.
I peeked into the office to see if Avis was there. I was dying to know more about the “old friend” from Philadelphia—he didn't look so old to
me—
but the inner office was empty. Oh well. I'd get her later.

I realized how much I was going to miss Christy when I sent her out to bring in the kids from the playground while I set up the day's lessons. The kids trooped in noisily, shedding coats, mittens, and scarves to a cacophony of, “Hi, Miz Baxter!” “That's
my
hook.” “Stop steppin' on my scarf!” “See my new mittens?” Thank heavens the snow had fizzled. At least we didn't have to deal with a pile of boots as well.

I was helping Kaya and Chanel stick their mittens in their coat sleeves when I heard Avis's voice behind me. “Mrs. Baxter? Could I see you a moment? Hi, Britny. Yes, I see your new mittens. So sparkly!”

I motioned to Christy to take over the mitten situation and hastened to the door, which Avis was holding slightly ajar. Sounded like “business”—guess I'd have to ask her about Mr. Philadelphia later. She motioned me out into the hall.

A child, still bundled in a brown-and-black padded winter jacket, its hood up and tied with a long, red knit scarf, was sitting in the chair that stood outside the classroom door, swinging boyish athletic shoes against the chair legs.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
I peered around the hood to see who Avis had brought. A new student?

Familiar dark eyes peered out at me. “Hakim!” Startled, I looked at Avis.

Avis smiled pleasantly, as if this was really not a big deal. “Hakim is coming back to your classroom. Is his desk still available?”

My heart was thumping so hard I could hardly get my breath.

“Uh . . . yes! Absolutely!” I beamed at Hakim. “It's been waiting for you.”

Hakim jumped off the chair and took my hand. “Tol' Miz Johnson no other kid better be sittin' in my desk.”

My head was spinning. What had brought about this miracle?

I let Hakim lead me back into the classroom, but not before I jabbed a finger at Avis and mouthed,
“You wait right here! I'll be
back in a sec!”

I handed Hakim over to Christy to deal with the jacket-scarf-mittens routine, ignoring her dropped jaw, then poked my head back out into the hallway. “What in the world?” I asked.

Avis was leaning against the wall, perfectly calm in her two-piece gold-and-black dress. “It was Hakim. He kept telling his mother he wanted to go back to ‘Miz B's class.' Made such a fuss—‘raised holy hell' was the way she put it—she finally let him come back. Plus, he was acting out big-time in Ms. Towers's class. Ms. Towers came to me last week looking a bit frazzled and highly recommended he be placed back ‘in his own classroom.' ” Avis was grinning big-time now.

“But you didn't say anything to me!”

She shrugged. “Didn't know anything for sure, but Hakim showed up this morning with the aunt and a note from his mother. I don't think she's happy about it, but at least she's considering what's best for Hakim.” Avis pushed off from the wall and headed down the hall with a wave. “Have a great day, Jodi.”