978141853661_0005_001.jpg13 wb_9781418536619_0005_003.jpg

I rolled over in the bed and peered at the glowing numbers on my digital alarm. 1:10 . . . and I still hadn’t heard Josh come in. He hadn’t called either. Arrgh. Why didn’t somebody tell me that teenagers ruined your sleep every bit as much as a colicky infant? Denny, on the other hand, was out cold, oblivious to the fact that our son hadn’t come in. Probably because he thought a curfew was a bit unnecessary for an eighteen-year-old, even though we were pretty generous with exceptions if Josh called and asked for extra time. But that was beside the point. We’d agreed to the curfew on weekends, then we planned to remove it as a graduation present.

That was when we thought Josh was going off to college. What if he stayed home next year—with no curfew! I’d never get any sleep!

I punched my pillow and curled up on my side, facing away from Denny, feeling resentful. One of us had to know when the kids came in—otherwise they could stay out until all hours if they had a mind to. Or something could happen, like an accident, and we might not know until morning.

Calm down, Jodi. He’s only a few minutes late. Well, true. And if I was honest with myself, that wasn’t the only reason I was still awake. After supper, I’d put together a seven-layer salad for the potluck at church tomorrow, then Denny and I relaxed with a video and a big bowl of popcorn. But even after Amanda got home from babysitting and we’d gone to bed, I kept thinking about Nony’s phone call.

“Jodi. I am frightened.”

That wasn’t like Nony. Was she frightened for Mark’s safety? I had rushed to reassure her. “What could happen? It’s just going to be a ‘free speech’ rally—we had tons of those at college in the seventies. I’m sure the campus police will make their presence known; they won’t let anything happen. Maybe a few jeers and catcalls—but Mark’s got thick skin.” I hoped. “Besides,” I’d rushed on, “Mark’s smart. He’ll demolish their dumb arguments in two minutes, the NU students will clap and cheer, and it’ll all be over.”

Nony had not responded right away. I’d tried to think of some comforting Scripture—the kind of thing she’d do if I was scared about something—but the only thing I could think of was “Be anxious for nothing,” and I needed my Bible to quote it correctly. I’d started for the living room to look for it, phone still to my ear, when she had spoken up again.

“I know. But . . . it’s suddenly consuming all his time and attention. He threw out the syllabus for his history classes, says he’s going to use this opportunity to focus on ethnic hatred in the world today—not just Islamic jihad or ethnic cleansing in eastern Europe, but hate groups right here in the Midwest.”

I’d tried to keep it light. “I should send Josh to Mark’s classes. He’s all hot to research these hate groups and turn it into his senior debate topic.” But I had to admit I was confused. “Seriously, Nony, I know it’s not a fun topic, but it does seem like Mark’s taking a proactive approach, taking advantage of a teachable moment for his students. Maybe something good will—”

“That’s just the problem, Jodi!” The force of Nony’s words startled me. “Mark is supposed to be just . . . just finishing up his classes and disengaging his responsibilities at Northwestern—not getting involved in a huge campus issue. I know it’s important . . . but why Mark? Why now? We’re going to South Africa when school is out. He promised me!”

Only then had I realized why Nony was frightened. She was afraid Mark would get so involved in fighting this hate group stuff that he wouldn’t have time to make his sabbatical happen. Renting the house. Pursuing the position at the university in Durban. Making plane reservations.

She was afraid her dream was about to come crashing down.

But the crashing I’d heard just then sounded more like someone sideswiping a metal garbage can out in the alley. I strained my ears . . . and heard the garage door opening. I eyed the red digits on the bedside clock. 1:30.

I DEPOSITED MY SEVEN-LAYER SALAD on the pass-through counter to Uptown’s kitchen the next morning and found a seat. I was getting smart. Made it the night before; nothing to cook on Sunday morning; nothing to forget to cook either, like that fiasco with the raw chicken-and-rice casserole the first Sunday Stu had visited Uptown. Who said you can’t teach an old dog new tricks?

I put my coat and Bible on the chair beside me, saving a seat for Denny. Fact was, I was proud of myself. When Josh had knocked on our bedroom door last night to signal he was home, I just called, “OK.” I figured we could deal with why he was late in the morning.

Denny, of course, snored on, unperturbed. Now if it’d been Amanda who was out—ha! Different story.

“Hi, Jodi. Can we sit here?” Stu broke into my thoughts.

I glanced up. “We” were Stu and Becky. “Sure!” I turned my knees so they could scoot into the empty chairs in the middle of the row. “Hey, Becky. Neat you could come.” I didn’t state the obvious. Her parole agent must’ve gotten Pastor Clark’s letter.

Becky just nodded, her eyes darting here and there, taking it all in—Josh at the soundboard at the back, Amanda sitting with some of the teens. Her face perked up when she caught sight of Avis talking with Pastor Clark off to the side. “That the lady what got married a couple of weeks ago, right?”

“Well, thank ya, Jesus!” Florida’s voice sailed over my shoulder. “Look who’s here! Becky Wallace.” She appeared at the end of the row, beaming a smile. “Now I know God’s got this day in His hands.” She jerked her head slightly toward the back of the room.

I twisted around. Carl Hickman was shaking hands with Denny. My eyes widened. “How . . . ?”

She shrugged. “He just got up and came. Didn’t explain himself. And I ain’t gonna question God.” With a little wave, she found a row with several empty seats, pulling Carla onto her lap. In a few moments, Carl shoveled twelve-year-old Cedric into the row and sat down with his family.

No Chris, though.

I glanced around the room. No Peter Douglass either. That was strange. You’d think now that he and Avis were married—

“Good morning, church!” Avis stood at the front, her Bible opened. Denny slipped into the chair beside me.

“Mornin’, Sister Avis!” Carla piped up in a loud voice. Chuckles rippled over the rows, still filling with latecomers.

“Carla Hickman’s got the right idea!” Avis smiled. “Out of the mouth of babes . . . Let’s try that again. Good morning, church!”

“Good morning!” everyone chorused. I grinned. Avis was going to make us a talk-back-to-the-preacher church if it killed her.

“If you listened to the news last night or looked at the headlines this morning,” she went on, “you might wonder why God puts up with such hate and violence. Does God care? Where is God?”

Nods and murmurs all over the room.

“We need to remember that the prince of this world is still working overtime, trying to defeat God’s purpose and plans. We shouldn’t be surprised. Jesus told us to expect wars and rumors of wars, trials, and persecution. I’m not just talking about yesterday’s suicide bombing in Morocco or the years of hostility between Palestine and Israel. I’m talking about the opposition we face in our own lives, too, right here in Chicago. In our neighborhoods. In our families. Within ourselves. But we know something the devil doesn’t know! What is it, church?”

Florida leaped to her feet. “The devil’s already defeated! Thank ya, Jesus!”

“That’s right!” Avis turned to her open Bible. “The book of Revelation says, ‘The great dragon was hurled down—that ancient serpent called the devil, or Satan, who leads the whole world astray. He was hurled to the earth, and his angels with him. . . . They overcame him by the blood of the Lamb and by the word of their testimony.’ ” Avis looked up. “Did you get that? ‘The blood of the Lamb’—that’s the price Jesus paid, His own life. ‘And by the word of their testimony’—that’s us. That’s because the battle isn’t over yet. There’s a war going on in the spirit world—”

Becky seemed mesmerized. “That Avis can preach,” she murmured.

It was true. This was Avis’s first Sunday back after her honeymoon, and she was on fire. We hadn’t even had the opening song yet.

“—but God has given us the weapons to block Satan’s offenses. And one of those weapons is praise! The devil can’t operate in an atmosphere of praise to God. So let’s fill this room with praise! Let’s fill our hearts with praise! Let’s not give the devil any room to work!”

Rick Reilly, the praise team leader, hit the first chord on his guitar, and the rest of the musicians plunged into a new gospel song by Kurt Carr we’d been learning: “We lift our hands in the sanc-tu-ary! We lift our hands to give You the glo-ry . . .”

It was impossible to sit and sing such a song. The Uptown congregation of about a hundred and fifty folks joined Florida on our feet, raising our hands, some clapping. Becky was grinning, not singing the words, but clapping right along. “Hallelujah in the Sanctuary” was followed by “I’m taking back what the devil stole from me . . . I’m takin’ it back, takin’ it back . . .”

As we filled the room with praise, Nony and Mark crowded into my mind. I hadn’t had any time to talk with Avis, to catch her up on what had happened since she and Peter left town. But the Scripture . . . the songs . . . what Avis was saying about the weapons of spiritual warfare—all seemed on target for what they were facing.

Or maybe it was for me, to help me remember how to pray in times like these . . .

CHURCH ALWAYS LIKE THIS?” Becky sat down across from me at the long table, her paper plate full of pasta and chicken and salads from the array of dishes crowded on the pass-through counter. “I mean, lots of get-down singin’ an’ clapping?” She shoveled in a big bite of macaroni and cheese. “Avis, she was up there practically dancin’ outta her shoes.”

I grinned. “Well, that’s Avis. She just gets . . . full, she says. Full of God’s Spirit.”

Becky shrugged. “Well, I like it. Wasn’t so sure about comin’ to church—ain’t never been much. But Pastor Clark tol’ me a new Christian gotta learn how to grow.” She chewed and swallowed. “Guess I shoulda figgered church was part of the deal when I did that baptism thing. But I wasn’t thinkin’ much that day. Just knew I wanted to be, you know, washed clean. Start over. Get God’s help.”

I could hardly stifle my amazement. Becky was being downright talkative. “That’s right. We all need God’s help—oh, hi, Avis! Yeah, sit.” I patted the chair beside me. “No, I’m not saving it for Denny. He’s . . . who knows where.”

Avis sank into the metal folding chair. “Someday,” she murmured, “God’s going to figure we’ve suffered enough with these awful chairs and send padded ones from heaven.”

“Amen to that!” Stu sat down next to Becky, delivering coffee. “Maybe we should start a chair fund. I’d be willing to head up . . . What?” She looked at us, puzzled, as Avis and I burst out laughing.

“Nothing! Nothing, Stu.” Avis was still chuckling. “We do love you, just as you are. Here.” She dug in her purse, pulled out a five-dollar bill, and tossed it on the table. “The beginning of the chair fund.”

I dug in my own purse. “Me too.” Only three ones, but they’d have to do. “Get a basket, Stu; pass it around. Who knows?”

Stu snatched the money and stood up. “OK, I will. You’ll see.”

Becky looked bewildered. “What’s she talkin’ ’bout?” Obviously padded chairs weren’t high on her agenda. She glanced around. “Where’s your new husband?”

Avis shook her head. “Sick. We went out to eat last night. A couple of hours later he had the runs. Probably the fish.”

I felt relieved. At least he wasn’t off at some other church. “Poor guy,” I murmured dutifully. I poked Avis. Stu had reappeared from the kitchen with a basket labeled Chair Fund in big black letters on a scrap of paper and was passing it around to the tables. “See what you started?”

Avis buttered a roll and started in on my seven-layer salad. “Well, Jesus took the little boy’s five loaves and two fish and fed five thousand. What’s a couple hundred chairs?”

Again Becky frowned. “What fish? Is that in the Bible somewhere?”

Avis and I passed a look. Then Avis said, “Becky, do you have a Bible?” Becky shook her head. “Would you like one?”

She shrugged. “Well, yeah. If it’s not too hard to read. I’d kinda like to read that bit about the armor Pastor Clark preached about today—you know, to protect you from the devil. ’Cause . . .” She shifted in her chair and her eyes went down. “’Cause I know the devil’s still after me.”

Avis reached across the table and touched Becky’s hand. “We’ll see that you get one.”

Stu returned with the basket and set it down in front of us triumphantly. “There!” The basket indeed had a lot of bills—mostly ones, a few fives. “Gotta start somewhere.” She picked up her plastic fork. “Josh OK, Jodi? I heard him hit the trash can when he came in last night.”

“You heard him?” I groaned. “I thought I was the only one who lost sleep waiting for my kid to get home.” I eyed Avis sympathetically. “You have three girls, Avis. Did you and Conrad get any sleep when they were teenagers?”

The moment I said it, I wanted to bite my tongue. How thoughtless to mention Avis’s first husband a mere two weeks after she’d remarried.

Avis just shrugged. “Didn’t lose any sleep. We used an alarm clock.”

“What do you mean?”

“Conrad’s idea. We set an alarm clock for their curfew—a loud one. We put it outside our bedroom door and went to sleep. If they got in by curfew, they shut off the alarm, and we slept blissfully until morning. But if that alarm went off and woke us up . . . those girls were in trouble.”

An alarm clock! How simple. How brilliant.

I was so delighted with Avis’s solution to the curfew/sleep dilemma that it was only later, when we drove into the garage and I saw the dented trash can, that I wondered if Stu had been insinuating something else when she asked if Josh was “OK.”

Did she think he’d been drinking?