Denny and I just sat in the car for a little while, sorting through our thoughts. Finally he said, “Did we want to know all that?”
I snorted. “Well, yeah.Not knowing would be worse. The way those girls talked! It’s more than ignorant. It’s . . . it’s . . .”
“Slander. Bigotry. Spreading rumors about an entire ethnic group.”
Well, that too. I was going to say crude. Vulgar.
“I’m proud of her, standing up for herself that way.” He chuckled. “Feisty gal, isn’t she? Must get it from you.”
I let that one go. Not sure it was a compliment. I get feisty, all right—dumping on my husband and kids when I’m upset. Yet not always feisty when I should be, reluctant to make waves in the teachers’ lounge when they’re gossiping about someone or when the politics get hot. But Amanda had walked out. Ha. I could just see her. Not slipping away demurely, either, but probably storming through the mall like her hair was on fire.
“Denny, what do you really think about José and Amanda? I mean, she talked like José’s her boyfriend—and she obviously knows he wants to throw her a quinceañera. Kinda surprised she hasn’t been bugging us about it.”
“Yeah. Give her points there.” Denny scratched his chin. “I think she’s too young to date, and we can set some limits there, but we can’t dictate her heart. And if she’s going to ‘kinda like’ a guy, José Enriquez is pretty good news.We know his mother, he goes to church, and he’s been hanging out with Uptown’s youth group.”
I agreed with all that. Yet I hated what I was thinking: I don’t want my daughter swept off her feet by a “Latin lover.”Would he follow in his dad’s footsteps—end up a high school dropout driving trucks?
“But as far as this quinceañera thing goes,” Denny continued, “it depends. An informal Mexican party? Sounds fun. The whole nine yards? I agree—it’d feel awkward to have José and his family throw a big shindig for our daughter. Sounds like a lot of money we can’t afford—and I don’t think the Enriquezes can either. Still . . .”
“Still . . . what?”
Denny looked at me with a funny expression. “It kinda fits Amanda.Who she is.Who she’s becoming. I mean, she came back from that mission trip to Mexico last summer soaking up the culture. Her Spanish has been improving by leaps and bounds. Huh! Remember a year ago this time? She was making Ds and Fs. This year? As and Bs. And it’s not just José—she’s crazy about the whole Enriquez family, especially Emerald. And Edesa Reyes too.”
“I know. I just . . .”
For some odd reason, the song I’d been listening to in the car the other day popped into my head: “God is in control.” Did I believe that? Or was I always going to approach problems the Old Jodi way—stewing and fret-ting till I’d wrestled them to the ground? No! My Yada Yada sisters had been teaching me to “go to the top” on the first round, not the last. Not just to believe in God, but to believe God.
“Denny, why don’t we pray about it and ask God what we should do?” And then I giggled. “Good grief. I sound just like my dad. I used to hate it when he said that!”
FOR SOME REASON, PRAYING with Denny about the quinceañera was like pricking my anxiety with a pin and letting all the air out.Not that I was clear what we should do. So why not call Delores and talk it over? Tell her our reservations; ask more questions.Why not?
Yet when I called Saturday evening, Delores was working the late shift in pediatrics at the county hospital. Doesn’t matter, I told myself as we four Baxters climbed the stairs to Uptown’s meeting room the next morning. I’ll call her when we get home from church.
Avis was already there, talking to Pastor Clark. They made a funny contrast. Pastor Clark, pale, thin, and gawky, dressed in his “Mr. Rogers” sweater and slacks that looked like they needed a good press. And Avis, tall for a woman, her cocoa-brown skin smooth and unlined even though she had already passed the big 5-0. She had a new hairstyle since I’d last seen her—braided all over her head and tied in a knot on top—and she was wearing a smart black and tan tunic slit up at the sides over a pair of wide-legged slacks.
Both Pastor Clark and Avis had lost spouses—funny, I’d never thought about that before.Widower and widow . . . except now there was Peter Douglass, Avis’s new “friend,” sitting by himself about two-thirds of the way back, a lonely island in a sea of empty folding chairs. The only African-American male, he wore a black sport coat, gray dress pants, and a gray and red tie—a little over-dressed for Uptown’s casual garb. But he did look fine. I liked the touch of gray to his close-clipped black hair.
“Denny!” I whispered, giving a short nod in that direction. “Go say hi.”
Denny obediently walked into the row of chairs just in front of Avis’s guest and extended his hand. “Peter Douglass, right? Denny Baxter. And my wife, Jodi.”
Peter Douglass stood, an impressive three inches taller than Denny. “Yes, I remember,” he said, shaking both our hands, smiling politely.
“Mind if we sit?” Denny peeled off his bulky winter coat. “Hardly need this today. Can you believe this mild weather for January?”
I was hoping we’d get a chance to talk a bit, even if it was just the typical dance around jobs, sports, and how Chicago weather compared to Philadelphia. But just then Avis gave the call to worship: “Praise the Lord, church! If you have your Bibles, please turn with me to Isaiah 43.” I dug into my tote bag, but Avis was already into the Scripture, reading strongly into the handheld mike: “Fear not, for I have redeemed you! I have called you by your name; you are Mine! When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow you.When you walk through the fire, you shall not be burned, nor shall the flame scorch you. For I am the Lord your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior!”
I expected the music group to launch into the first song, but Avis held up her hand as though to put them on pause. Instead, she picked up a copy of the Chicago Tribune and said, “I don’t know how many of you had a chance to read the paper yet, but there was another suicide attack in Tel Aviv this morning.”
Murmurs of “Oh no!” and “Lord, have mercy” spun around the room. I flinched at the picture of carnage I could see on the front page even from my seat. The news from the Middle East was so disturbing lately, I could hardly read the newspaper anymore.
“This is the first Sunday of the New Year,” Avis continued, “yet we are reminded with painful reality that we still have the same old problems infecting our world, our nation, and ourselves. And yet, brothers and sisters, we must not behave as though we have no hope. For our God is a mighty God—”
“Thank ya, Jesus!” No mistaking that voice. Florida must have come in. I twisted in my seat to catch sight of Stu, Florida, and the three kids sitting toward the back. Stu must’ve picked them up. No Carl, though.
“Even though the nations rage, we can trust in God—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—who is not only Redeemer and Friend, but Lord of the nations. One day we will see His glory in its fullness—yet even now, we, His people, must reflect that glory by abiding in His truth and pouring out compassion for all who are caught up in endless cycles of violence and revenge. For our God is not only a God of justice, but of mercy, forgiveness, and grace. Our challenge is to let His light shine through us to all the world—beginning with our own neighborhoods right here in Chicago.”
“You preach,Avis!” Florida called out—and to my surprise, Uptown’s mostly white congregation actually clapped, with a few amens, hallelujahs, and several chuckles thrown in. But Avis was done. She walked away as the music group launched into one of Uptown’s favorites, “Shine, Jesus, Shine.” The words had special poignancy after Avis’s call to worship for the new year: “Flood the nations with grace and mercy . . . let there be light.”
On the other side of Denny, I saw Peter Douglass’s eyes follow Avis as she walked back and forth off to the side, giving herself up to worship with raised hands and tears while the music group of guitars, keyboard, drums, and vocals plunged forward with song after song of victory and praise. A small smile tipped the corners of his mouth.
And then it hit me. That man is head over heels in love with Avis! I was so taken aback I hardly knew what to think.
But my thinker was pulled back to the service when Pastor Clark began his sermon. All over Christendom, he said, churches were celebrating Epiphany—the visit of the wise men to the child Jesus. “It’s an old, old story. Yet it’s a story that’s still being written.Wise men and women—children too—are still bringing their gifts to Jesus.”
And then he told the familiar story of the boy who came to hear Jesus teaching in the countryside one day, bringing along a lunch his mother had packed for him—five small loaves of bread and two dried fish. And he gave them to Jesus. “Jesus used that little gift,” Pastor Clark said, “to feed and bless and refresh thousands of people who were hungry and tired. A miracle, we say. But Jesus is still waiting for us to bring our gifts to Him, so that He can continue to feed and bless and refresh a hungry and hurting world. That is the question I’d like each of you to ask yourself as you head into this new year: ‘What is the gift that’s in my hand? Am I willing to give it to Jesus?’ ”
Being the first Sunday of the month, the service ended with a simple communion. After I’d taken my piece of bread and sipped from the goblet of wine, I closed my eyes, thinking about Pastor Clark’s question. Did I have any gifts in my hand? I couldn’t think of any. Certainly not like Avis, who had the gift of worship . . . or Nony, who seemed to be a wellspring of memorized scriptures that came pouring out in her prayers. All I could come up with was teaching third grade at Bethune Elementary. That’s it, Lord? My job?
WELL, YEAH, I THOUGHT, as I dumped my tote bag on the teacher’s desk in my third-grade classroom the next morning and changed out of my walking shoes. I’m a teacher, so guess that’s what I’ve got in my hand. But how could I give my teaching to Jesus? I certainly couldn’t talk about God in a public school! So? Just be a good teacher, I told myself.Yet sometimes I felt as if I was barely hanging on with my fingernails. This school was better than a lot of Chicago public schools—especially with Avis Johnson at the helm—but I still felt overwhelmed by a classroom so diverse, English was the second language for almost half the children. And the parents! Back in Downers Grove, my classroom had thrived with lots of parent involvement and support. Here? I still hadn’t met some of the parents, even on report card pickup day. And some kids got dropped off at seven in the morning and didn’t get picked up till six at night, like the school was expected to provide breakfast, child-care, after-school supervision, discipline, healthcare, and—oh, yes—the ABCs too.
And then there was Hakim. Correction: Hakim’s mother. She hated me—with good reason. I’d killed one son in that auto accident; why should she let me teach her other son? Was she still trying to get him transferred? I didn’t really blame her. And now that I knew Hakim’s identity, it wasn’t easy to see the personification of my guilt staring back at me every morning in the classroom when he took his seat.
About once a week I felt ready to pack it in and try waitressing.
I took a deep breath. Almost time for the bell to ring. Okay, God. It doesn’t feel like much to me, but it’s all I’ve got in my hand right now. A new year . . . one teacher scrabbling for a foothold . . . one troubled boy who needs redemption . . . and thirty other squirrely eight-year-olds. If You can do anything with that, it’s all Yours.