Now that my head didn’t feel like a lump of cold oatmeal, I tried to do some planning for March—and Stu painting my kitchen was not on my priority list. Denny was still talking about driving to New York during spring break, but that wasn’t till April. That left March wide open. Good. I needed some extra time to update my lesson plans.We were starting several new units in math, science, and social studies. But, different year, different kids—I needed some different approaches.
Still, maybe I could do something with MaDear this coming Saturday. I checked the calendar to be sure the date was clear and noticed the month of March had two Yada Yada birthdays—Ruth and Stu. Hm. Makes sense to celebrate them both at the next Yada Yada, which is meeting at . . . I checked the calendar again. Ha! Ruth’s house. That would be a hoot. Knowing Ruth, she’d say, “Birthdays, smirthdays.Who needs them!”
I sent an e-mail to Yada Yada—minus Ruth and Stu—suggesting we bring cards for both sisters and offering to make a cake. I even phoned Chanda and Yo-Yo to give them the heads-up, since they didn’t have e-mail, though all I got was a busy signal for Yo-Yo. Sent a separate e-mail to Stu saying it was Ruth’s birthday, and I was making a cake. Couldn’t tell Ruth we were celebrating Stu’s birthday, though, since Ruth’s came first—she’d know something was up.
Felt proud of myself being so organized after dragging around like an old shoe all last week.
As usual, the school week consumed my time, making it hard to remember my commitment to “pray the head-lines.” I tried, though, even if I sometimes did it on the run trying to get to school on time. I felt a surge of hope when I heard Iraq had begun to destroy its missiles. Pundits called it too little, too late. Our troops were still gathering in the Middle East, preparing for war. I thought about all those mothers and fathers who were sending their sons and daughters into harm’s way—and Josh was eighteen. Not likely he would volunteer, given that protest march. But what if they reinstituted the draft, like Vietnam? “Oh God! Please don’t let—”
This isn’t just about you, Jodi—or Josh either. Centuries of hatred and violence in the Middle East have left generations of hurting families in their wake.
I hardly needed the Voice in my head to know my prayer was self-centered. It was just too overwhelming. How could I know what to pray? Oh God, teach me how to pray! I cried silently, pulling open the front door of Bethune Elementary for the zillionth time and heading for my classroom. Wait a minute. The disciples said exactly that to Jesus—and He taught them what to pray!
I’d repeated the Lord’s Prayer—King James Version—since I was in the Sunbeam Sunday school class back in Des Moines. Hadn’t said it for years, though, mostly because it became rote, and I was into spontaneous prayers. But what if I prayed it like Nony prayed Scripture, personalizing it, applying it to everyday life?
“OUR FATHER, WHO ART in heaven, hallowed be Thy name . . .”
“Class, please write your name at the top of the sheet I’m handing out and work the five problems on your own.” Oh God, Your name is above every name in heaven and on earth—but You also know each child in this class by name! Draw them to You, Lord! I pray they will feel Your love through me. “Good job, Ramón! Would you like to show the class how you did that on the board?”
“THY KINGDOM COME, THY will be done, on earth as it is in heaven . . .”
Another suicide bombing in Jerusalem dominated the evening news. Oh God! I pray that Your kingdom would triumph over all Satan’s dirty tricks in Israel and Palestine—and everywhere in the Middle East. Denny’s eyebrow lifted in surprise when I sat down beside him on the couch to watch the rest of the news.
“GIVE US THIS DAY our daily bread . . .”
On Saturday, I pushed open the door to Adele’s Hair and Nails, glad to get inside, out of the spitting sleet. Adele looked up suspiciously from behind the counter. “You don’t have an appointment, Jodi Baxter. And you’re the third Yada Yada who has been here this week.”
I grinned. “Do you think MaDear would like some-one to read to her?” I dumped a stack of books out of my tote bag. “What do you think—Bible? Maya Angelou? The Cat in the Hat?”
Adele chuckled. “A little of each, I think. Can’t promise she’ll stay awake, though.”
Sure enough, MaDear fell asleep during the Twenty-Third Psalm. I stopped reading, and she promptly woke up. “You ain’t finished, girl! Got two more verses. Go on! Go on!”
Oh God, let Your Word be MaDear’s daily bread and feed her spirit. Somewhere deep in MaDear’s mind, her memory was clear as fresh spring water.
She caught me skipping a page in The Cat in the Hat too.
“FORGIVE US OUR SINS, as we forgive those who sin against us . . .”
The light on the answering machine was blinking when I got home Saturday afternoon, lugging bags of groceries—later than usual because I ended up reading to MaDear for an hour. (Every time I’d tried to stop, she’d said, “Read it agin,” or “Tha’s good, tha’s good.What’s the next one?” ) I punched the play button as I unloaded milk, frozen OJ, and a package of chicken quarters. The machine announced, “One new message,” then Stu’s voice popped out. “Jodi! Guess what came in the mail today?”
I stood in the middle of the kitchen, holding the package of chicken parts, wondering whether to toss it in the freezer or use it to make something for Second Sunday Potluck at church tomorrow.
“A letter from the parole board at Lincoln!” Stu’s voice continued. “They’re giving us a hearing—two weeks from today! Can you and Denny make it? Good thing Yada Yada meets tomorrow; we can pin this thing down.”
The answering machine clicked off, but I just stood there with the package of chicken. The parole board was giving us a hearing? I sank down on the kitchen stool. Forgive me, Jesus, for having such weak faith. Even wishing the parole board would say no. But . . . what exactly are we getting ourselves into? We’ve already forgiven Becky Wallace, haven’t we? Well, yeah, kinda, sorta—but I wasn’t sure I knew what the implications were. What did it mean to completely forgive?
There were still consequences, weren’t there?
“LEAD US NOT INTO temptation, but deliver us from evil . . .”
I got up shivering in the middle of the night to put another blanket on our bed—and nearly jumped out of my skin when the phone rang. The glowing digital alarm clock said 4:11. I snatched up the bedside extension, my heart racing. Had to be bad news—my parents? Denny’s?
“Jodi?” Yo-Yo’s voice was high-pitched, scared. “Hey. Sorry to wake you up, but is Pete over there?”
“Pete? No . . . wait a minute, Yo-Yo.”
Denny had risen up on one elbow, but I put my hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s Yo-Yo. Go back to sleep.” I hustled the phone out of the bedroom and down the hall into the dim shadows of the living room.Willie Wonka’s nails clicked on the wooden floor behind me. “What’s the matter, Yo-Yo?”
“He never came home last night. That homeboy been comin’ in later an’ later, givin’ me fits. Tonight he never came back at all. I was wonderin’ if maybe he stayed over with Josh.”
“Haven’t seen him. I’ll double-check Josh’s room.” Not a chance. I’d know if we had an extra body in the house. I padded back down the hallway, Willie Wonka at my heels, and peered into Josh’s bedroom. One lump in the bed. I opened the door wider and scanned the floor. Just the usual mess. I pulled the door shut again. “Sorry, Yo-Yo.”
Silence at the other end. Then, “I don’t know what ta do, Jodi. Kinda worried.”
Kinda? I’d be a total wreck if Josh wasn’t home at four in the morning! “Who was Pete out with? Did you try calling his friends?”
“I don’t know where he was. He just went out. That”—Yo-Yo blistered my ear with a few choice names in Pete’s absence—“thinks he can do anything he wanna do since he turned seventeen. He ain’t even a senior yet.”
“Oh, Yo-Yo.” I wanted to hug her. She was just a kid herself, only twenty-three, trying to raise two teenage brothers. And from stuff she’d said, she’d never had much parenting herself. I felt helpless to comfort her. “Want to pray for him right now, Yo-Yo? God knows where he is.”
“You pray, Jodi. I don’t . . . I mean, I don’t know if God listens to me.”
“Of course He listens to you! Why wouldn’t He?”
“ ’Cause I’m not . . . I dunno. Not even sure I’m a Christian. I mean, how can you know when you’ve made it? Haven’t done that baptism thing yet.”
Oh, Yo-Yo. “Don’t worry about baptism right now, Yo-Yo.” After all, it was four in the morning. “Just take my word for it—God listens to you. But if you want, I’ll pray for us both, okay?”
Huddled in the darkness and the old afghan on the couch, I prayed aloud, phone clamped to my ear, seeing Yo-Yo in my mind—scared, sleepless, saddled with worries beyond her age. As I prayed, my heart began to lighten. “Steer Pete away from temptation tonight, Jesus, and protect him from all harm and danger. Don’t let the evil one snatch him away.We claim Pete for You, Lord . . .”
I’m not sure how long I prayed, but Yo-Yo said, “Thanks, Jodi,” when I wrapped it up “in the mighty name of Jesus.” “He’s prob’ly okay—sleepin’ off too many beers at some kid’s house or somethin’.”
The clock said 4:55 when I crawled back under the covers and pressed my cold feet against Denny’s warm ones. Given the possibilities, sleeping off too many beers sounded downright wholesome.
“FOR THINE IS THE kingdom, the power, and the glory, forever and ever! Amen.”
The Lord’s Prayer was still at the forefront of my mind as I dropped off my Crock-Pot of chicken marengo in the church kitchen the next morning. I was glad to see Avis preparing to lead worship this Sunday. I could use some out-of-our-seats praise this morning, because Yo-Yo had called just as we were making our usual mad dash out the door. Pete had dragged in at five thirty and said he’d been playing pool and hanging out—“Smelling like weed!” she’d yelled in my ear—and “forgot” to call. Oh, please. Still, the he’s-dead-in-an-alley-somewhere scare was over, and she was mad as a wet cat. Hallelujah! Praise Jesus!
I craned my neck. Huh. Didn’t see Peter Douglass . . .
I gave Avis a hug after service. “Peter didn’t come? Thought you might bring him to Uptown’s infamous Second Sunday Potluck.” I grinned sheepishly. “Especially since I made you guys miss it last month with my lunch invitation.”
Avis got a funny look on her face. “No, he didn’t come. Actually, Peter and I . . . um, we’re kind of cooling things right now.”
I stared at her, speechless.
“Don’t say anything, Jodi. I’ll . . . we can talk later, okay?”
Don’t say anything? The whole Yada Yada Prayer Group was making a friendship quilt for the two of them, for crying out loud!