3

The praise team finally wound up the time of worship with a get-down version of “Joy to the World,” causing Sunday morning shoppers to peer in the windows. A few even stepped inside the door to listen, though they skittered back outside when Pastor Clark—wearing a skinny red tie that ran up and down his white shirt like a fever thermometer—stood up to welcome visitors and give announcements. “Don’t forget our next business meeting and potluck on the second Sunday of the New Year—”

“What? No New Year’s Eve service?” I whispered to Denny. He ignored me.

“—Also, volunteers from the Manna House women’s shelter here in Chicago would like to bring an announcement. Josh? Edesa?” Pastor Clark waved them up.

I was relieved to see Josh was clad in a pair of jeans with no skin showing. Edesa, as usual, glowed like polished mahogany. She was the first Spanish-speaking black person I’d ever met. Even with all my textbook education about the ugly slave trade on both American continents, it had somehow eluded me that African descendants peppered South America too—until I met Edesa. Nationality: African Honduran.

But as the two of them stood up there in front of the whole church, my heart bounced back and forth between affection and anxiety. Josh, our eldest, was a recent high school graduate, with no plans—yet—to go to college; he wanted “life experience first.” Edesa, three years older, had recently changed her study track to public health at UIC —and had been one of my Yada Yada prayer sisters ever since God threw the twelve of us together at that Chicago Women’s Conference a year and a half ago.

Josh and Edesa. Everywhere I turned lately, they were doing some kind of youth group thing together. They’d helped chaperone a group of Uptown teens at the Cornerstone Music Festival last summer. Taken kids to Six Flags Great America. (Huh! In my book, nineteen-year-old Josh was still two hairs shy of being an adult.) Now they were volunteering at a homeless women’s shelter, of all things!

Josh, of course, admired Edesa. Who didn’t? The Honduran student was a vibrant young woman—one of the sweetest I’d ever met. Thoughtful. Caring. Like a daughter to Delores Enriquez and her brood. Still, I nearly swallowed my tongue when, in a rare moment of vulnerability, my son had told me, “Mom. I . . . love . . . Edesa Reyes.” And in an even rarer moment of motherly grace, I’d actually asked, “Have you told her?”

No. She’d never encouraged him that way, he said. They were “just friends.”

Right.

“Buenos días, church!” Edesa’s bright yellow sweater and yellow cloth headband added sunshine to the rather gray day outside. “I bring you greetings from Iglesia del Espirito Santo, my home church on the West Side. I am delighted to be with you this morning—and I see many familiar faces here.” She winked at Little Andy, who hid his face and giggled.

Josh picked it up. “Edesa and I are volunteers at Manna House, a women’s shelter in Chicago, less than a year old.” He sketched the beginnings of the shelter, “home” to two dozen women with children, more or less, who were homeless or—in some cases—victims of domestic abuse who needed a place of safety.

“Right now,” Edesa said, “we have only one full-time paid staff member—our director. Our office manager is part-time. We desperately need more volunteers—especially on the weekends, to give the staff a break—including those who would be willing to spend one or two nights simply being un amigo to the women, doing activities with the niños, and simply being a ‘presence.’ ” She smiled at the gaggle of kids on the front row. “But maybe the best thing would be to hear from one of the current residents.”

Who? Rochelle? Only a few people here knew Rochelle was a “current resident” at Manna House. Wouldn’t it be risky to go public? She didn’t want Dexter to find her. Besides, I thought Rochelle was still so mad at Peter “You’re Not My Dad” Douglass for sending her to a shelter when she showed up at their apartment a third time, I couldn’t imagine she’d plug Manna House—not in front of her mom’s new husband!

But Rochelle didn’t move. Instead, Edesa took a letter from her pocket, unfolded it and began to read. “To whom it may concern: To tell the truth, I never imagined that I would end up in a women’s shelter. But I never imagined I’d be afraid of my husband either, so here I am . . .”

Did Rochelle write the letter? Sounded like her story. She whispered something to Conny, as if not paying attention. Avis’s eyes were closed, her lips moving soundlessly. Praying, no doubt.

“The shelter isn’t much,” Edesa read on. “The space could use a lot of sprucing up.” Josh rolled his eyes in agreement; the kids on the front row giggled. “But I’m so grateful the staff and volunteers have been there for me and my baby. They’ve loved on us, accepted us, given us legal help, and been a safe haven when we needed it most. Of course, we don’t want to stay here forever! But for now, we are blessed. And if you can do anything to keep the shelter going, I know you will be blessed too.” Edesa looked up. “Signed by one of our residents.”

The congregation clapped spontaneously. When the noise died down, Josh said, “Uh, I think that speaks for itself. We’re hoping to get enough volunteers so your time would only be one weekend per month. So . . . if you have any questions, please talk to us after the service. We can give more details at that time.”

Before Josh and Edesa went back to their seats, both Pastor Clark and Pastor Cobbs laid hands on them and prayed for this new shelter. I noticed Denny fishing in his pants pocket for a handkerchief and blowing his nose.

When the prayer was over, Josh and Edesa finally left the platform—and then suddenly Josh turned back. “As long as I have the floor—”

My head jerked up. Uh-oh. What was my unpredictable son going to do now?

“—we’ve had a tradition at Uptown Community on New Year’s Day—”

Oh no. He’s not going to bring that up in the middle of a worship service!

“—a Polar Bear Swim down at Loyola Beach. I know we’re a ‘new’ church now, and all the old things are on the shelf till we get things decided, but, hey, just wanted to invite anyone, especially the teens and anyone young at heart—”

Oh, brother. He’s actually inviting people to that crazy Polar Bear Swim right here in the middle of worship! And Stu’s parents are visiting too! I saw a few New Morning adults shaking their heads. Ack! What are people thinking!

“—noon sharp, ’cause I know everybody’s gonna stay up late the night before seeing the New Year in. So—” Whatever Josh said after that was drowned out by the whoops and enthusiastic catcalls of several teenagers, both black and white.

I was afraid to look at Pastor Cobbs’s face. I mean, there was nothing remotely spiritual about a Polar Bear Swim! And we were the newbies in this church—after all, we were meeting in New Morning’s new space, and—

Beside me, I felt Denny shaking. I looked at him, startled.

My husband had his head down, laughing silently.

“WHAT YOU SO UPTIGHT FOR, GIRL?” Florida rolled her eyes at me after church as we walked away from the coffee table, Styrofoam cups of hot, black liquid in our hands. “Thought you was gonna turn into a frog, the way your eyes bugged out when Josh did that Polar Bear thang.” She grinned at me unsympathetically.

“I know, I know,” I moaned. “It’s just that . . .”

Just what, Jodi Baxter? said the Voice in my spirit. Worried about what people will think? Hm, haven’t we been there before, you and Me?

Well, yeah, but—

And what’s “unspiritual” about the Polar Bear Swim? After all, Scripture says, “Do all things to the glory of God.”

Well, yeah, but—

Stop worrying about what people will think, Jodi, and start looking for the possibilities. Like your son.

Like my son. I looked around until I saw Josh—in the middle of a knot of kids, laughing and talking. Huh. I doubted they were signing up to be volunteers at Manna House. But just then I saw Pastor Cobbs thread his way through the mob of youthful bodies and shake Josh’s hand. Josh’s face lit up. Even from where I was standing, I heard him say, “That’d be great! Wow.”

Nanoseconds later, Amanda, butterscotch hair falling out of a butterfly clip perched on the back of her head, bounced over to me. “Hey, Mom. Guess what? Pastor Cobb thinks the Polar Bear Swim thing is great. He encouraged all of us kids to invite other teenagers, then bring them back here to the church for hot chocolate and music and stuff. Cool, huh?” She bounced off. Amanda rarely waited for an actual dialogue.

I closed my eyes and shook my head. Sheesh. When was I ever going to learn that God was a whole lot bigger than me and all my ought-tos and fear factors and what-ifs? Was God giving me a word for the New Year?

Look for the possibilities, Jodi . . .