7

So what did Peter Douglass want yesterday?” I had given Peter’s message to Denny when he got home Saturday afternoon. They’d spent a good thirty minutes on the phone, with Denny saying stuff like, “Yeah, I agree . . . Good point . . . Man, wish I knew . . . I’ll see what I can find out.” I might as well have been Willie Wonka for all I learned from Denny’s side of the conversation. I gave up and took the dog for walk, but even that didn’t last long. Poor Wonka. Every time we found a cleared sidewalk, he’d lifted first one paw, then another, and looked at me with that pitiful rumpled brow. The salted sidewalks stung his cracked pads.

By the time we got back to the house (finally cutting through the alleys, which were never salted and never plowed, creating a mishmash of stuck cars like a destruction derby pileup), Denny was engrossed in a basketball game on TV. I knew I’d only get “Huh?” and “Can it wait?” if I tried to strike up a conversation while “da Bulls” were scoring. So I’d given up on curiosity and tackled a major molehill: what to take to the Second Sunday Potluck tomorrow.

Josh, who’d done a twenty-four-hour shift at Manna House, said he’d take the el and meet us at church this morning. Now I pulled the big bowl of hot calico beans out of the back of the minivan and stood aside while Denny locked the car before following Amanda, who’d already disappeared into our “new” shopping center church. “You guys talked long enough,” I added.

“Oh yeah.” Denny took my arm to steady me as we mushed through the icy parking lot. “He’s concerned about Carl. Seems depressed on the job. Can’t blame the guy. I’d be depressed, too, if my kid was locked up in juvie. Anyway, Peter was trying to pick my brain about what we could do to support the Hickman family right now—or Chris for that matter. But the only visitors allowed at the JDC are parents or guardians—not even siblings.”

Huh. And I thought they were hashing over new names for the church. “You come up with any ideas?”

“Peter thinks a bunch of guys need to be there for Carl on a regular basis. Let him vent his feelings, pray with him, get him out with the guys now and then—stuff like that. I mean, Florida has you Yada Yadas for support, but . . .”

I cringed. Florida has you Yada Yadas for support. It’d been a week since our last meeting at Yo-Yo’s. Had I even called Florida this past week to see how she was doing? Had I called anybody except Avis—and I didn’t get her even then. Ruth had called me, but . . .

Sheesh, Lord. You’re so faithful! But I always seem to fall down on the job. It’s hard being Your hands and feet in this Body You’ve put us in.

Denny held the glass door open as I carefully carried the hot beans inside and headed for the half-finished kitchen on the other side of the “sanctuary,” trying not to bump into anyone.

I dunno, God. Maybe You can be there for a zillion people at once. But I’m only one person—with thirty kids on my job, two almost-grown teenagers at home, a prayer group of twelve sisters whose lives keep getting snarly like a dozen cats in a yarn shop. How am I supposed to—

“Yo, Jodi.” Becky Wallace stood in front of me and peered into my face. “The kitchen’s back that way. You planning on storin’ that dish in the ladies washroom or something?”

I sighed and pushed back my paper plate. That morning’s worship—get-down praise and a good word from the Word from dear Pastor Clark, who’d seemed energized by the congregational talk-back of “Amen!” and “That’s right, brother!”—had satisfied my soul. The potluck—a glut of greens, macaroni and cheese, fried chicken, hot wings, calico beans, potato salad, and green salad—had satisfied my stomach.

Now it was time for the church business meeting. Would it satisfy my spirit?

Tables were pushed back, chairs replaced into rows, and cleanup left until later. I chafed at the rows of chairs. Wouldn’t a circle, even several layers deep, be more welcoming? Maybe I’d work up the courage to suggest it next time.

Some of the younger teens took the little kids and babies into one of the back rooms, while most of the older teens, like Josh and Amanda, elected to stay in the meeting. Pastor Joe Cobbs opened the meeting with prayer.

“Father God.” The fifty-something pastor’s booming voice always took me a bit off guard. “You led Your people across the Red Sea. You provided manna and meat in the wilderness. You gave them clothes that didn’t wear out, even though they wandered around in that wilderness for forty years. You told them that if they followed Your commandments, You would make them into a great people. And then You brought them victorious into the Promised Land.”

“That’s right! That’s right!”

“So, Father God. We know You are going to lead us through the deep waters we’re facing—”

“Hallelujah! Jesus!”

“We know You are going to provide the ways and means to survive our challenges and be nourished along the way—”

“Jesus! Thank You!”

“And we know that if we listen to Your Word and obey the voice of Your Holy Spirit, You are going to make us into Your people, right here on Howard Street!”

By this time, people were on their feet, hands raised, shouting hallelujah, thanking God. Not exactly how most business meetings started, but the hope and confidence in the prayer squeezed the anxiety out of me. “Yes, Lord!” I cried, adding my voice to the hubbub. “We know You have a plan for us, to give us a future and a hope!”

Praying Scripture was still new for me, but thanks to Yada Yada, I was beginning to memorize more of God’s promises, so that they came pouring out when we needed them. Like now.

Nonyameko must have had the same prompting, because as the general praises drifted to a hush, I heard her voice lift above the others. “ ‘For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, says the Lord, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope. Then you will call upon Me and go and pray to Me, and I will listen to you. And you will seek Me and find Me, when you search for Me with all your heart.’ God’s Word from Jeremiah chapter twenty-nine, verse eleven. Amen.”

As we resumed our seats and took up the agenda, I was surprised at how quickly a number of potentially sticky issues were cared for. But the first recommendation oiled the gears: all decisions made today would take effect for one year, giving the congregation more experience with one another, at which time all decisions would be reviewed. That one passed unanimously. “Smart,” Denny murmured. “Very smart.”

Next, the double congregation affirmed that Pastor Joseph Cobbs and Pastor Hubert Clark were copastors, with mutual responsibility for teaching and preaching, but with a division of administrative oversight for the various ministries according to their gifts and strengths. (“Hubert?” Florida hissed in my ear from the row behind me. “No wonder that man keeps his given name under his hat!”)

I wondered how we’d deal with the next level of leadership, though. We didn’t know each other well enough to elect new elders from each previous church. But the current crop—three from Uptown and five from New Morning—was too many for a church our size, seemed to me. Peter Douglass cleared his throat and stood up.

“I realize I’m not a voting member of this congregation . . . yet.” He smiled. “A fact I intend to change at the first opportunity.” A burst of applause and laughter erupted. “But I’d like to make a suggestion about elders. Why don’t the current elders from both congregations draw lots. Half would serve the first six months of this year; half would serve the second half. Then at the end of the year, we can have a new election.”

A murmur rippled among the rows of chairs. But Peter held up a hand to continue. “That way, we honor our current elders, giving us the benefit of their experience as we begin this marriage.” Several people laughed. “But it also gives an opportunity to raise up new leaders in the near future.”

“Amen, brother!” More clapping.

Denny stood up. “I like that suggestion. But I have to confess, I don’t know who we’re talking about—from New Morning, at least. Could we have the current elders from Uptown and New Morning introduce themselves?”

More clapping. Pastor Clark introduced Uptown’s current elders: Rick Reilly, Tom Fitzhugh, and David Brown. Pastor Cobbs said New Morning had deacons, not elders, but the function was probably similar. He called on Debra and Sherman Meeks, Carrie Walker, Rommel Custer, and Mark Smith to stand.

I beamed at the Meeks, who’d been so warm and welcoming from day one.

“Hallelujah!” Florida exclaimed behind me. “All right now!” Then I heard her hiss in my ear again. “They got women on they board!”

I watched as Nony’s husband stood with the other deacons, gripping the back of the chair in front of him. The Northwestern University history professor whose head had been bashed in with a brick last summer was still a looker, in spite of the weight he’d lost during his convalescence. The black eye patch he wore over his left eye gave him a debonair, mysterious air—especially with that trim goatee outlining his chin. I poked Denny. “Did you know Mark was a deacon at New Morning?” I whispered.

He shrugged. “Not surprised.”

But I saw Nony’s face tilt upward, watching him, brows knit in concern.

Mark raised his hand. “Pastors? If I may say something?” He spoke clearly, just a tad slowly. Easy to miss if someone didn’t know what he’d been through.

The room quieted. People leaned forward.

“I think Peter Douglass’s suggestion is excellent, and under normal circumstances I would be glad to serve. But as you all know, I haven’t been able to carry out my responsibilities for the last six months, and I think it best to step down at this time. God has brought me a very long way . . . but I also want to be realistic. I don’t think I need to explain.” He sat down. Nony put an arm across the back of his chair, resting it there.

Pastor Cobbs stroked his chin thoughtfully. “We could assign you to the second six months if that would make a difference, brother.”

Mark just shook his head. My heart was aching. Why step down? Give the healing process another six months! Was stepping down accepting defeat?

But we moved on. Peter’s suggestion became a motion, which was carried by the “ayes.” Then and there, the seven remaining elder-deacons drew slips of paper, four of which had X’s on them. Our first set of elders was Debra Meeks, Rommel Custer, Rick Reilly, and Tom Fitzhugh. The second set would be David Brown, Sherman Meeks, Carrie Walker. I noticed no one said anything about the disproportionate number. Maybe Pastor Cobbs was leaving the position open on purpose, just in case . . .

The last item on the agenda was a new name for the church. Now I was getting excited. I fished the papers I’d printed out from my tote bag. Wasn’t sure what the procedure for introducing new names would be, but I was ready. The pastors passed out a sheet with a few possibilities. All were a combination of the old names: Uptown New Morning Church . . . New Morning Community Church . . . New Community Christian Church.

The discussion was spirited.

“How we gonna decide whose name goes first?”

“Does it matter?”

“Sure it does. Uptown’s been around twenty years. If we want people to know we’re still around, the name ought to be in there somewhere.”

“I like that ‘New Community’ one.”

“We’re not voting yet.”

Becky Wallace waved her hand. “Uh, seems ta me we oughta come up with a new name. New church, new name.” Her head swiveled at the murmurs that rippled around her. “Or maybe not. What do I know?” She shrank into her seat.

“Maybe the old names aren’t important to some folks.” A big woman eyed Becky over the top of her skinny reading glasses. “But for those of us who’ve been around awhile, the name is important. Preserves our history. It’s part of our identity.”

Murmurs of assent this time.

“Heh-heh-heh. This is like John Smith-Brown gettin’ hitched to Mary Jones-White,” a man cracked. “Whatcha gonna call the next generation? Smith-Brown-Jones-White?” That got a laugh—but I could tell the tension had risen.

Silence descended over the room. My insides were churning. Seemed like some combination of the old names would win the day. My idea was probably dumb anyway. Nobody else had mentioned any new names—

“Could I say something?” Avis Johnson-Douglass stood up, her Bible open. “I don’t disagree about the importance of history, of celebrating our identities. But I find it interesting that God often gave a new name when He was doing something new in the lives of His people. Abram was changed to Abraham. Jacob was changed to Israel. Simon was changed to Peter. Oftentimes there was a prophetic quality to the new name—a promise of something new, something God was going to do. Here, let me read . . .”

My eyes widened. Prophetic. That was the word. That was what had excited me about Ruth’s off-the-cuff suggestion.

Avis read from Revelation chapter three. “ ‘He who overcomes, I will make him a pillar in the temple of My God, and he shall go out no more. I will write on him the name of My God and the name of the city of My God, the New Jerusalem, which comes down out of heaven from My God. And I will write on him My new name. He who has an ear, let him hear what the Spirit says to the churches.’ ” Avis closed her Bible. “I don’t have a name to suggest, but Pastor Clark often says, ‘God is doing a new thing.’ A new wineskin, so to speak, for new wine. So I’d like to suggest we add some new names to this list. Something that expresses what God is doing among us. Or”—she smiled—“what God will do among us if we let Him.”

I felt like shouting. Thank you, Avis! But I still hesitated. Didn’t want to be the first one.

To my surprise, Hoshi Takahashi stood up. “Avis spoke my heart. Thank you, dear sister. I have a name to suggest: All Nations Church. Because we want people of all nations to be welcome here.”

I saw a few heads bobbing, as well as a few frowns. But Hoshi’s courage strengthened my own backbone. I stood up. “Thank you, Hoshi. I like your suggestion. But I also have a suggestion. You might think it sounds funny at first—I did. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized—”

“Just tell us the name, Jodi,” Stu piped up.

For a moment, I felt flustered. “Okay. Yachad.” I heard a few snickers, so I rushed on. “Yachad is a Hebrew word, found in the Bible, which means ‘together in unity’ or ‘in one accord.’ It has the prophetic quality Avis was talking about. Like Jesus’ prayer in John seventeen, when He asked God to make us one, just as He and the Father are One. That’s our prayer for this merger, too, I think. I’ve got a page here explaining the meaning if anyone’s interested.”

I sat down, feeling the heat in my face. Comments flew all around me. “Yachad what? Yachad Community Church?” “Sounds like a mosque to me. We’d get a bunch of Muslims showing up.” “So? Maybe that’s good.” “She said it’s Hebrew, not Arabic.” “Still, nobody would know what it means.” “But people would ask and we could tell them—like a witness, you know.” “I kinda like it.” “I don’t know . . .”

But a sense of peace lapped quietly at my frazzled nerves. In spite of the voices all around me, I heard a still, small Voice in my spirit. Now let it go, Jodi. You planted the seed. You were obedient to speak the Word. Let it go.