15

Chicago got a dump of snow that Thursday—an accumulation of five inches. My third graders wanted to build more snowmen. I rolled my eyes. “You’re on your own, kiddos.” A few diehards charged bravely into the playground at lunchtime, but they were back in five minutes. The high that day was only ten degrees above zero. Add the wind off the lake and it felt like tiny ice picks hammering away at your face.

Josh emerged from his hole Saturday morning to say he’d drive Precious and Sabrina to the Salvation Army shelter. Amanda also wanted to go along. We packed up as many warm clothes, boots, jackets, and blankets as we could find to fit the mother and daughter, using Pastor Cobbs’s John-the-Baptist guideline: “If you have two coats, share with the one who has none.” But our guests looked so forlorn as we hugged them good-bye that guilt nibbled away my smile. Just washing your hands of it, aren’t you, Jodi? You’re glad they’re gone. Now maybe things can get back to normal. But how would you like to be heading to a shelter with your teenage daughter for who knows how long?

I stood in the kitchen long after the minivan disappeared down our icy alley. It was true. I felt relieved that they were gone. The week had gone smoothly enough, but it had been taxing having two extra people in the house—people whose life situation was so starkly different from ours. Homeless. Poor—no, not poor. Destitute. No relatives in Chicago to take them in. Sabrina’s father had abandoned them long ago. Since then it had been hand to mouth, shelter to SRO “by the week,” back to a shelter. Then the fire, wiping out everything but the clothes on their backs. Literally. Now another shelter.

Should we have invited them to stay, like Stu invited Estelle? Wait. Here I was wrestling with those questions in good old Jodi fashion. Stewing. Going around and around. I needed to pray. Didn’t the Bible say we could ask God for wisdom?

I heard Denny turn on the shower; now was not a good time to wash the sheets from the “guest bed” anyway. Willie Wonka followed me stiffly as I grabbed my Bible and another cup of coffee, and settled into the peace and quiet of the living room. I reread the scriptures Pastor Cobbs had mentioned on Sunday morning: Luke 3:9–11; Romans 12:13; Matthew 25:40. Definitely stretched my comfort zone, but Scripture was clear: we needed to not just be “concerned” about the poor but give practical help. Okay, Lord, what are You saying here? I really didn’t want to put it into words, but I gulped and prayed: Were we supposed to ask Precious and Sabrina to stay?

The Voice in my spirit seemed to speak right up. Why are you assuming you have to fix it for Precious and Sabrina all by yourself, Jodi? You did what was needed: you gave them a place to stay until another could be found. You gave them food and clothing.

Huh. Was that the Holy Spirit speaking to me, or just wishful thinking?

I know. But look at Stu. She’s going the extra mile, asking Estelle to stay.

The Voice continued, So? Are you Stu? Do you have room in your home for another grown woman and her almost grown teenager for the long haul?

Well, no. Amanda had had to sleep on the couch all week. She was a good sport about it, but it wasn’t a permanent solution.

Guilt isn’t helpful, Jodi. Neither is overresponsibility. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t more you can do. Look for the possibilities, My daughter. And ask for My direction. Because My yoke is easy, and My burden is light.

“Jodi?” Denny poked his head into the living room, swathed in knit hat, long scarf, and several sweatshirt layers. “I think I’ll jog over to the Hickmans’. Been wanting to talk to Carl about something. Give me some exercise too. Oh—when’s your meeting?”

“One o’clock. At the church. Josh promised he’d be back in time to pick me up. I think he’s going to pick up Edesa first while he’s down that way. Isn’t it too icy out there to jog?”

“I’ll be fine.” He came into the room, bent down, and kissed me on the lips. He smelled good. Irish Spring good. “Just one thing, Jodi. Don’t feel like you have to take the world on your shoulders, just because this situation with Manna House presents a lot of needs. Whatever they ask you today, it’s okay to think about it. Take time to pray about it. Talk about it with me. Okay? Promise?”

I nodded sheepishly. “Thanks. I needed that.”

“What? The kiss or the lecture?”

I grabbed his shirt and pulled him closer, kissing him back. “Both. Believe me.”

THE MANNA HOUSE MEETING started at one and ended at three. To my surprise, the group was small—just Rev. Handley and the other staff person, an African-American woman named Mabel, who served part time as office manager, resident coordinator, and volunteer organizer, plus the four volunteers who had been there that night: Josh, Edesa, Karen, and myself. I thought all the volunteers would be there to get hyped up about “what next.”

The fire marshal showed up to report on the inspection. The fire had started in the basement, probably an electrical short, intensified, of course, by the dry Christmas tree. Josh kept his eyes down, his face pale. “But it was a fire waiting to happen,” the fire marshal added, “Christmas tree or no Christmas tree. The wiring in that old building should have been totally replaced before getting a permit to use it as a shelter.” He glared pointedly at Rev. Handley. “I’m not saying anything illegal happened here, but we are investigating who did the safety inspection for your permit and whether city negligence is an issue.”

Rev. Handley nodded, visibly upset.

The verbal reports we had each given the night of the fire had been typed up. The marshal asked us to read them over and sign our names if we stood by our reports. I was afraid Josh would scrawl over his, “It’s all my fault!” But like the rest of us, he read his report tersely, then signed.

The fire marshal stood up to leave. “You people are trying to do a good thing here. But if you manage to get a building and start up again, now you have a chance to do it right. That’s what I want to say to you. No shortcuts. Always put safety first.” He solemnly shook hands all around, then headed for his official car, parked like a red cherry in the snowy parking lot.

We all just looked at each other. Rev. Handley finally cleared her throat. “Well. Mabel and I will be meeting with the board to discuss the future of Manna House—or even if we have one. Right now, however, I want to commend each one of you volunteers for responding quickly and responsibly during the emergency. I’ve talked to all the residents, and they have nothing but praise for you four helping to get them all out of the building. Josh, I especially want to thank you for taking charge—”

“That’s right!” I wanted to cry out. “He did!” But Josh was shaking his head miserably. I bit my lip, my throat tight, knowing my son was in pain.

Rev. Handley pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Son, I know you’re beating yourself up because you turned on the Christmas tree lights that night. But all of us—myself included—knew that tree was nothing but dry kindling. We let cozy feelings—trying to create a homey atmosphere for Manna House residents—override our responsibility to put safety first. And you heard the marshal. All the electrical wiring was compromised. As director of Manna House, I take full responsibility for what happened.”

I stared at the short, stocky woman with the salt-and-pepper cropped hair and wire-rimmed glasses. Admiration for her eased the tightness in my throat. She could so easily have dumped blame on someone else . . . on my son. She’d only been there briefly that night; wasn’t anywhere around when the fire started. But she took responsibility without mincing around. Huh. If only more leaders displayed that kind of leadership . . .

Liz Handley sucked in a deep breath, hands on her knees. “We’ve learned something the hard way. But God in His mercy protected all lives . . .” The director seemed to have a hard time getting any more out.

“Si. That is what is important.” Edesa leaned over and gently touched the director’s hand. “I think we should pray and thank our heavenly Father for His mercy.” She didn’t wait for confirmation but moved right into earnest prayer. “Oh Dios, nuestro Padre, gracias por su misericordia! . . .”

“YOU DIDN’T TALK ABOUT the future of Manna House? Nobody asked you to do anything?” Denny couldn’t hide his surprise.

I shook my head. “That’s all it was—a debriefing after the fire. Reverend Handley reported that all the residents have been moved to other shelters—except for a few, like Rochelle and Estelle, who are staying put—and then we just prayed for them all.” I fished a sheet of paper out of my jeans pocket. “I asked for the list so I could continue to pray for them all. By name.” I grinned at him impishly. “Didn’t think I needed to talk to you or pray about praying.”

Denny scratched his chin. “Uh-huh. Well then, guess I don’t have to ask you if it’s okay if I invite all the guys over here tomorrow afternoon for the Super Bowl. Twenty or thirty is all—”

“What?” I snatched a dishtowel and flipped him good. “You didn’t!”

He threw up both hands. “Hey! Just kidding! Carl Hickman and I both nixed our homes; our TVs aren’t big enough. We’re asking Mark Smith. They’ve got one of those monster screens in their family room.”

“Wait just a cotton-pickin’ minute.” I opened the cupboard door where I kept the Yada Yada list. Tomorrow was February first. Super Bowl Sunday. And Yada Yada was supposed to meet . . . where? I ran my finger down the list.

Adele. Perfect. At least she didn’t have a sports fanatic hogging the living room or hollow-leg teenagers emptying the food cupboards on Super Bowl Sunday like most of the rest of us.

RUTH AND YO-YO STRUGGLED out of the Garfields’ big green Buick in front of Adele’s apartment building, each one lugging a baby carrier, just as Stu and I parked across the street. “Where’s Ben? Doesn’t he usually drop you off?” I asked as we huddled in the small entryway of the apartment building, waiting for Adele to buzz us in.

Ruth rolled her eyes. “Does he usually let me drive? Never. But today, drop him off at the Sisulu-Smiths early, he says. Huh. Doesn’t want to miss even one Super Bowl commercial, that’s what.”

“He was going to teach me to drive so I could get my license,” Yo-Yo grumbled. “But that was B.B.”

I started to ask what “B.B.” meant, but I figured it out: Before Babies.

We had a good turnout that night, in spite of chilly temperatures. February had shuffled in like a hobo in dirty clothes—no exciting snowstorm, no cleansing thaw, just leftover piles of dirty snow along the plowed streets. I thought Stu might bring Estelle, but she said Estelle was busy sewing up some new clothes for herself from material Stu once bought but had never done anything with.

Rochelle didn’t come with Avis either. Avis wasn’t happy about leaving her and Conny alone on a weekend. “What if Dexter finds out where she is now? But Peter took himself off to the Super Bowl Bash at Nony’s house, so someone had to stay with Conny. Rochelle said she’d love a quiet evening alone anyway.” Avis shrugged. Seemed to me Avis’s usually joyous face had a permanently strained look these days.

After the traumatic events of last weekend, it felt good to see my Yada Yada sisters chirping away like sparrows on a telephone wire. We teased Nony about leaving her lovely home at the mercy of the guys. She rolled her eyes and laughed. “I know, I know. But Mark was so excited, we managed to get rid of anything on the first floor that said ‘Convalescent Lives Here.’ ”

But even as we attacked the banana bread Adele brought out right from the oven and passed the babies around, fussing over them like blithering idiots, something seemed amiss. Was someone missing? I counted noses, stopping at Edesa. It occurred to me that Josh had taken her home after the meeting yesterday and had not come right home. What was going on with those two? Well, that was neither here nor there right now. I finished going around the circle. All present and accounted for. So what . . .? And then I realized what it was.

MaDear’s wheelchair was empty.