29

I handed the letter to Denny. He skimmed it, eyebrows going north. “Wait a minute. This isn’t U of I. It’s UIC. . . Josh? Come here at minute!”

What? I picked up the envelope. Denny was right. This wasn’t from the University of Illinois in Champaign/Urbana. The letterhead said UIC—University of Illinois Chicago Circle campus.

A moment later, Josh appeared in the archway of the dining room. “Yeah?”

Denny waved the letter. “Were you going to tell us about this?”

Josh shrugged. “It only came today. Found it lying on the table.”

“I mean, tell us that you’d applied to UIC. When did that happen?”

Another shrug. “Right after New Year’s I guess. Deadline was January 15.”

Denny and I looked at each other. “You’d already been accepted at U of I,” I said. “Why did you decide to apply to the Chicago campus? I mean, wouldn’t it have been simpler just to submit your intent to enroll at U of I? What about the application fee?”

“I’m working, Mom. Figured it was up to me.”

I nodded, still flummoxed. “Guess I, um, owe you an apology. I thought you’d just let the college deadlines pass—or decided not to go next year.”

“Don’t sweat it.” He turned to go.

“Wait a minute, Son. Sit down for a minute, okay?” Denny pulled out a chair from the table. The three of us sat. “Does this mean you’ve decided to go to school this fall?”

Josh diddled with his fingers on the tabletop. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“But . . . why did you apply if you’re not sure?” I asked.

Another shrug. “Well, I was leaning that way. When I applied, I mean. But . . .”

“And now?” Denny prodded.

Josh sighed. “I dunno, Dad. Things change, that’s all.” He threw open his hands. “Look. I know you guys want me to cough up my five-year plan. But I don’t know what I want to do next fall. I don’t know what I want to do now. At least give me credit for sending in the application.” He pushed away from the table. “Can we leave it now?”

Denny waved him off. “Yeah, okay.” But I could see he was ticked off.

When we heard Josh’s bedroom door close, Denny leaned forward. “I don’t get it, Jodi. What’s going on? What did he mean, ‘things change’? What?”

I was tempted to smile. “You sound like me.” But I was thinking. “Okay. He sent that application in early January. Back then, Josh was upbeat, working his job at Software Symphony, volunteering at Manna House with Edesa, eager beaver about the church merger and Pastor Cobbs’s vision for youth ministry. A few weeks later . . . the fire leveled Manna House. Since then, he’s been like a cardboard cutout of himself. That’s what, I think.”

“Okay. You’re right. I’ve been trying to allow for that. It was traumatic for a kid his age. Traumatic for a lot of people, frankly. Good grief, Jodi, when I got the call, I was so scared, thinking about what could have happened to my wife, my son . . .”

I stared at Denny. I didn’t know he’d been scared.

“But life happens! The world doesn’t stop while we mope around. We pick ourselves up and go on. Why can’t he see that?” Denny slumped back in his chair.

I shook my head. All the things I’d been thinking the past few weeks were coming out of my husband’s mouth. Laid back, easygoing Denny, spouting off like a Jodi-whale.

Then, to my astonishment, his voice got husky. “Now, someone like Mark Smith, he’s got good reason to be spinning his wheels. After the beating those punks gave him, he’s not sure he can teach again. Maybe he’s afraid to try, afraid to find out he can’t. But even with Mark, it tears me up to see him not even try. He has so much to offer—still has so much to offer.”

“Wait a minute, Denny. Weren’t we talking about Josh? We shouldn’t—”

“I know, I know. I just mean, Josh is a kid who’s got a lot going for him. But here he is, acting like he’s hit a brick wall the first time he hits a bump in the road. Frankly, I don’t care what he does—go to school, don’t go to school, do this, do that. Just . . . set a goal and go for it!” He threw up his hands. “But what are we supposed to do?”

I felt a strong nudge in my spirit. There was something we could do. I laid a hand over my husband’s. “I don’t know either, Denny. But let’s pray for Josh—you and me. Right now. Maybe in our bedroom. You know, ‘where two or three are gathered together in My name’—that kind of praying. Asking God for wisdom. Asking God to move mountains. Trusting God . . . all that stuff it says in the Bible but is so hard to do.”

A small smile cracked his tense features. “You’re right. Again. Gee, twice in five minutes.” He stood up, our fingers interlocked, and we headed toward our bedroom. “I kinda like this, Jodi.”

IF NOTHING ELSE, our prayer time together set me free emotionally. Or spiritually. It was sometimes hard to separate the two. But agreeing with Denny Sunday night to put Josh in God’s hands helped me loosen up the rest of the week. I didn’t need to keep bugging Josh. I didn’t need to keep bugging God. God was at work. God was in control.

And okay, had to admit I was proud of Josh for applying to UIC without us bugging him. Sheesh. That alone ought to give me hope that my firstborn was going to grow up.

Denny and I really should pray together more often, I thought several times that week. But in the helter-skelter of everyday life, it was harder than I thought. Thursday night rolled around, Denny was down at the JDC leading a Bible study for kids awaiting trial, and we still hadn’t prayed together again. He’d mentioned one kid, who had to decide whether to take a plea bargain and serve two years, or fight his case and go to trial. And another, who rarely spoke up but came every Thursday . . . and another who seemed a natural-born leader. And then there was Chris Hickman.

We should pray for all these boys by name together! See what God would do! Well, maybe Saturday morning would be a good time . . .

I forgot that Saturday was the men’s breakfast at SouledOut, and Denny had to leave the house early. Correction. Earlier. In order to hob-nob and pray with “the Bada-Boom Brothers” an hour before the breakfast, which meant picking up Ricardo Enriquez down in the city, who “just happened” to be home for the weekend in spite of his long-distance trucking job. I felt a twinge of resentment at not having any mornings that week together—and then wanted to slap myself upside the head. Hoo boy! I should talk. Denny probably felt that way every time Yada Yada met on Sunday evenings.

Well, we just had to find a way where it wasn’t either/or.

“I need the car when you get back,” I told Denny, as he did an awkward hop over the child safety gate still penning Willie Wonka in the kitchen. “Yo-Yo and I are going to babysit the twins so Ben can take Ruth to get her driver’s license.”

“Ben? That’s later, right? Because I think he’s coming this morning to—” Just then Denny caught his pant leg on the gate and nearly did an end-zone tackle with the toaster. “Good grief, Jodi! Can’t we get rid of this gate? Wonka hasn’t had any more accidents this week, has he?”

I rolled my eyes at him. “Two. You just weren’t here to clean them up.”

“Well, put him outside then. It’s supposed to get up to sixty today. Maybe we need to build a doghouse or something.”

As if knowing we were talking about him, Willie Wonka slunk over to the air vent that heated the kitchen and sank down on top of it with a sigh.

THE OUTDOOR THERMOMETER WENT UP, but a drizzly rain came down. When Denny returned with the car, I left Wonka in the kitchen with the gate still in place. “Take him out a couple of times, will you?” I asked, grabbing my purse and the car keys. “Precious and Sabrina are coming tonight for supper, and I don’t want the house smelling like disinfectant.”

“Better than the alternative,” Denny snorted, head inside the refrigerator. He came out with a carton of orange juice. “Have you seen Josh? He didn’t show up for the youth ministry meeting at SouledOut—at least not by the time I left. I didn’t stay; knew you needed the car.”

I shook my head and jerked a thumb toward the bedrooms. “He came out once, looked at the rain, and went back into hibernation.”

“Humph.” Denny swigged straight from the orange juice carton, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve as he capped it. “Hey, guess what. Ben came to the men’s breakfast this morning—actually, came to the prayer time beforehand with Peter, Mark, Carl, and Ricardo. I invited Oscar Frost too—that made seven. I think he’ll fit in. Last Thursday night when we rode back from the JDC, I sensed he’d really like a mentoring relationship with some older guys.”

I suppressed a smile. The Bada-Boom Brothers . . . nope, nope. Gotta quit that, Jodi. It might stick.

“Anyway,” Denny said, replacing the orange juice back in the fridge, “Ben took us by surprise. Peter asked how we could pray for him, and he got all croaky, said he just wanted to thank God for his babies. Before the twins, life was kind of like the old black-and-white TVs. Now everything is in living color.”

“Ben said that?” I edged toward the door.

“Yep. And . . . oh, right. You’ve gotta go. But remind me to tell you something else when you get back.”

Oh, great. I did have to go, but now that “something else” would bug me for the next three hours.

I picked up Yo-Yo, and we arrived at the Garfields’ house around eleven. Ruth’s usually neat flower garden bordering the front of the brick bungalow was a tangle of last year’s dead flowers and weeds. Being “huge with child” last fall, she didn’t do her usual surgical fall cleanup. But I had no doubt she’d have the twins out here in a month or two, teaching them—at the tender age of five months—the fine points of gardening.

“Maybe she changed her mind,” Yo-Yo said nervously as I punched the doorbell.

The door opened. “Ay ay ay! You come at last.” Ruth gave Yo-Yo a mama bear hug, as if she hadn’t been sure we’d show. Then, ignoring me entirely, she bustled off into the next room, tossing off a half-dozen instructions over her shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” Ben snorted, standing in the foyer holding her coat. “The shtick is all written down. You’d think we were taking off for a week in Honolulu.” He rolled his eyes. “She’s had the shpilkes all morning. Oy vey.”

I slipped Yo-Yo a tissue and hinted that she should use it on her cheek where Ruth had left a lipstick-red smudge. Yo-Yo rubbed furiously. It was the only time I’d seen anything close to makeup on her clear, boyish face.

Ben finally dragged Ruth out the door. Yo-Yo and I stood at the picture window, each holding a twin, and waving good-bye. Ruth hollered something at us, but Ben practically stuffed her into the big Buick and pulled away.

Yo-Yo and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. “Sheesh. The rest oughta be a piece of cake,” I gasped.

Yo-Yo jiggled Isaac on her shoulder. “Hey there, big guy. You ready to go to sleep or somethin’? . . . Whoa. Jodi! What was that? My shoulder is all wet!”

Isaac had thrown up his last meal all over Yo-Yo’s T-shirt and his own sleeper.

I laid Havah tummy-down on a blanket in the living room with a few toys and did my best to sponge off Yo-Yo’s clothes with a washcloth from the bathroom. Found a clean sleeper for Isaac and changed his wet diaper while I was at it. He kicked and wiggled, but I sang a couple of rounds of “Six Little Ducks” and finally managed to get him clean and packaged once again.

“Hey.” Yo-Yo stood in the doorway, hands stuffed in her overall pockets. “You’re good at that. I never did babysit or nothin’ when I was a kid.”

I grinned. “I’ll show you. It’s not too bad one at a time.”

“Yeah. But two? Glad we doin’ this together.”

According to Ruth’s list, we were supposed to feed the twins baby food at noon, then put them down for a nap. The jars of peas and carrots ended up all over their faces, the high chairs, and us—sort of like vegetarian finger paint. The peaches went better, but the whole process meant another change of clothes for both babies this time. I changed Havah, then held her while I led Yo-Yo step by step through the process with Isaac . . .

Take off the soiled sleeper. Peel back the sticky tabs of the disposable diaper, throw it in the diaper pail, and wipe his bottom with a baby wipe. Dust on baby powder, while making sure he doesn’t nosedive off the changing table. Now pick up his feet with one hand, slip the new disposable under his bottom, and press the tabs. Wrestle his arms and legs one at a time into the sleeper, snap the snappers . . .

“Whew!” Sweat beaded Yo-Yo’s forehead. “I had no idea it was so much work!”

I nodded. Frankly, I’d almost forgotten.

We put the twins down in their cribs, darkened the room, and wound up their musical mobiles—but the babies immediately set up a wailing duet. “Ignore them. They’ll get quiet,” I said as we tiptoed away.

They didn’t. The wailing got louder. Yo-Yo couldn’t stand it. “Forget the list,” she said. “Let’s just hold them. What’s wrong with that?”

We tiptoed back into the room and each picked up a baby. The wailing dwindled to hiccups by the time we got back to the living room. “Put on some of that high-falutin’ music they got,” Yo-Yo said, settling down into a rocking chair with Isaac. “Aw, look, he wants to suck my finger.”

Cradling Havah with one arm, I found a Mozart clarinet concerto, stuck it in the CD player, then settled down in Ben’s recliner. Nestled in the curve of my arm, Havah looked up at me with her large dark eyes. “You’re a beauty, little one,” I murmured . . . and watched as her eyelids flickered, dropped, and closed.

I glanced over at Yo-Yo. She was watching the baby in her arms, a look I’d never seen there before. Tenderness? Longing? Awe?

“He’s asleep,” she whispered, still staring at Isaac’s face, gently rocking.

“Havah too,” I whispered back. The music, turned low, blanketed the room. I almost drifted off myself.

The clarinet concerto finally ended. “Thanks, Jodi,” I heard Yo-Yo say.

I opened my eyes. “Thanks? For what?”

“For what you an’ Flo said, about how it’s time to give back.” She looked down at the baby sleeping in the nest she’d made with one ankle crossed over the other knee. “Didn’t know givin’ back was like gettin’ too.”