37

Next year in Jerusalem’?” Denny raised a curious eyebrow as I told him how the Seder service had ended, with the traditional cry of displaced Jews all over the world. “And how many glasses of wine did you say you had? Four?” He was clearly enjoying goading me.

We were sitting at the dining room table, while Denny finished the plate of chicken and potato kugel I’d brought home and heated up for him. I rolled my eyes. “The wine was mostly symbolic. Little sips. Seriously, Denny. I wish you could’ve been there. It was . . . I can’t explain it. It helped me understand Jesus the Messiah, the fulfillment of prophecy, in a new way. But Ben got pretty uncomfortable with some of the questions Becky and Yo-Yo asked. Hope he’s not mad.”

“Hm. Sorry I missed it.” He got up and tossed the paper plate in the trash. “Sorry I missed your matzo ball soup too. Oh, before I forget. The principal at the JDC school would like to meet with you personally—tomorrow if possible. They’re hoping to pull off this play in the next couple of weeks.” He grinned at me. “You’re on, Jodi.”

I stared at him. It wasn’t as if I was surprised. Avis said she’d gotten a call from the JDC, wanting a reference. My background check had checked out—second time this year. But hearing Denny say, “You’re on, Jodi,” made my mouth go dry.

“Uh, sure, I could go tomorrow. It’s Good Friday, no school—oh. You know that. Can I get there by el? Where am I supposed to go? What’s the principal’s name again? Do I need to take anything with me? Or . . . anything I shouldn’t take with me? Do they want me to actually start tomor—”

Denny reached out and put his fingers on my mouth to stop my prattling. “Hey, hey. Tell you what. I’ll go with you tomorrow, okay? We’ll go by el to map out the way; maybe some days you can take the car. We’ll figure it out. You’re going to do great, Jodi.” He pulled me out of my chair into an embrace. “I’m proud of you.”

I let myself relax against Denny’s chest as his arms held me close. I wasn’t sure about “great.” But if Denny went with me tomorrow and helped me figure out where to go, that was definitely great.

NO SCHOOL. The wonders of a Friday without the usual Baxter hurry-scurry made me feel delicious when I woke up. I no longer had to get up before everyone else to let Willie Wonka outside, either . . . though I’d give anything to feel his nose snuffling my hand once more, even if I did have to get up early, even on holidays. But today, I could go back to sleep . . .

Then I remembered. I was going to the juvenile detention center today. Today, of all days, I definitely needed some prayer time!

Coffee cup, Bible, and afghan in hand, I curled up in the recliner near the front windows. At times like these, I really did miss Wonka. His brand of loyalty meant I was never really alone in the house; he was always faithfully underfoot. Early mornings had been our special times—me in the recliner, Wonka splayed out on the floor under the footrest.

But today it was just me and God. Cuddled in the afghan, I found where I’d last stopped reading—Paul’s letter to the Philippians. I needed an encouragement for today. Had to admit I was nervous. This whole thing wasn’t my idea. But seemed as if God had dumped it in my lap and nudged me to say yes. Wasn’t I learning that if God was in it, I didn’t have to be afraid? All I had to do was be faithful, and God would take care of the rest . . . right?

I tried to focus on my reading. In chapter three, the apostle Paul said if anyone qualified for bragging rights about how “religious” he was, he was the man. But then he said none of that self-important religious stuff counted. Only knowing Jesus Christ and what He could do in our lives—that’s what counted.

Kinda like me, when I let my “good Christian girl” pride get in God’s way.

“But one thing I do,” he wrote. “Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal . . .”

Press on. Wasn’t that what Denny was trying to tell our kids the night of his birthday, that sometimes we had to let go of what was behind us and press on? Well, he said, “get rolling,” but same difference. My old King James Version used the phrase, “press toward . . . the high calling of God.”

I closed my Bible and stared out the window. Suddenly I realized that the limbs of the trees along Lunt Street were no longer bare. I brought the recliner’s footrest down with a bang—a move that used to send Willie Wonka scrambling—and pressed my nose to the window. Thousands of swollen buds created a shimmering green fuzz along each limb, ready to burst into life. The old leaves were dead; the new ones were waiting in the wings, eager to dance along every branch, catching the wind.

A funny joy bubbled up in my chest. Today is full of possibilities. Press on, Jodi, press on. Do it for God and His children at the JDC.

DENNY AND I GOT HOME from the JDC in time to eat a bowl of soup out of the Crock-Pot and make it to the Good Friday service at SouledOut that night. It was a simple service, not long, with various “readers” reading the story of Jesus eating the Passover meal with His disciples for the last time . . . the prayer of agony in the Garden of Gethsemane . . . Judas’s betrayal . . . the desertion by the other disciples . . . the trial of Jesus . . . and His execution on a Roman cross. Throughout, the music group wove songs—mostly old hymns—about “the blood of Jesus.”

I have to admit I had a hard time keeping my mind focused on the service. My mind was still so full of the Seder service the previous night, with all its prophetic symbolism, pointing to these very events we were singing about—the saving “blood of the lamb” splashed on the wooden doorposts . . . the broken matzo, hidden, and then “resurrected” . . .

And then there was my visit to the juvenile detention center just a few hours ago. I hadn’t realized it was just a few blocks from the Cook County hospital where Delores worked. Denny and I had to take the Red Line el all the way past the Loop to the Roosevelt Road station, then catch the westbound Roosevelt Road bus. Took over an hour! It wasn’t so bad doing it with Denny, but I couldn’t really imagine doing it by myself five days a week next week.

Glancing at Avis and several of my other Yada Yada sisters soaking up the Good Friday service, I thought of the Yada Yadas who did not have cars. Oh God. Is that what it takes for Delores and Edesa to come to Yada Yada every time? Neither one has a car . . . and they’re so faithful. I squared my shoulders. Suck it up, Jodi. Press on. If they could do it, so could I.

As we sang, “What can wash away my sin? Nothing but the blood of Jesus . . .” my mind drifted to my interview with the school principal at the JDC that afternoon. After we’d gone through a metal detector and taken the elevator up to the second floor, we sat in a waiting room with molded plastic chairs until the principal came out to greet us. She gave us visitor tags, then we were buzzed through the glass-paneled security area—not one, but two doors, where security personnel could see all directions—into the main part of the second floor, which housed the school.

The principal had given us a short tour of the school, which wasn’t in session, since it had the same holidays as any other Chicago public school. The windowless rooms had the regular stuff of classrooms—desks, marker boards, maps, textbooks. “Classrooms for boys and girls are separate. Each residential floor is color-coded,” our host explained, “so your students will be wearing purple, green, or blue DOC uniforms. Our youngest residents and the girls occupy the top floor.”

Our last stop had been the large, all-purpose room where “school events” were held. No stage. No lights. Not what I’d imagined when I volunteered to supervise a school play. “What about props? Costumes?” I ventured.

The principal shrugged. “You can ask. Not making any promises, though.”

Then we sat in her office, while she explained basic rules (“Do not ask your students about their case”) and my temporary responsibilities. I was bursting with questions about the children and teenagers within these walls, but did my best to listen to my volunteer assignment.

“We do two or three drama or musical presentations for parents and staff every year. This year, our English teacher was trying to introduce the kids to some classic literature through drama. Then she came down with mono! The other teachers are covering her classes, but no one had time to take on the drama too.” The principal gave me an encouraging smile. “We’re happy you’ve volunteered, Mrs. Baxter.”

“Will I meet the students today who are doing the drama?” I’d asked.

She shook her head. “But I will give you a copy of the scripts she was going to introduce. There are a couple you can choose from. Next week is spring break, so the students who signed up to do the drama don’t have classes next week. We can give you three hours, nine to twelve, each morning.”

“And if we need more time?”

The principal shrugged. “You’d probably lose half your kids if they had to give up afternoons. They like to play softball or basketball outside, now that the weather’s getting warmer.”

I’d blinked at her. “Outside?”

Denny grinned. “Oh, yeah. Forgot to tell you. The top three floors are built like a square doughnut, with the residential units around the outer ring and an open recreation area in the middle.” He pointed to the ceiling of the second floor. “Right up there.”

I’d tried to picture it in my mind—and got the picture. Open to the sky—but completely surrounded by the building. Whatever way one looked at it, this was a jail for juveniles, kids, waiting for their hearings, waiting to hear whether the state judged them guilty or not guilty, waiting to hear their “dispositions” or sentences.

Kids like Chris Hickman . . .

I’d been able to walk away today. But not Chris. Now, as I sat in the “sanctuary” of SouledOut Community Church singing the closing song, “At Calvary,” I glanced over at the Hickman family, sitting together in the dimly lit room. Wet streaks glistened on Florida’s face as Oscar Frost’s saxophone rode under the words of the chorus . . .

Mercy there was great, and grace was free;

Pardon there was multiplied to me;

There my burdened soul found liberty,

At Calvary!

How would I hear those words if I were in Florida’s and Carl’s shoes? Would their son be “pardoned” for his sins? Would he be given liberty?

Oh Jesus! my heart cried. Your mercy to me was great when I was accused of vehicular manslaughter in the death of Jamal Wilkins. Please have mercy on Chris. He says he had nothing to do with the holdup of that 7-Eleven, and . . . and I believe him. His only crime was bad judgment in the friends he chose. Oh God, please, let Your blood cover his transgression and bring him home to his family.

WHEN THE GOOD FRIDAY SERVICE WAS OVER, the pastors encouraged us to leave quietly, reflecting on our Savior’s death. But outside in the parking lot, I saw Hoshi getting into the Sisulu-Smith minivan. I ran over and poked my head inside. “Hoshi! Did you give our gift certificate to Sara? Did she accept it?”

A smile lit up Hoshi’s long, thin face. “Oh yes, Jodi. She was much flustered, but we met at the student center for lunch yesterday, and she said she’d made an appointment at Adele’s Hair and Nails for Saturday.”

Saturday! That was tomorrow—and Adele’s Hair and Nails wasn’t that far from our house. Did I dare “just drop in”? I’d been praying for Sara so long, ever since that fateful day our eyes had met at the plaza on Northwestern’s campus. I wanted to tell her how God had changed my heart when she went from “that girl in the sundress” to “Sara” . . .

Which gave me an idea.