Itold Denny I was sorry I didn’t tell him about the lemonade stand. He said, “OK.” But the rest of the week felt as if we were acting in silent movies on two different screens. A peck on the cheek as he went out the door in the morning. “Pass the salt, please.” . . . “Any clean laundry? ” . . . “Staff meeting tonight.” . . . A lot of TV.
Sheesh, I muttered to myself as I walked to school Friday morning. It’s my birthday today, for heaven’s sake, and Denny’s treating me like . . . like I maxed out our credit cards or posed in Penthouse magazine or something. Good grief.
In fact, it was easy to work up a good mad about the whole business. For one thing, Edesa and Yo-Yo were the only Yada Yadas who actually showed up to support the enterprise.Well, OK, Stu did the shopping with Chanda’s contribution. But what happened to Florida? And Avis? They both lived nearby. Actually, I never expected Avis to show up—but Florida? Her son was the one caught up in the middle of the mess. She was the one who kept saying, “We gotta do somethin’.” And Adele—even though she grudgingly let us set up outside her shop, I never felt like she was behind it 100 percent. Not even 50.
So much for unity.
And yeah, yeah, I should’ve told Denny. But I said I was sorry, didn’t I?
A gift bag was sitting on my desk when I got to school that morning. Cheerful orange and yellow tissue paper hid a birthday card and some yummy melon lotion from Avis. I screwed off the cap and squirted the silky cream into my hand, smoothing it over my skin. It had been a long time since I’d taken care of my hands. Rough skin. A broken nail. A tear dribbled down my cheek and dripped off my chin.
Some birthday. A present from Avis. That might be it.
BUT I WAS WRONG. Amanda chased me out of the kitchen when she got home from school and actually made my lemon-and-thyme chicken recipe—one of my favorites. It easily passed the Baxter five-star test: super easy, super yummy. Stu and Becky came downstairs for dinner, bearing Becky’s second-ever birthday cake.Didn’t matter that it came from a box. It was chocolate.
I took a swipe of the frosting with my finger and gave her a big hug.
Stu and Becky actually helped thaw the deep freeze, and we all laughed and joked at the dinner table—me the butt of most jokes, of course. I didn’t care. It felt good to laugh.While Becky cut cake and Stu dipped up vanilla ice cream, I opened presents. A crocheted winter scarf from my mom. (I already had three.) A CD from my dad: Best-Loved Hymns by Top Country-Western Artists. ( “Yep. That’s Grandpa,” Josh snickered.) A pair of silver dangle earrings from Amanda and Josh. One from each, wrapped separately, the nuts. A fat candle with fall leaves embedded in the wax from Stu and Becky.
And a silky burgundy scarf from Denny in a Ten Thousand Villages gift bag.
I held the filmy scarf against my cheek and looked up at my husband, sitting at the other end of the table.Our eyes locked for a second—the first time in days. “Thanks, honey,” I whispered.
He smiled. “Happy birthday, babe.” But his smile seemed . . . sad.
Once again we slept that night with our backs to each other.
“DID YOU CALL HIM, DAD? What did he say? ”
When I came into the kitchen the next morning, Amanda was grilling her father, who was getting ready to jog over to the men’s breakfast at Uptown Community before heading over to the Howard Street shopping center to put in another Saturday workday laying floor tile in our new sanctuary.
Our and sanctuary still felt a bit of a stretch.
“Yes, pumpkin, I tried to call Mr. Enriques—twice last night.” Denny poured himself a second slug of fresh coffee. “Left one message on voice mail, one with some little sweetheart—Emerald, I think. But he hasn’t called back.” He touched a finger to her nose. “I don’t think he wants to come, Mandy. I don’t want to bug him.”
“But Da-ad! You said he was real nice to you and Mom when you went to that Mexican restaurant on your annivers—oh, rats.” The front doorbell sounded unnaturally loud at eight o’clock on a Saturday morning. “That’s my ride. Gotta babysit all day for the Three Terrors.” She pulled a long face. “They better pay me good.”
I was grateful when the house emptied, except for Josh,who had come in after one o’clock and would probably sleep until eleven. I knew something was desperately wrong, and I needed to figure out what it was. For one thing, I hadn’t even touched my Bible that whole week. My prayers had been one-liners. “Quiet time” was a joke. A hole seemed to be growing inside me—empty, yawning, slowly sucking my soul into a bottomless pit.
Willie Wonka followed me outside while I filled the birdfeeder. How long had it been since I’d filled the birdfeeder? Had the birds given up? Would they come back? I settled on the porch swing with my Bible and a large mug of coffee,Wonka sprawled at my feet. Tears blurred my eyes. I didn’t even know how to start.
“Can I back up, Lord? ” I whispered. “Where did I get off? ”
You’ve been rushing, Jodi. The Voice in my spirit whispered back. Not taking time to listen.
I sighed. But it’s hard during the school week. Every day is so hectic.
No, even before that. Last weekend. You were so busy with your thoughts, your ideas, your plans, you didn’t stop to ask for My wisdom.
I thought about that. The lemonade stand. Hadn’t God given me that idea? It seemed so . . . brilliant. Corny, yes. But simple, a way for us ordinary women to make a connection with kids in the neighborhood. What was wrong with that?
The Voice continued. Stop it, Jodi. The idea’s not the problem! But you ran with it in your own strength. Admit it. You pushed that one through Yada Yada in spite of some serious doubts from others.
Well, yeah . . . but—
And you didn’t trust your husband. That should have been a clue.
Trust? What does trust have to do with it? I just knew he’d get all worried and think of all the things that could go wrong. Don’t know what he’s so mad about.Nothing happened! We managed just fine.
Did you? Weren’t you grousing five minutes ago because not enough Yada Yadas showed up? Did you really have enough people “to be a presence on the street” if any violence had gone down?
I kicked the swing into motion, uncomfortable with how this inner chat was going. But it was a good idea, I thought stubbornly. And I think we made a difference.
Maybe. But you got all caught up in your good works, Jodi.
Good works? The words jogged my memory bank. “Not by works of righteousness that we have done but according to His mercy He saved us.” Must be one of those Sunday school verses I’d memorized back in sixth grade to get my Bible Warrior pin. Was that how it went? Maybe I could find it . . .Titus something.
I paged through the Bible on my lap and there it was:Titus 3:5. My modern language translation said, “He saved us, not because of the good things we did, but because of His mercy.”
My Old Jodi response tried to dismiss it. Nah, doesn’t apply. Paul was talking to Titus about our salvation. But I pondered. If good works couldn’t “save” us,maybe the same principle did apply to other things. Like the lemonade stand.My good idea. Maybe . . . maybe the only reason “nothing happened” was because of God’s mercy.
I dug deeper for a little honesty.To be truthful,Yo-Yo, Edesa, and I would’ve been no match for those bullies if they’d gotten rough. If Adele and the Curler Brigade hadn’t marched out there . . .
God’s mercy.
It suddenly hit me, like a Saturday morning cartoon when a piano falls out of nowhere on a passerby below. Got my attention. If they’d gotten rough? They had gotten rough. That big kid grabbed Edesa’s arm. Had practically accused her of being a race traitor, on the wrong side. That in itself had been frightening. And I’d been so busy justifying to myself and my family that everything went fine, what was the big deal—did I even call her later to see how she was doing? She must have been terrified!
Pianos must have kept falling on my head, knocking sense into me, because I suddenly knew why Denny was so upset. I’d shut him out.Yes, I knew he’d be concerned, wouldn’t think it was such a hot idea, and I’d basically said I didn’t care. Didn’t even give him a chance. I wanted to do it my way. I’d pronounced it “good” and nobody—not Denny, not Yada Yada, not even God—was going to change my mind.
My head sank into my hands. “Oh God,” I groaned. “I’m so stupid, stupid.” Denny wasn’t mad. He was hurt. How would I feel if he’d done something behind my back? Without wanting my input? If he’d shut me out?
“Uh,Mom? You OK? Didn’t you hear the phone ring? ”
I raised my head. Josh was standing behind the screen door in his sweat shorts, bare chested, tattoo bulging on his bicep, with a serious case of bed head. I shook my head. No, I didn’t hear it ring. Then nodded. Yeah, I’m OK.
He opened the screen door and handed out the phone. “Anyway. For you.”
I grimaced, covering the mouthpiece. “Sorry if it woke you up.” He just waved me off and disappeared back inside.
I took a deep breath to rein in my bucking thoughts, then ventured, “Hello? ”
“Sista Jodee? ” The voice was high, almost hysterical.
“Chanda? Chanda! What’s wrong? ”
I waited several moments while Chanda broke into muffled sobs. Then she blew her nose. “Dey just got mi test results back, Jodee.Mi doctor is very concern. He tinks dat lump . . . it might . . . it might be . . .” The sobbing started again.
But I knew what was coming before she managed the word. “. . . c-cancer.”