9

Later, sitting with Avis and Florida in the Sunday morning worship service in the ballroom, I thought about what Yo-Yo had said. For somebody who wasn’t into the “Jesus thing,” Yo-Yo had sure seemed to nail the “Jesus thing” that time.

Avis had said it was a good question. “Let’s meet one more time after the morning worship and talk about what we want to do.”

Sunday worship was the fourth main session of the weekend—not counting the banquet—and to tell the truth, the pounding gospel music had begun to burrow its way into my soul . . . “The devil is defeated! We are blessed!”

That was true enough this morning. Last night I, for one, had thought Delores might be attending her son’s funeral. Not Avis, though. She obviously wasn’t about to accept defeat—hers or anyone else’s—as long as she had breath to claim victory. That took faith—a lot more faith than I seemed to have. Funny. I’d always presumed I had a strong faith. Let those Commies come and send me to Siberia unless I recant! Ha! Do your worst! But on an everyday level, my mind tended to weigh in all the “realities.” Most people don’t get healed from cancer . . . Denny got bumped from the high school coaching job he wanted . . . A lot of poor people pray, but they still go to bed hungry . . .

The music was going over the top. “I’m coming back to the heart of worship . . . it’s all about You, Jesus . . .”

I closed my eyes, for once oblivious to what Florida and Avis were doing. I want to learn how to worship You, Jesus. I want a bigger faith. I want to learn how to pray. And, yes, I want to know what You created me for . . .

When the morning speaker—Evangelist Olivia Mitchell again—asked, “Who wants God to show you who He created you to be? Who wants to step into your spiritual destiny? Come on down here to the front. We’re going to pray for you,” I planted my feet firmly. No way was I going up. I didn’t want to cry or have hands put on me or get laid out. I could pray right here in my row, thank you.

But when both Florida and Avis went up—and I saw Nony and a couple of others from our prayer group up front—I reached down for some courage. Jodi Baxter, didn’t you just tell God you wanted to learn more about worship . . . about faith . . . about prayer . . . about yourself? Well, go get prayed for, girl!

Fortunately for my shaking knees, there were so many women who came to the front for prayer that the speaker just touched each woman on the forehead with oil and kept praying as she passed down the line. But even that brought tears to my eyes, to feel that touch, to be included in the prayer. I had the strange sense I was being sent on an adventure into the unknown . . . without a map.

WHEN THE SERVICE WAS OVER, the ten of us in Prayer Group Twenty-Six—Edesa had stayed at the hospital with the Enriquez family—gathered once more in Meeting Room 7. One of the other prayer groups was also meeting in the room, so we pulled our chairs closer together in order to hear.

“Well,” Avis said, “Yo-Yo asked what we’re going to do about Delores. What are you thinking, Yo-Yo?”

Yo-Yo slouched in her chair like a denim-clad log, shoulders and fanny barely touching the chair, her legs stretched out their full length, her hands jammed in the pockets of her bib overalls. “Yeah. The way I see it, something got started here, and you guys stood up with Delores in a big way with that chain prayer thing. But it ain’t over yet.”

We all glanced at each other, then a few suggestions trickled out.

“If we had her phone number, we could call her, let her know we’re still praying for her.”

“Or maybe some of us could visit José in the hospital—Cook County, wasn’t it, Stu?”

I took a leap. “I’ve been thinking about what Yo-Yo said. There’s no reason we couldn’t continue this prayer group.”

“Oh, really!” Adele snorted. “My guess is the folks in this room live all over the city. Lawndale . . . Little Village . . . Austin . . . and half a dozen other neighborhoods. Not an easy commute to get together at 7:00 A.M. for a prayer meeting.”

I could feel my ears turning red. But I pressed on. “I realize that. But if we had each other’s telephone numbers and e-mail addresses—”

“What? Like a phone chain?” Florida asked.

Stu groaned. “That could take forever to get around—or get stuck in somebody’s voice mail.”

“But how about e-mail?” I pressed. “If we had each other’s e-mail addresses and each created a ‘group list’ in our address book, then if someone has a prayer request, they could send it to the whole group with one e-mail.”

The idea sat out there for a moment or two, then Florida piped up. “I like that. That works for me.”

Stu tucked a long blonde lock behind her ear. “But maybe not everyone has e-mail. Let’s see hands of those who don’t.”

Yo-Yo and Chanda were the only ones who waggled their hands.

“Not to worry, Yo-Yo. My e-mail is your e-mail.” Ruth patted Yo-Yo’s knee. “I’ll bring it to the café when I get my rugelach.” We had no idea what rugelach was, but the rest of us couldn’t help but laugh.

“But what about Delores and Edesa?” Stu pressed. “What if they don’t have e-mail?”

“I’ll call them and find out.” I lobbed the ball right back into her corner. “Did you get Delores’s phone number last night?” I dug around in my tote bag and pulled out my notebook. “Look, I’ll send this around and everyone can put down their e-mail addy and their phone number. Snail-mail address, too. Then we can make a list—can’t tell when it might come in handy.”

“You are the queen of list-makers, girl!” Florida crowed.

“Um,” said Hoshi. We all looked at her. The Japanese student had said so little in the group that even “um” got our attention. “I have e-mail, fine. But if we create a group list in our address book, we need a name. Not just ‘Number Twenty-Six.’ ”

Chuckles rippled around the circle again.

“Just call it Prayer Group,” said Stu. She sounded annoyed.

“Prayer Group, yada yada, whatever,” said Yo-Yo.

Ruth twisted her motherly self to the side and looked at Yo-Yo like she’d just said something brilliant. “I like that. The Yada Yada Prayer Group. It means something, I think.”

“Yeah. ‘Whatever,’ ” echoed Adele. She shook her head as though she couldn’t believe we were having this conversation.

I snatched back the initiative. “Yada Yada it is—whatever it means.” I wrote it at the top of the page of my notebook, scratched my address, phone, and e-mail on it, and started it around the circle. “I kinda like it, too.” It kinda fits this motley crew, I didn’t say. And we’ll never agree on a name, so “whatever” is fine.

Avis smiled. “Well, I don’t know about Yada Yada as a name, but keeping in touch and sharing prayer requests by e-mail is a good idea. Jodi, will you send that list to all of us by e-mail? But we still have Yo-Yo’s question to answer. What are we going to do about Delores? I think it would mean a lot if a few of us—wouldn’t have to be everybody—could visit José in the hospital. And the rest of us could call Delores and share a promise from the Word or pray with her on the phone.”

“Now you’re talking,” said Yo-Yo. “Sign me up to visit José.”

I TENTATIVELY SIGNED UP to visit José Enriquez with Avis on Monday night if he was still in the hospital—pending Denny’s schedule, since he sometimes had to coach late afternoon sports at West Rogers High School. As we packed our luggage and said our good-byes to Flo, I felt really weird. We’d been thrown together for three days and two nights, right down to our toothbrushes and sleep shirts . . . and now I wasn’t sure when—or if—I would see Florida again. Our lives were about as different as two people’s could be, but I liked her. Really liked her. I could only imagine everything she’d been through, but she was so . . . so upbeat. So close to God. Where did that come from?

“Sorry about the snoring,” I told her sheepishly as we folded up the sleeper sofa and returned the cushions to their rightful place. “Next time you take the bed, and I’ll take the floor.”

“Next time?” Flo wiggled her eyebrows. “Well, girl, you come visit me, and for sure I’ll take the bed and give you the floor.” She laughed. “Only got one bed, anyway. The kids are already sleeping on the floor.”

I tried not to look flabbergasted. Kids sleeping on the floor? Oh, well. Not my business. But I did have something I was curious about. “Flo, when we were sharing stuff for prayer, you asked us to pray about getting your family back together again. What did you mean?”

Avis, coming out of the bathroom with her cosmetic bag and toilet kit, heard my question and gave me a look. Like maybe I was getting too personal.

“That’s okay. You don’t have to say,” I added hastily.

Florida shrugged, her brow knit into a frown. “No, it’s all right. Just hard to talk about. Truth is, I can’t find my baby. DCFS took all three of ’em when I was strung out on drugs and put ’em in foster homes. Carl—their dad—wasn’t in any shape to take care of ’em, either. Since I’ve been straight, I’ve got the boys back—Cedric, he’s eleven, the one who’s ADD, and Chris, he’s thirteen. But my girl—she’d be eight now—the foster family who had her just . . . disappeared. Even DCFS can’t find ’em.” Florida’s eyes puddled. “Scares me sometimes that maybe I won’t find her.”

“Oh, Florida!” I put my arms around her in a tight hug. I couldn’t think of anything else to do.

“Not find her? Oh, no, we’re not going to go there,” Avis said firmly. “That’s Satan telling you one of his rotten lies. Father”—and she started right in praying—“we rebuke Satan and all his lies. We reject discouragement. We claim victory right now for finding Florida’s little girl . . .” The three of us stood in a little huddle for several minutes while Avis prayed. When she was done praying, I didn’t want to let go of their hands, didn’t want the moment to end. But we parted, finished packing quietly, and headed for the lobby to check out.

“You got a ride?” Avis asked Florida as we said our good-byes beside the hotel’s revolving door.

“Yeah, Adele said she’d drop me off. We don’t live too far.”

“Are you in Rogers Park, too?” I asked, surprised. I hadn’t had time to look at the list of addresses that had gone around.

Florida nodded. “Yeah. Almost to Edgewater. Only a couple of miles from you guys, though.”

As Avis and I pulled out of the hotel parking lot, I saw Florida outside the revolving doors with her bag, a cigarette in one hand. At that moment, I didn’t blame her. If I couldn’t find my little girl, I’d probably be dragging on a cigarette, too.