Read an Excerpt
The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Decked Out
a Novel
By Neta Jackson Thomas Nelson
Copyright © 2007 Neta Jackson
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4185-6838-2
CHAPTER 1
The last time I'd stood on this sidewalk, firefighters were battling fierce flames leaping from the old church that had housed Manna House, the homeless women's shelter. Flashing red-and-blue lights had sliced through the frigid night air, heavy with smoke and the whimpers of frightened children. The blaze, started by faulty wiring and fed by a dry, brittle Christmas tree, had gutted the old church and consumed the few possessions of several dozen women and children who called the shelter "home." Bulldozers had finished the job, creating an ugly gap like a pulled tooth along the crowded row of buildings.
But today, almost two years later, crisp November sunshine brightened the narrow street in the Chicago neighborhood known as Wrigleyville. My eyes feasted on the new brick building that had risen on the same spot, its facade similar to the noble lines of the old church. A few broad steps led to a set of double oak doors, flanked by stained-glass windows on either side. At the peak of the new building, the wooden beams of a cross stretched top to bottom and side to side inside a circular stained-glass window.
"It's beautiful," I said. "Wonder what the inside is like?"
"Only one way to find out." My husband, Denny, took my arm and hustled me up the steps. A small brass plate nailed to the door said, simply, Manna House.
Instead of the dark sanctuary of the old church, a brightly lit foyer welcomed us. On the right side, a large main office with wide glass windows overlooked the foyer and room beyond; the opposite side of the foyer accommodated restrooms and an office door marked Director. Straight ahead, double doors led into a large multipurpose room in which a decent crowd filled rows of folding chairs, sat on plump couches or overstuffed chairs with bright-colored covers, or clustered around a long table with a coffee urn, a punch bowl, and plates of cookies.
"Mom! Dad! You made it!" Josh bounded over and gave us a hug. "We're just about ready to start ... Edesa! Did you save seats for my folks?"
Josh's fiancée, Edesa Reyes, scurried over. Her thick, dark hair—longer now and caught back from her rich mahogany face into a fat ponytail at the nape of her neck—seemed to pull her broad smile from ear to ear. "Jodi! Denny! Si, we saved seats for you, see? Next to Avis and Peter—oh. Others are coming in." She gave each of us a warm hug. "Can't wait to give you a tour! Just don't look at my room. I haven't had a chance to get settled yet."
So. She'd actually given up her apartment to live on-site. I watched as Josh slipped an arm around Edesa's slim waist, turning to greet the newcomers. When did my lanky son muscle up and start looking like a grown man? He'd turned twenty-one this fall but was only in his second year at the University of Illinois, Circle Campus. Edesa, in the U.S. on a student visa from Honduras and three years his senior, had just started her master's program in public health at UIC. They'd been engaged for a year and a half—a fact that still boggled my eyeballs. But as far as we knew, no wedding plans yet.
Thank goodness. Let them get through school first—
"Sista Jodee!" A Jamaican accent hailed us from the coffee table, and Chanda George made a beeline for Denny and me, gripping a cup of hot coffee and a small plate of cookies. "Dis is so exciting! Mi can hardly believe it's happening."
Chanda had reason to be excited. After winning the Illinois Lottery Jackpot and going from single-mom-who-cleaned-houses to a multimillion-dollar bank account overnight, Chanda had gone nuts, taking her kids on exotic vacations, buying her dream house and a luxury car with leather seats—in cash—and lavishing expensive gifts on her friends. But when the women's shelter burned down, her greedy lifestyle had gotten a wake-up call: she, Chanda George, had the financial means to do major good with her unearned blessing.
"Are those cookies for me?" Denny's dimples gave him away as he helped himself to a cookie from Chanda's paper plate. "Thanks, Chanda—hey!" Denny barely caught himself from being bowled over as Chanda's two girls threw themselves at him.
"Uncle Denny!" they cried. "Where's Amanda? Ain't she home from college yet?" Cheree was leggy for ten, but eight-year-old Dia was still a Sugar Plum Fairy in my eyes: tiny, sweet, flighty, dipped in chocolate.
"Next week. She'll be home for Thanksgiving." Denny waggled his eyebrows at the girls. "Say, think you could get me some of that punch and cookies?"
The girls ran off. All three of Chanda's children, including thirteen- year-old Tom, had different fathers, none of whom had married their mother, a fact Chanda grumbled about regularly. "Dia's daddy" had come waltzing back briefly when Chanda won the lottery, and she had been sure wedding bells were in the air. But with a dozen Yada Yada Prayer Group "sisters" telling her the bum was just after her money, Chanda wised up and gave him the boot. As for Oscar Frost, the "fine" young sax player at SouledOut Community Church who Chanda had had her eye on ... well, let's just say he treated Chanda respectfully, like an older sister. Not exactly what she'd had in mind.
Yada Yada. I glanced around the room to see how many of our prayer group had made it to the dedication of Manna House. I saw Florida Hickman serving punch at the table and even halfway across the room I could hear her chirp to the next guest in line, "How ya feel? ... That's good, that's good."
In another corner of the room, Leslie "Stu" Stuart, who lived on the second floor of our two-flat, perched on the arm of a couch, red beret tilted to one side of her blonde head as she laughed and talked to several other Yada Yada sisters: Yo-Yo Spencer, Becky Wallace, and Estelle Williams, Stu's current housemate.
I didn't see Adele Skuggs, but the owner of Adele's Hair and Nails usually had her busiest day on Saturdays. Didn't see Delores Enriquez, either, probably for the same reason. She often had to work weekend shifts as a pediatric nurse at Cook County Hospital.
And then there were our missing sisters. Nonyameko Sisulu-Smith had been in South Africa the past year and a half, and Hoshi Takahashi had returned to Japan last summer, hoping to reunite with her estranged parents. We'd been able to keep in touch by e-mail, and the last one from Nony had Yada Yada buzzing ...
"Avis!" I plonked into the chair beside Avis Douglass, the principal at Bethune Elementary, where I taught third grade, and the leader of our Yada Yada Prayer Group. "Did you hear any more from Nony? All she said was that they might be home before the end of the year, 'details to follow.'What does that mean?"
Avis shook her head. "You know as much as I do."
"Is this on?" Rev. Liz Handley, the director of Manna House, tapped on a microphone. "Good. Welcome, everyone!" The short white woman with the wire-rim glasses and cropped, salt-and-pepper hair waited a few moments as those still standing found seats. "We are delighted to see so many friends here to celebrate with us today as we dedicate Manna House II ..." A commotion at the back of the room distracted her attention. "Come on in, folks.We're just getting started."
I turned my head. Ruth Garfield bustled in, flushed and frowsy, followed by her husband, Ben, each carrying one of their two-year-old twins. I tried to keep a straight face as Yada Yada's own Jewish yenta whispered, "Sorry we're late," and Yo-Yo snickered back, "So what else is new?"
Rev. Handley resumed her introduction. "I'd like to ask Peter Douglass, president of the Manna House Foundation, to say a prayer of thanksgiving as we begin."
Avis's husband rose, ever the businessman in gray slacks, navy blue blazer, and red-and-blue-striped tie. But he gave a nervous glance at his wife as he took the microphone. Avis was usually the one with the mic as one of the worship leaders at SouledOut Community Church. But Peter shut his eyes and offered heartfelt thanks to God that Manna House had "risen from the ashes, like the phoenix bird in the old tales, a symbol of renewal, resurrection, and hope to this community and its people!"
"Thank ya, Jesus!" Florida, who'd taken a seat behind us, leaned forward and hissed, "Now that man is not only good lookin', but that was some serious prayin'."
Avis hid a smile as Peter sat down, and Rev. Handley continued. "Before we give you the grand tour of our new facility, I'd like to introduce you to the folks who have kept the Manna House vision alive."
She called up Mabel, the office manager, a middle-aged African-American woman who got an enthusiastic round of applause. Then she introduced the board: two city pastors I didn't know, one African-American and one Latino; a social worker with reading glasses perched on her nose; and the newest board member, Peter Douglass. "Special thanks to Mr. Douglass," Rev. Handley said, "who established the Manna House Foundation after last year's fire to rebuild the shelter and—" The rest of her words were drowned out as people stood to their feet and filled the room with applause and shouts of hallelujah. Even with Chanda's major contribution, it was God's miracle that the foundation had raised enough money to rebuild.
When the noise died down, Rev. Handley read off the names of the newly formed advisory board. "Josh Baxter and Edesa Reyes, two of our volunteers. Edesa, by the way, has also taken up residence as live-in staff—"
Denny poked me and grinned. Our kids.
"—Estelle Williams, Precious McGill, and Rochelle Johnson, former shelter residents who have chosen to give back in this way." The director held up her hand to forestall applause as the five made their way forward. "Because of the input of this advisory board, we have a major announcement. Victims of domestic violence who come to Manna House will now be housed off-site in private homes, a major step to provide more protection and anonymity for abused women."
The applause erupted. Beside me, Avis mopped her eyes and blew her nose. Her daughter Rochelle had run away from an abusive husband and ended up at Manna House. After the fire, Chanda had invited Rochelle and her son, Conny, to share the big house on the North Shore she'd bought with her "winnin's," and they'd stayed for nearly nine months while getting an order of protection and finalizing a divorce.
I poked Denny. "Bet that off-site idea was Rochelle's," I whispered.
"Thanks to all of you," Rev. Handley finished, "for making this day possible. And not a moment too soon. The mayor of this fine city has asked Manna House to take a busload of evacuees from Hurricane Katrina, who will be arriving from Houston tomorrow. Which means we'll have a full house for Thanksgiving dinner next week. We have a sign-up sheet on the snack table for any volunteers who'd be willing to come and serve dinner next Thursday."
The director took a breath. "Speaking of volunteers ... "Was she looking right at me? "If you have volunteered before, or know anyone you think might be interested, please speak to me after the dedication today. And now, Pastor Rafael Kingsbury, our board chair, will say a prayer of dedication ..."
After the brief program, I pushed my way over to Precious, who had stayed in our home for a week after the fire. "Did I hear right? Did Rev. Handley say you were a former shelter resident?"
"She did!" Precious beamed. "Got me a good waitress job and my own address. Sabrina doin' real well in high school too."
I had to grin. Waitressing. Not everybody's cup of tea. But Precious loved to chat up strangers and dispense her wealth of trivia, whether it was sports, astronomy, or world travel, even though her claim to travel fame had been a straight line from South Carolina to Chicago. She'd probably get big tips just because she made people laugh.
Precious lowered her voice in a conspiratorial whisper. "Don't say nothin', but I heard a rumor that Reverend Handley might just be a former shelter director too. She thinkin' 'bout retirin' once the shelter up an' runnin'."
Huh. I hoped she'd hang in till the new Manna House got securely on its feet. I gave Precious another quick hug and scurried to join one of the groups getting a tour through the new building. Havah Garfield, riding on her mama's hip, held out her arms to me, so I took the wavy-haired toddler to give Ruth a rest. "A ton she weighs," Ruth groaned, fanning herself with a small paper plate. "And now I have hot flashes. There ought to be medals for mothers in their fifties. What's this I hear about Nony and Mark coming back for Christmas? Has anyone heard from Hoshi? She ought to be here!"
As usual, it was hard to follow Ruth's rabbit hops from topic to topic. But the tour group was disappearing, and I wanted to see the rest of Manna House. "Let's talk about it at Yada Yada tomorrow night—your house, right? Come on, Havah. I see some toys in the next room!"
Behind the multipurpose room was a playroom, a schoolroom with computers and shelves of books, a TV room, and a small chapel. On the second floor, six medium-sized bedrooms held four bunks in each, plus showers, bathrooms, and a small central lounge. The basement boasted a well-equipped kitchen, dining room, and recreation room with Ping-Pong and foosball tables, TV and DVD player, stacks of board games, and beanbag chairs.
After the tour, people gathered in the multipurpose room for more coffee and snacks. The Garfield twins, Isaac and Havah, practiced running away from their parents and were gleefully chased by Chanda's girls and Carla Hickman, now a blossoming eleven-year-old. I lost Denny to a clump of Yada Yada husbands arguing about whether the Chicago Bears had a chance at the Super Bowl after a twenty-year slump.
"You going to sign up for Thanksgiving dinner?" I asked Florida, holding out my punch cup for a refill.
"Thanksgiving dinner? Nope. We need the family time. You?"
I rolled my eyes. "If we want to see Josh and Edesa, we better sign up. I know they'll be here." I looked around. "Where are your boys?"
Florida snorted. "Cedric's just bein' fourteen. Wants ta do his own thang on Saturday—mainly playin' video games." She shrugged. "At least I know where he is. An' you know Chris has them art classes on Saturday, down at Gallery 27." Her tone flipped from annoyed to proud.
We were all proud of Chris. Two years ago, Florida's oldest had been "tagging" walls with gang graffiti. Now he was enrolled in one of Chicago's elite art programs for youth. "Please let me know if he has a recital or show or whatever they call it for young artists—oh. Hi, Denny. You trying to tell me something?"
My husband stood there holding my coat. Florida laughed. "I wish my husband would come rescue me from this punch bowl. Where he at, Denny?"
I tried to sneak in a few good-byes to others, but Denny tugged my arm. "You don't have to talk to everybody, Jodi. You'll see half your friends at church in the morning and the other half at Yada Yada tomorrow night. Come on."
We finally slipped out the front door and started toward our car, parked around the corner by the twenty-four-hour Laundromat. The afternoon sun had dipped behind the city buildings, and the wind ripping off Lake Michigan felt more like thirty-five degrees than the actual midforties. We passed a young woman standing in the alcove of the Laundromat doorway, clutching a squalling infant wrapped in a blanket.
"Denny, wait." I turned back. The young woman in the alcove wore a sweater, but no coat. Dark hair fell over her face and down around her shoulders as she jiggled the child, who couldn't be more than three or four months old. "Um, are you okay?"
The young woman looked up. Tears streaked her face. I couldn't guess her age. She seemed maybe eighteen or twenty. On the other hand, her eyes seemed old and haggard.
The dark eyes darted to Denny, then back to me. She rattled off a string of Spanish. I didn't understand any of it, but Denny nodded. "Again. Slower."
She tried again. I heard the words casa and mujeres. "Are you looking for the women's shelter? The house for women?" Denny asked.
The girl nodded, teeth chattering. We smiled and pointed at the new building. I ran ahead, calling for Edesa as soon as I got in the door of Manna House. By the time I found her, Denny and the young mother were standing in the foyer.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Decked Out by Neta Jackson. Copyright © 2007 Neta Jackson. Excerpted by permission of Thomas Nelson.
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