The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Decked Out (17 page)

Someone grabbed me from behind in a bear hug. I wiggled around. “Precious McGill! I was hoping I'd see you!” The former shelter resident who'd come to stay at our house after the fire beamed at me from beneath a head full of tiny braids. “Precious, this is my mom and dad—”

Precious pumped their hands. “Well, now, that's right nice! Ain't this the bomb? Oh, gotta go. They ready to start, an' we first on the program.”

I had no idea what “first on the program” meant, but I soon found out. A choir of about nine youngsters—mostly girls, but two self-conscious boys—gathered in front of the rows of chairs and sang “Mary Had a Baby,” with Precious as choir director. I was amazed at the sound she drew from those kids—most of whom were not only homeless but had been traumatized by the Katrina Hurricane.
“She named Him King Jesus, yes, Lord . . . people
keep a-comin' an' the train done gone . . . ”
The song was soulful, a mixture of hope and pathos.

Then a little African-American girl around age six or seven, with five fat braids sectioning her hair, stood front and center while Precious put a CD in a boom box and turned up the volume. In a sweet voice, the little girl began to sing: “Happy Birthday, Jesus”—a song I recognized from the Brooklyn Tabernacle Christmas CD. I saw a smile begin on my father's face as he listened, and then grow wider as the child sang.
“ . . . and the presents
are nice, but the real gift is You . . . ”

The little choir ended with a side-swaying, hand-clapping “Go Tell It on the Mountain,” bringing most of us out of our seats, swaying and clapping along. I could tell my parents were enjoying themselves.

As the choir scattered, the “Christmas pageant” began . . . with a teenage Mary startled by a ten-year-old angel wrapped in a sheet. “You're gonna get pregnant, and it was the Holy Ghost who did it!”

Kids giggled and the adults tried to stifle their laughter as the “angel” appeared to a teenage Joseph and told him to quit messing around and marry Mary. The “trip to Bethlehem” around the multi-purpose room resulted in Mary and Joseph getting told at the Christmas tree, the couch, and the refreshment table: “Sorry. Don't got no room.” A box filled with towels served as the “manger,” in which a very much alive baby Gracie kicked and fussed, setting off a sweet “Aww” around the whole room.

Finally, the “angel” found a bunch of “shepherds” in a far corner and told them: “I've got great news! Jesus is born—and you'll find Him in a barn.” The “shepherds” in bathrobes and bath-towel turbans ran full tilt and skidded to a stop beside the box with the baby, grinning and giggling.

As the audience clapped and the children took their bows, suddenly my throat tightened and my eyes watered.
How utterly appropriate
to see the Christmas story here in this homeless shelter. An
ordinary teenage Mary, a working-class Joseph, a bunch of “shepherds”
who in today's world might have been auto-shop mechanics. When Jesus
was born, angels had to announce it because it happened right under
everyone's noses; so humble and ordinary, most people missed it. People
still missed it—

A commotion at the back interrupted my thoughts. Heads turned; a number of adults and a few children in winter coats wearing “Santa's elves” caps swept in through the double doors carrying bags and boxes of gaily wrapped Christmas gifts. The shelter kids cheered and started a mad scramble.

“Hey! Hey!” Josh grabbed a few shirts and pulled them back. “Come on now, all you kids sit on the floor around the tree . . . that's right. These good folks are from Weiss Memorial Hospital, and they've brought gifts for everyone. Come on, let's show some appreciation!” Josh led the clapping as Precious and others took the coats of the Weiss Memorial elves and helped them put the gifts under the tree for distribution.

As one of the women put her load of gifts under the tree and straightened, I squinted and stared. The woman looked familiar, someone I knew or had seen before—and then I saw the boy with her.

Hakim Porter! With his mother, Geraldine Wilkins-Porter.

They were standing off to the side, watching as Josh and Edesa read the nametags on the gifts and handed them out, when I approached. “Mrs. Porter?”

Hakim's mother turned. The African-American woman—I vaguely remembered she worked as a licensed practical nurse—looked as slim and professional as the last painful time I'd seen her in my classroom at Bethune Elementary, when our hands had briefly touched, somewhat easing the tension between us, though she had been unable to forgive me. Now, recognition twitched at the corners of her eyes. Her lips parted slightly.

“Mrs. Baxter. I didn't realize . . . ” She seemed confused about why I was at a women's shelter.

I smiled, trying to put her at ease. “My son is on the advisory board here.” I decided not to mention the upcoming wedding in a few hours. Too complicated. But should I tell her Hakim had been to our house recently and shoveled our walks? I glanced at the boy, standing just behind his mother and nearly as tall, and caught his worried eyes and urgent shake of the head. So I just held out my hand. “Hello, Hakim. It's wonderful to see you again.”

He shook my hand, then faded from sight.

“Well . . . Merry Christmas. We can't stay long.” Geraldine Porter turned as if ending the conversation. “Boomer?” The woman frowned. “Now, where did that boy go? I told him not to go running off ! He's always disappearing on me.”

Boomer?
My mouth went dry. I licked my lips. In my mind I felt the jerk again that sent me sprawling, saw the shadowy figure who'd come back, heard the distant voice yelling,
“Boomer, you
idiot
! Get outta there!”

16

B
oom . . . Boomer?” I hoped my voice didn't squeak.

Mrs. Porter looked at me quizzically, as if she'd already forgotten I was there. “Oh. Just a nickname.

He used to have a boom box he carried everywhere, B like an extra appendage. His cousins started calling him Boomer. Now they have me saying it.” She swiveled her head. “Excuse me, I need to find him.”

I stood rooted in the same spot, my thoughts and feelings spinning. It all fell into place, like twisting a Rubik's Cube one last time and suddenly all the colors matched.
Hakim
had been with the teens who had stolen my purse and knocked me down. It was Hakim who had come back to help me, had found my phone, had dialed 9-1-1. Someone had yelled, called him
“Boomer,”
and told him to run.

Across the room, Geraldine Wilkins-Porter and her son retrieved their coats and headed out the double doors. At the last moment, Hakim turned, caught my eye, and lifted his hand in good-bye. I waved back weakly.

I sank into the closest chair. It must have been Hakim who had returned my stolen purse and credit cards. But . . . why?

Stupid question. Because he feels guilty. He's sorry but can't say it,
can't admit he was part of what happened.

The party was basically over. The Manna House staff must have sent the names of each child to Weiss Memorial with a wish list, because all the children seemed delighted with their gifts. I pushed myself out of the chair to help with cleanup.
Lord, this can't just be
coincidence!—even Hakim and his mother showing up today. But what's it
all about? I'd like to tell him I forgive him, but . . . I don't even know where
he lives. And his mom obviously doesn't know he's been showing up to shovel
our walks. Lord, I don't know what You want to happen, but please, at least
bring Hakim back to our house once more. Give us some time to talk . . .

THE SHELTER SWIRLED with activity as laughing residents helped transform the multipurpose room into a “chapel” for the wedding. No baskets of flowers—too expensive, Josh said—but two iron candelabras Edesa had borrowed from
Iglesia del Espirito Santo
stood at the front of the rows of folding chairs, each holding five long white tapers and decorated with wide red bows.

Delores Enriquez, the honorary mother of the bride, showed up with her entire family at two-thirty and immediately took charge of coordinating wedding setup and details. I was delighted to see her husband, Ricardo, show up with his large
guitarron
. Ricardo had a way of coaxing love from his big guitar—perfect for a wedding.

José, Delores's oldest, seemed as if he'd grown six inches since I last saw him at Lane Tech's graduation last spring. A first-year student at UIC, he was as tall as his father, maybe five-seven, although he seemed taller because of his slender build. Amanda screeched with delight when she saw him, throwing her arms around his neck and then babbling like an auctioneer as the two “just friends” caught up on the months they'd been at different colleges.

My mom offered to stay with Gracie when Edesa put the baby down for a nap in the portable crib in Edesa's stripped-down room. Most of their things had already been taken to the “Hickman Hilton,” as I heard Denny refer to it. “Smart move,” I teased my mom. “Way to sneak in a nap too.”

Stu and Estelle arrived with the dresses—hidden in garment bags, of course. A parade of jean-clad Yada Yada sisters turned up with food, garment bags, and wedding gifts. Yo-Yo and the Garfields arrived with the wedding cake from the Bagel Bakery. After helping to set up chairs, I zipped downstairs to the dining room where the reception would be held to take a peek, but decided not to tangle with Ruth, who was insisting that the cake table had to be moved. “A place of honor it must be. No, no, not there—here!”

On my way back up the stairs to the main floor, I passed Emerald, Delores's next oldest, as she shepherded her three younger siblings toward the rec room on the lower floor. “Oh,
Señora
Baxter!” The girl's eyes danced, her long hair a cascade of dark waves falling behind the red ribbon she wore. “My
quinceañera
is this spring! Will you come?”

What? She's fifteen already? Impossible . . .
“Of course, Emerald. You will be a beautiful
Quinceañera
.” I gave her a hug. “Who is going to be your escort?” Emerald giggled and shrugged. I watched her disappear.

It seemed only yesterday that the Enriquez family—José especially—had spearheaded a
quinceañera,
the traditional Mexican coming-of-age party, for our Amanda. I was grateful José and Amanda had survived their first teenage love and breakup and been able to remain friends—though even my heart had skipped a beat when José came in, no longer a boy but a dark-eyed, handsome hunk.

“Jodi!” Delores cornered me as I came back into the multipurpose room. “Did Josh or Edesa speak to you about reading the scripture during the service?”

I shook my head. “Nope. You know what they say about the mother of the groom: ‘Wear beige and stand in a corner.'”

She looked into my eyes, reading my heart. “Be patient, Jodi. They've only had two weeks to put this wedding together. They would like you to read the scripture—Colossians 3, verses 12 through 14. Do you have your Bible?”

I shook my head. “No, I wasn't expecting . . .”

She smiled. “No problem. Reverend Handley let me borrow hers, just in case.” She handed me a worn brown leather Bible with
Elizabeth Handley
engraved on the front in gold scroll letters. “And here's the order of service. You can see when the scripture reading comes. Peter Douglass printed it at his shop. Isn't it beautiful?”

The folded program on creamy, watermarked paper was indeed beautiful. A swell of gratefulness drowned my momentary crabbiness.
Thank You, Jesus, for all our “brothers and sisters” who are doing
so much to make this hasty wedding a beautiful moment in time.

I looked at my watch. Three-thirty. Maybe I could disappear for a while to practice reading the scripture and get myself dressed before helping Amanda. Some peace and quiet, some prayer and Scripture, sounded like just what Dr. Jesus ordered for my sweating palms.

Josh—my oldest child, my only son—was getting married in less than two hours.

I HAD FINISHED dressing and was hooking Stu's earrings into my earlobes when Denny, still in his jeans and sweatshirt, peeked into the bunkroom I'd been using. “Jodi? I think you need to come out here.” His words suggested alarm, but not his grin.

“What?”

“Just come!” He grabbed me by the hand and pulled me down the stairs to the main floor. As we neared the multipurpose room, I heard squeals and a babble of excited voices. At the doorway, Denny stepped back and pushed me forward.

On the other side of the room, an animated swarm was milling at the back of the rows of chairs, mostly my Yada Yada sisters, laughing, squealing, hugging. I saw Josh pumping the hand of someone, an African-American man in a dark suit . . . and then I saw the black-and-gold African head wrap next to him, the gracious tilt of the head, the wide smile framed by the rich color of dark oak.