2-in-1 Yada Yada by Neta Jackson Read Free Book Online Page B

though I’d be hard-pressed to explain it.
    As I soaked in the murmured prayers and gazed around the group, I suddenly noticed something.
    Nails. Lots of painted fingernails, no two shades of red alike. Not only that, but every dark hand, whether African or Caribbean or American, had painted nails. I glanced on either side of me. Even Avis and Florida. But most of the pale hands—Yo-Yo, for sure, but also Ruth and me and Hoshi—had bald nails, though Hoshi’s looked carefully manicured with very white moon-slivers at the tips.
    Stu was the exception. Her nails were long, blue, and glittery.
    Good grief, Jodi! Stop it! I squeezed my eyes shut. Dear God, I’m sorry for getting distracted. Help me to stay focused . . . focused on You.

6
    B y the time we stopped for lunch, we’d only prayed for half the group. Edesa asked us to pray for her family back in Honduras. (Honduras! Of course. No wonder she attended a Spanish-speaking church. I wondered what percentage of blacks lived in Honduras. That would be interesting for my third-graders to study.) Edesa’s parents were believers, she said, but their town had been devastated by Hurricane Mitch in 1998. She felt guilty being away from home and experiencing so much plenty in the States, when her extended family was still struggling with grinding poverty.
    Encouraged by Edesa, who mentioned families, Hoshi spoke up. Her parents were coming to Chicago to visit this summer and would be extremely displeased that she had forsaken the Shinto religion for Christianity. She wanted prayer to be strong to share her new faith.
    â€œAs long as we’re praying for parents, y’all can pray for my mother. And me. I take care of her. And—you know—it’s like having another kid.” Adele spoke into the circle then retreated behind arms folded across her ample bosom.
    Adele took care of her mother? I knew firsthand that was no picnic. Grandmother Jennings had lived with us for a time when I was a teenager. She had dementia (my brothers called it “demented”— but not in front of my parents, of course), and nothing my mom or dad did for her was right. As the only girl, I had to share my room with Grandma. One time I caught her going through my drawers and throwing out birthday cards and notes I’d saved under my sweaters and underwear. Boy, did I yell! When she died and I got my room back, I felt relieved and guilty at the same time.
    I corralled my thoughts and tried to focus on Chanda, the Jamaican woman who said she cleaned houses on the North Shore. Had been doing it for ten years, had a good clientele. But the focus on “living into your destiny” had stirred up feelings of dissatisfaction. “I wan’ to be doin’ someting else, but I don’ know what,” she said. “Got tree kids, no mon. It’s hard to jump the train.”
    Whew. I was glad people were opening up. Chanda was somebody you didn’t really notice just sitting there. Average height, dowdy skirt and blouse, short black hair, cut but not styled, nothing that stood out. But the idea that God had created plain Chanda to be a “woman of destiny” tickled my fancy. Wished I had the gift of prophecy and could zap her with a “word.” Well, not really. People who tried that at Uptown Community made me feel uncomfortable, even though I knew some people must have that gift because it was in the Bible.
    Noting the time, Avis moved us into praying for Edesa, Hoshi, Adele, and Chanda, even though we hadn’t gotten around the circle. Well, there was always the next time.
    AT LUNCHTIME, the lines for the pay phones just off the lobby were three and four women deep. Lines probably would have been longer, but I saw a lot of women standing in the line for the lunch buffet holding one hand to their ear talking on their cell phones. I did a double take when one woman came marching through the lobby talking loudly to herself and