Free The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Decked Out by Neta Jackson

if I could identify the thieves in any way? Should I call him back? The officer had given me his card in case I remembered anything else.
    But something inside me checked. Maybe there had been three thieves. But the person who came back wasn’t the one who’d grabbed my purse. My gut was sure of that. And he’d come back. And tried to help. No, I wasn’t going to call . . .
    But you can pray, Jodi. Pray for Boomer. Like you did for Sara, even before you knew her name . . .
    â€œEstelle? Can you come here a sec?”
    The whirring in the other room stopped. Estelle appeared in the living room archway. “What you need, baby?”
    â€œNothing. I just wondered . . . would you help me pray for Boomer?”
    ESTELLE MADE SUPPER from stuff she found in our kitchen—smothered pork chops and corn pudding—and Stu joined us when Denny got home; it felt almost like a party. But by Saturday, I was plenty tired of just sitting in the front room recliner with my foot in the air and answering phone calls from well-meaning friends.
    â€œKeep that foot elevated at least another day, Jodi,” Delores cautioned. “Keep icing it, too, but only ten minutes at a time, and then rewrap.”
    Avis called. “Don’t worry about school on Monday, Jodi. We’ve already got a sub lined up for you.”
    â€œNever wear de purse over just one shoulder, Sista Jodee,” Chanda scolded. “Over your head and inside de coat, next time.”
    â€œWho needs a purse?” Yo-Yo snorted. “Just stuff what you need in your pockets. Works for me.” Right. Yo-Yo always wore overalls.
    â€œBoxes, schmoxes,” Ruth sputtered in my ear. “Half your age, Becky is. Let her get her own boxes. I’m coming over with chicken soup.” . . . “I’m not sick, Ruth.” . . . “So? You need to be sick to eat chicken soup?”
    When the phone rang for the tenth time that day, I hollered at Denny, “If that’s Becky again”—she’d already called twice, saying it was all her fault—“tell her I’m on my way to Colorado to go skiing!”
    Denny brought me the phone. “It’s Josh.”
    â€œOh . . . Hi, honey.”
    â€œSorry about your fall, Mom. And getting your purse snatched. Must have been scary.”
    â€œYes, I—”
    â€œI called to ask you and Dad to pray. And feel free to pass it on to Yada Yada.”
    So much for being fawned over by one’s offspring. “Sure, honey. What’s wrong?”
    â€œCarmelita’s missing again.”
    I WOKE IN the middle of the night, my ankle throbbing, and got up to take some pain meds, using the crutches we still had from when I broke my femur. Heating a mug of milk in the microwave, I peeked out the window in the back door. Snowing again. So much for going to church in the morning. Walking on crutches indoors was one thing; crutches on snow and ice was another.
    Settling in the recliner with my foot up, swathed in an afghan, I tried to go to sleep again . . . but all I could think about was Carmelita. Was she out somewhere in this snow? Drugged out, messed up, in grave danger of losing her baby? Oh God! Help them find her, Lord! Who was taking care of the baby, anyway? Edesa probably. Couldn’t be easy for her. She was going to school, had homework and classes and papers to write.
    Huh. Sure put my sprained ankle—even having my purse stolen—into perspective.
    Oh God! Thank You for Your blessings, even in the midst of this situation! Forgive me for complaining about all the phone calls. I’m truly blessed to have so many friends and family who care about me. Thank You for Estelle, who took care of me Friday. For Ruth’s chicken soup. For Florida and Carl . . . even for Boomer, whoever he is, who stopped to find my phone. Bless him for that, Lord. But God, Josh and Edesa and everyone at Manna House are worried about Carmelita . . . I