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

don’t know her story, Lord, but You do. You know where she is now. Even if she’s in a dark place, You are there . . .
    I grabbed my Bible. Psalm 139. Yes, I would pray Psalm 139 for Carmelita.
    I STAYED HOME from church, which meant missing the second Advent service at SouledOut, but by Sunday evening I was going stir-crazy. I think I was starting to drive Denny crazy, too, because he gave in and drove me to the Hickmans’, where Yada Yada was meeting. The snow had only added another inch or two, and by then even most of the side streets had been plowed.
    After getting me into the house and settled on the couch, Denny coaxed Carl to go out with him for pizza; at the last minute, they took Chris, Cedric, and Carla too. I noticed Florida had a new hairstyle since I saw her three days ago—little sections of hair twisted into knots all over her head. “What do you call that?” I ran my finger in tiny circles. “It’s cute.”
    â€œZulu knots. Like it?” Florida simpered as she ran to answer the doorbell.
    Ruth arrived sans twins—but Delores and Edesa arrived with a bundle in a baby carrier. My heart lurched. “Oh, Edesa, does that mean Carmelita hasn’t come back yet?”
    â€œNot yet.We are very worried.” Edesa took off her own winter wraps, then gently unsnapped the safety strap of the carrier and picked up the baby, blankets and all. “Do you want to hold la bebé, Jodi?”
    â€œMe? Um . . . sure.” I peeked into the warm, fleece blankets Edesa put into my arms. The baby’s dark lashes lay against her fat cheeks, damp, dark curls wisping around her face. “The baby” . . . why did I always refer to her that way? She had a name—Gracie. For some reason, a lump tightened in my throat.
    As the Yada Yadas arrived, they oohed and ahhed over the baby in my arms, plying Edesa for details. But Avis interrupted. “I’m sure Edesa doesn’t want to have to repeat herself. Let’s go ahead and begin, and then we’ll hear from Edesa first thing.”
    After Avis’s brief prayer, Edesa brought the group up to date about Carmelita showing up at Manna House the day of the dedication, her disappearance on Thanksgiving and return, her tears and promises to stick with the detox program she’d started last Monday . . . and now, gone again. She’d been missing more than twenty-four hours.
    â€œWe went through the things in her room, hoping to find some clue to where she might have gone. But”—Edesa’s voice wavered—“all we found was this.” She took an envelope out of her pocket and pulled out a single sheet of paper. Her lip trembled.
    â€œHere.” Delores gently took the paper from Edesa’s hand. “I will read. It is written in Spanish.” The older woman frowned as she translated. “‘ Por favor, if anything should happen to me, I give the care of my baby, Gracie Francesca Alfaro, to Edesa Reyes at Manna House.’” Delores looked up. “It is signed, ‘Carmelita Francesca Alfaro.’”

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    W hoa.” Stu’s eyes went wide. “Did you know about this, Edesa?”
    Edesa shook her head. She reached over and tenderly W stroked the baby’s cheek with the back of her fingers. “I just hope we find your mama, niñita, ” she whispered.
    The sisters gathered around Edesa and the baby I was holding and prayed, pouring out their hearts for the young, lost mother and her abandoned baby. By the end of the prayers, we’d used up half a box of Florida’s tissues.
    The group also prayed for rapid healing of my sprained ankle, and for Becky and Little Andy as they prepared to move from the cocoon of the Hickman household to their own apartment. “Thanks for the boxes, everybody,” Becky said sheepishly. “Though I wish Jodi hadn’t—”
    â€œGive it a rest, Becky!”
    â€œOkay, okay. Um, I hate to