Free The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Real by Neta Jackson Page A

hovered in the midfifties. Unbelievable! It felt like spring. I almost expected to see tiny lilies of the valley or crocuses peeking out of the grass as I walked to school each morning. Then again, Chicagoans had a pessimistic attitude about their weather: “Wait five minutes; it’ll change.”
    But the unseasonably warm weather quickly lost the contest for shoptalk by the end of the week with head-lines that trumpeted: US TROOPS DEPLOYED TO THE GULF and ILLINOIS GOVERNOR COMMUTES SENTENCES OF 167 ON DEATH ROW. Josh could hardly talk about anything else.
    For some reason I felt heavy in my spirit as I drove to Nony’s house late Sunday afternoon to meet with the Yada Yada Prayer Group. It sure felt like the country was gearing up for war—and Josh was eighteen. What if they reinstituted the draft? Or what if he joined the army? He’d teased us about it when he turned eighteen last September. But with the possibility of a real war on the horizon, it wasn’t funny.
    Oh God, I’m not ready for my kids to grow up! I moaned as I parked the van along the curb in front of Nony’s house. Several cars were already there, and the el was just a few blocks away for those without wheels. Then I noticed a car I hadn’t seen in months: Adele Skuggs’s blue Ford Escort.
    Adele had come back to Yada Yada! We’d only had one meeting in December and still no Adele—probably too soon after our reconciliation with MaDear. But seeing the blue Escort lifted my spirit. I wanted to shout, “Thank ya, Jesus!” like Florida, right there on Nony’s front sidewalk. I settled for a whispered, “Thank You, Jesus,” as I rang the doorbell.
    Within twenty minutes, everyone had arrived and we were talking nonstop like a bunch of windup toys. When I saw Delores, I suddenly remembered I’d never called her to talk about the quinceañera. “Gotta talk to you,” I buzzed in her ear, “about . . . you know.”
    Delores beamed. “Sí. Anytime. I’m home by three o’clock this week.”
    â€œHallelujah!” Avis said, finally calling for attention. “Look at this—all twelve of us!”
    â€œLike de twelve dee -sciples,” Chanda George cracked, generating a ripple of laughter. Her Jamaican accent was always fun to decipher.
    â€œAdele, we are so glad to see you again.” A chorus of “Mm-hm” and “Yes!” met this statement.
    Adele’s bulk was parked on a straight-backed chair from Nony’s dining room, arms folded across her chest, the gold hoops in her ears dangling as she nodded her short, reddish, natural ’fro. “Didn’t plan to come back,” she shot back, “but guess God had other plans.” She grinned, revealing the little space between her two front teeth.
    My heart squeezed, and I suddenly felt close to tears. Would I ever really understand the miracle that had taken place when Denny asked MaDear—poor, con-fused MaDear—to forgive him for something he hadn’t done? Except . . . Denny had meant it. The reconciling power of owning the sins of our people.White people.
    Before we do anything else,” Avis said, “let’s give the Lord some praise for bringing us all back together again, and for all He’s done to sustain us in these past few weeks.”Without missing a beat, she began to praise. “Yes, thank You, Lord Jesus, for coming to earth as a little babe, knowing ahead of time what it was going to cost You—humiliation, suffering, your very life. Thank You, Jesus, thank You!”
    Others joined in, Delores breaking out in Spanish, Chanda babbling something—speaking in tongues or just a heavy dose of patois from the Islands, I couldn’t always tell which—and Nony turning something from the Psalms into her own prayer of praise.
    I pinched my eyes shut. Oh God, I prayed silently, it’s so good to be back “home” with