The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Caught by Neta Jackson

salad for the Second Sunday Potluck—the weather was too hot and muggy to actually cook anything—then scanned the room. Josh had come early to set up the soundboard, Amanda was sitting with some of the teens who’d gone to Cornerstone, and Denny had saved me a seat. Didn’t see Peter Douglass. Rats. He’d been attending New Morning’s services lately, which met in this very room Sunday afternoon. That in itself was a good reason to merge our two congregations—he and Avis wouldn’t have to choose between churches.
    As Avis laid her Bible on the simple wooden podium and said, “Good morning, church! Would you turn with me in your Bibles to—” I saw a young African-American woman sitting alone on the far side where Avis often sat, a squirming toddler on her lap. She looked so familiar . . .
    And then I remembered. One of Avis’s daughters! I’d met all three of them at Avis and Peter’s wedding two months ago. Had Charette come home with them from Ohio? No, Charette had twins, a boy and a girl, a year or two older than this little one. This had to be Rochelle,who lived here in Chicago on the South Side—the one with the little boy named after Avis’s first husband. Conrad Johnson the Third.
    I tried to concentrate on the call to worship Avis was reading from the book of Isaiah. “Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing!” But I kept stealing peeks at Avis’s daughter. Beautiful—like Avis. Visiting? But she hadn’t come just today—at least, sounded like she and the baby were there when I called Avis last night. And where was the husband? Couldn’t remember his name. But he’d been a looker, for sure. Like he’d walked out of the pages of GQ . He and Rochelle had seemed cozy enough at her mom’s wedding; maybe he was just out of town on business or something. But why was Rochelle looking so sad? She didn’t sing, though to me it was almost impossible not to get sucked into the powerful words of the first praise song . . .
    We will lift up our hands!
We will lift up our hearts!
We will lift up our eyes beyond the hills To where our help comes from!
Our help comes from You . . .
    But Rochelle didn’t lift up her hands or her eyes, not even an eyelash.
    Pastor Clark based his sermon on the same Isaiah passage Avis had read. “Forget the former things. . . . See, I am doing a new thing!” He didn’t say as much, but I wondered if he’d chosen this text because of the idea floated at the men’s breakfast a couple of weeks ago about possibly merging with New Morning. That would certainly be a “new thing” ! Still wasn’t sure what I thought about it. But he did talk about the spiritual danger of always looking at the past or getting too comfortable with our present circumstances, because God was in the business of continually transforming our minds and hearts and lives to line up with His purposes.
    A pretty radical message for Pastor Clark, a widower who probably could have retired several years ago and who reminded me of Mister Rogers, comfy old sweater and terrible tie to boot. Frankly, I thought he deserved to slow down, take it easy, not be talking about gearing up for “a new thing” God wanted to do.
    Nice deflection, Jodi, said the Voice in my spirit. Don’t worry about how this applies to your pastor.How does it apply to you?
    I almost snorted. You talkin’ to me, God? Dumb question. Of course He was. But I wasn’t quite sure of the answer. Seemed like God had had me on a fast track of “new things” ever since Yada Yada came into my life.
    Before the closing song,Pastor Clark reminded us that since New Morning was still using our building for worship that afternoon, they had been invited to “come early, bring a dish, and join us for our monthly potluck” —which could make a nice ridge between the