The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Caught by Neta Jackson Page A

two services, at least on second Sundays. It was a good idea, but as it turned out, only a handful of New Morning folks showed up for the potluck. Avis and Rochelle, I noticed, disappeared rather quickly after worship and didn’t stay.Well, I’d catch Avis later today at Yada Yada.
    Denny and I sat across from an older black couple, Debra and Sherman Meeks. She was a teacher like myself but taught special ed kids in another school district. Her husband seemed a good ten or fifteen years older and took frequent breaths from an inhaler. Debra said something about “we both have grandkids.” A second marriage?
    Denny and Sherman talked about the state of the Cubs and the White Sox—what else? —while Debra and I chatted. “I love your seven-layer salad!” Debra had a serious serving on her paper plate. “Never get this unless I go to a church potluck. I’m too lazy to make it myself.” She, on the other hand, had actually cooked—a wonderful pot of “dirty rice,” that spicy jumble of hamburger and rice I’d only seen on the menu of the local Dixie Kitchen. The way the teenagers were snarfing it up, she wouldn’t be taking home any leftovers.
    Florida, Stu, and Becky Wallace sat at another table with two single women from New Morning. The kids, on the other hand—including Florida’s two youngest and Little Andy—just roamed the room in a pack, grazing as they went, sitting down, hopping up, running around, and hopefully getting fed. Somehow.
    We were digging into somebody’s banana cream pie when Stu came by and plopped a basket on the table. “Chair fund,” she called out cheerily, unloading another basket on the next table. I peeked in the basket. A dollar and some change.
    I made a face. “We may be sitting on these dreadful chairs a long time.”
    Debra threw back her head and laughed. “You said it, not me.”
    I grinned. I kinda liked this lady.
    Other New Morning people started to arrive to set up for their afternoon service as we put away the last of the tables.We greeted each other with hello–good-bye smiles, though I hugged Debra and Sherman and said, “I’d like to come to another New Morning service sometime.” I braced myself for “Why not today? ” but I knew there was no way, not with Yada Yada meeting at my house tonight.
    But all Sherman said was a gentle, “Likewise.” And he winked.
    Denny was quiet on the way home. “What? ” I prodded.
    He shrugged. “Just wondered why Pastor Cobbs and his wife from New Morning didn’t come to the potluck. The people aren’t going to come if the leaders don’t.”
    ACCORDING TO OUR RATHER LOOSE SCHEDULE, it was Nony’s turn to host Yada Yada for our bimonthly meeting.But given the fact that Nony’s house had just been turned into a convalescent home, we automatically skipped to the next name on the list:mine.
    Under normal circumstances—meaning, the kids typically went to youth group Sunday evening—that usually left only Denny and Willie Wonka to hole up in the back of the house with an ancient thirteen-inch snowy TV. But the church bulletin said, “No Youth Group Tonight” since the teens had just returned from Cornerstone a few days ago.Guess Rick Reilly needed more time to recuperate.
    Couldn’t blame him.
    I was just about to run upstairs and ask Stu if we could meet at her apartment instead, when Denny announced he was taking Amanda to a movie, and Josh said he’d be back in time for breakfast. “Just kidding, Mom,” he said when my mouth dropped open. “I’m going to hang out at Jesus People awhile tonight. Some of the guys I met at Cornerstone invited me. Can you drop me off at the el, Dad? ”
    I watched my trio head for the garage.Well, that worked out. But since when did Josh’s jeans look as if they’d been ripped to shreds by a grizzly