The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Real by Neta Jackson Page B

second later she opened it again. “Oh. Thanks for picking me up.” And the door slammed again.
    Denny slowly turned his head and looked at me. I know my mouth was hanging open. And for once Denny was speechless.

6

    D enny and I just sat in the car for a little while, sorting through our thoughts. Finally he said, “Did we want to know all that?”
    I snorted. “Well, yeah.Not knowing would be worse. The way those girls talked! It’s more than ignorant. It’s . . . it’s . . .”
    â€œSlander. Bigotry. Spreading rumors about an entire ethnic group.”
    Well, that too. I was going to say crude. Vulgar.
    â€œI’m proud of her, standing up for herself that way.” He chuckled. “Feisty gal, isn’t she? Must get it from you.”
    I let that one go. Not sure it was a compliment. I get feisty, all right—dumping on my husband and kids when I’m upset. Yet not always feisty when I should be, reluctant to make waves in the teachers’ lounge when they’re gossiping about someone or when the politics get hot. But Amanda had walked out. Ha. I could just see her. Not slipping away demurely, either, but probably storming through the mall like her hair was on fire.
    â€œDenny, what do you really think about José and Amanda? I mean, she talked like José’s her boyfriend—and she obviously knows he wants to throw her a quinceañera. Kinda surprised she hasn’t been bugging us about it.”
    â€œYeah. Give her points there.” Denny scratched his chin. “I think she’s too young to date, and we can set some limits there, but we can’t dictate her heart. And if she’s going to ‘kinda like’ a guy, José Enriquez is pretty good news.We know his mother, he goes to church, and he’s been hanging out with Uptown’s youth group.”
    I agreed with all that. Yet I hated what I was thinking: I don’t want my daughter swept off her feet by a “Latin lover.”Would he follow in his dad’s footsteps—end up a high school dropout driving trucks?
    â€œBut as far as this quinceañera thing goes,” Denny continued, “it depends. An informal Mexican party? Sounds fun. The whole nine yards? I agree—it’d feel awkward to have José and his family throw a big shindig for our daughter. Sounds like a lot of money we can’t afford—and I don’t think the Enriquezes can either. Still . . .”
    â€œStill . . . what?”
    Denny looked at me with a funny expression. “It kinda fits Amanda.Who she is.Who she’s becoming. I mean, she came back from that mission trip to Mexico last summer soaking up the culture. Her Spanish has been improving by leaps and bounds. Huh! Remember a year ago this time? She was making Ds and Fs. This year? As and Bs. And it’s not just José—she’s crazy about the whole Enriquez family, especially Emerald. And Edesa Reyes too.”
    â€œI know. I just . . .”
    For some odd reason, the song I’d been listening to in the car the other day popped into my head: “God is in control.” Did I believe that? Or was I always going to approach problems the Old Jodi way—stewing and fret-ting till I’d wrestled them to the ground? No! My Yada Yada sisters had been teaching me to “go to the top” on the first round, not the last. Not just to believe in God, but to believe God.
    â€œDenny, why don’t we pray about it and ask God what we should do?” And then I giggled. “Good grief. I sound just like my dad. I used to hate it when he said that!”
    FOR SOME REASON, PRAYING with Denny about the quinceañera was like pricking my anxiety with a pin and letting all the air out.Not that I was clear what we should do. So why not call Delores and talk it over? Tell her our reservations; ask more questions.Why not?
    Yet when I called Saturday evening, Delores was working the late shift in