Who do i talk to, p.33
Who Do I Talk To?, page 33
I did try his cell phone, got his voice mail, and left my message.
I never got a call back.
Now the volunteer moving crew—Denny and Jodi Baxter, Josh and Edesa Baxter, Estelle Williams and her housemate, Leslie Stuart, and Carl and Florida Hickman and their two husky boys—hauled in boxes, packed up the boys’ rooms, and moved out the things I had marked. Everything from the boys’ bedrooms, including their small TV. My bedroom dresser and mirror and an upholstered reading chair. Some scatter rugs. I left the master bath as it was, but I cleaned out the powder room and the second bath—towels, cleaning supplies, shampoo, and lotions. I put neon-lime Take Me notes on the square kitchen table and its four chairs, leaving the expensive dining room set and the bar stools in the kitchen for Philip. I’d brought a lot of kitchen stuff from my mom’s house already. The only piece I took from the living room was another upholstered chair—now the boys and I all had a place to sit. I left Philip’s office untouched, except for the family photo albums and children’s books I’d collected over the years. Those went in a box and out to the truck.
Mr. Bentley stayed out of the penthouse, doing no more than directing traffic on the lower floor. Maybe that eye was bothering him more than he let on. Still, it was for the best. I didn’t want Philip or anybody else to make him lose his job over “conflict of interest” with a resident. But his grandson DeShawn wanted to be where the action was, especially since the older Hickman teens, Chris and Cedric, were doing a man’s job hauling chairs and boxes, and kept saying, “Hey, DeShawn, you take that end” or “Get that box, will ya?” The youngster beamed.
“What about the big bed, Gabby?” Denny Baxter asked, standing in the master bedroom.
I shook my head. That was my marriage bed . . . and right now I didn’t have a marriage. Sleeping in it alone would be too painful.
My throat tightened. Would Philip and I ever sleep together in that bed again—husband and wife . . . lovers . . . friends? Or was it really over?
Denny must have seen me brush tears from my eyes because he quickly left the room, but I lingered a few moments longer, picking up a framed photo from the top of Philip’s dresser. The four of us two years ago in a candid snapshot, arms around each other, wide grins. Philip’s dark head was next to my “mop top,” as he often called it, the boys laughing as if they were being tickled.
The way we were . . .
I slipped the framed photo into my backpack.
“All done?” Jodi said as I came into the kitchen, where Estelle had managed to produce lemonade and paper cups. “Should we swing back by the shelter to pick up Dandy?”
I shook my head. “I, um, gave him to Lucy yesterday. Just couldn’t bring myself to separate them. There are enough bags of dog food left at Manna House to last her at least six months. I made her promise that she’d take shelter in the winter—Manna House is probably the only shelter that’s going to let her come back with a dog. And if she couldn’t take care of him, I’d take him back.” I grimaced. “Don’t know if it was the right thing to do. She and Dandy disappeared last night. Her bunk was empty and her cart was gone. Dandy’s bed too.”
“Oh, Gabby.” Jodi gave me a hug. “What about Paul?”
I shrugged. “I’ll get him another dog, maybe a puppy. It’ll be okay. But speaking of Paul, could you excuse me a minute? I’ll meet you downstairs. I have a call to make.”
The moving crew tromped through the gallery and out into the foyer, chatting with each other as they waited for the elevator. And then all was quiet.
I stood a few feet back from the wraparound floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out—not down—at Lake Michigan sparkling a deep azure blue in the midday July sun. Lake Shore Drive was bustling and alive . . . but silent up here behind the thick windows. To the south, Chicago’s skyline rose into the air, a thousand stories walking the streets. And now, my story was one of them.
Strange. I would not miss this penthouse. Most of the memories here had been painful ones. But Chicago . . .
I pulled out my cell phone, made the call, and waited until I heard the voices of both my sons on the phone. “P. J.? Paul? It’s Mom. It’s time to come home.”
Reading Group Guide
A note from the author . . .
Okay, okay! I’ve heard from enough faithful readers who were disappointed that Where Do I Go? (Book #1 in the Yada Yada House of Hope series) ended on a “cliff-hanger” without a clear resolution, that I feel compelled to share some background . . .
After including the Manna House Women’s Shelter in the last two books of the Yada Yada Prayer Group series, I realized I knew zilch about homeless shelters or why people become homeless, so I began volunteering once a week at Breakthrough Urban Ministries women’s shelter here in Chicago (www.breakthroughministries.com). I learned there are numerous reasons people end up homeless, and I began to feel a burden to tell some of these stories—and the fictional Manna House was the perfect segue.
But Gabby Fairbank’s story got so deep, I found it impossible to wrap everything up nice and tidy by the end of the first book. I don’t blame you if you were distressed over the ending. But my primary purpose was to bring Gabby to a place where she realized that when her whole life felt as if it were falling apart, she could turn to “the Rock” of her salvation, just as the song says—even without the promise that life would turn out rosy.
But I share your pain! I’m a person who wants hope and redemption in my stories—which is why Gabby’s story picks up right where it left off in this second installment. I’m delighted that you’ve hung in there with the House of Hope series and read Book 2, Who Do I Talk To? So let’s dig in and talk about it!
1. Even though Gabby Fairbanks’ situation might seem extreme, what kind of life situations/experiences/ circumstances can create that “end of the world” feeling? Even though your circumstances might not be the same, have you or someone in your family experienced a life-altering event where it seemed that nothing would ever be the same? What were the initial feelings you had to cope with?
2. What were the seeds of hope that Gabby clung to as this book opened, even though everything looked hopeless? What are the seeds of hope you or your family clung to when faced with a seemingly hopeless situation?
3. In Gabby’s case, her anguish was exacerbated because someone deliberately “did something” that caused her pain (as opposed to an accident or natural disaster). Read Psalm 37:1–17. What phrases stand out to you that might give comfort in such a situation? What guidance does the psalmist give to help deal with hurts caused by other people?
4. A number of people come alongside Gabby during this crisis, but in different ways. What role does each of the following play in helping Gabby to stand up and be strong? Edesa . . . Mabel . . . Estelle . . . Harry Bentley . . . Lee Boyer . . . Lucy . . . Sarge . . . Mike Fairbanks . . . Jodi Baxter. (Anyone else?) What (or who) do you think was most helpful to Gabby in changing her perspective?
5. How does Dandy the Hero Dog impact this story—and the various people in the story—beyond just stopping a nighttime burglar? (Gabby? Her mom? Lucy? The shelter women? Any others?) Why do you think dogs or other pets often play an important role in times of emotional stress and difficulty?
6. How do you feel about Gabby’s difficult decision to leave her boys in Virginia (chapter 12)? Can you think of any other alternative? What does this show about Gabby’s character?
7. In Book 1, Mabel Turner said she thought God had brought Gabby to Chicago and to Manna House “for a purpose.” How does that “prophetic word” continue to impact Gabby in Book 2? What do you think that purpose is? How does knowing (discovering) God’s purpose for our lives impact how we deal with our particular life situation and the people around us?
8. In what ways do you see Gabby growing and changing in this book? In what areas do you still want to shake her and tell her _________________________ ?
9. The death of Gabby’s mother—Martha Shepherd—seemed to also be the death of Gabby’s patchwork plan to get an apartment and get her boys back. First Estelle, then Jodi says, “God must have a better plan.” Has anyone ever said that to you when things fell apart with your own plans? How did it make you feel? Was it true? Or did it seem like “spiritual mumbo-jumbo”?
10. Philip Fairbanks . . . we all hate him. (At least you’ve told me you do!) Why do you think he showed up at Martha Shepherd’s funeral? How did you feel about that? What do you think is going on with Philip? Is he redeemable? What do you think is going to happen with Philip? Why? How?
11. How realistic is Gabby’s dream to create a “House of Hope”? She’s well-meaning but . . . is she equipped? Is this the right time? What problems do you foresee? How do we know when to let go of our unrealistic dreams, and when it’s important to hold onto those dreams?
12. Gabby muses at the end Book 2, “There are thousands of stories walking the streets of Chicago—and mine is one of them.” Why is it important to realize that every person we meet “has a story”—even the homeless person or panhandler we meet on the street? How might that change how we relate to that person?
P.S. To my readers . . .
Wish I could be a fly on the wall to hear your discussion! Thanks for being such faithful readers of the Yada Yada House of Hope series. I appreciate each one of you! Hang on for the next episode in Book 3, Who Do I Lean On? coming out in June 2010.
Until then . . . be blessed!
Sometimes you find hope
in the last place you look.
BOOK 1 in the HOUSE of HOPE SERIES
An Excerpt from
The Yada Yada Prayer Group
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS—2002
I didn’t really want to go to the “women’s conference” the first weekend of May. Spending two hundred bucks to stay in a hotel for two nights only forty-five minutes from home? Totally out of our budget, even if it did include “two continental breakfasts, Saturday night banquet, and all conference materials.”
Now if it had been just Denny and me, that’d be different. A romantic getaway, a second honeymoon . . . no teenagers tying up the phone, no dog poop to clean up in the yard, no third grade lesson plans, no driving around and around the block trying to find a parking place. Just Denny and me sleeping late, ordering croissants, fruit plates, and hot coffee for breakfast, letting someone else make the bed (hallelujah!), swimming in the pool . . . now that would be worth two hundred bucks, no question.
I’m not generally a conference-type person. I don’t like big crowds. We’ve lived in the Chicago area for almost twenty years now, and I still haven’t seen Venetian Nights at the lakefront, even though Denny takes Josh and Amanda almost every year. Wall-to-wall people . . . and standing in line for those pukey Port-a-Potties? Ugh.
Give me a small moms group or a women’s Bible study any day—like Moms in Touch, which met at our church in Downers Grove all those years the kids were growing up. We had some retreats, too, but I knew most of the folks from church, and they were held at a camp and retreat center out in the country where you could wear jeans to all the sessions and walk in the woods during free time.
But listening to the cars on I-90 roaring past the hotel’s manicured lawn? Laughing like a sound track at jokes told by high-powered speakers in tailored suits and matching heels? Having to take “after five attire” for a banquet on Saturday night? (Why would a bunch of women do that with no men around to admire how gorgeous we look?)
Uh-uh. Was not looking forward to it.
Still, Avis Johnson, my boss—she’s the principal at the Chicago public school where I teach third grade this year—asked if I’d like to go with her, and that counts for something. Maybe everything. I’ve admired Avis ever since I first met her at Uptown Community Church but never thought we’d be pals or anything. Not just because she’s African American and I’m white, either. She’s so calm and poised—a classy lady. Her skin is a smooth, rich, milk-chocolate color, and she gets her hair done every week at a salon. Couldn’t believe it when I found out she was fifty and a grandmother. (I should be so lucky to look like that when Josh and Amanda have kids.) I feel like a country bumpkin when I’m around her. My nondescript dark brown hair never could hold a “style,” so I just wear it at shoulder level with bangs and hope for the best.
Not only that, but when we moved from suburban Downers Grove into the city last summer, I applied to teach in one of the public schools in the Rogers Park neighborhood of Chicago, where we live now, and ended up at Mary McLeod Bethune Elementary, where Avis Johnson just happened to be the principal. Weird calling her “Avis” on Sunday and “Ms. Johnson” on Monday.
Avis is one of Uptown Community’s worship leaders and has tried to wean its motley congregation of former Presbyterians, Baptists, “Evee-Frees,” Methodists, Brethren, and No-Churchers from the hymnbook and “order of service” to actually participating in worship. I love the way she quotes Scripture, too, not only from the New Testament, but also from those mysterious Minor Prophets, and Job, and the Pentateuch. I mean, I know a lot of Scripture, but for some reason I have a hard time remembering those pesky references, even though I’ve been in Sunday school since singing “Climb, Climb Up Sunshine Mountain” in the toddler class.
People at Uptown want to be “relevant” in an urban setting, which means cultivating a diverse congregation, but most of us, including yours truly, aren’t too comfortable shouting in church and start to fidget when the service goes past twelve o’clock—both of which seem par for Sunday morning in black churches. Don’t know why Avis stays at Uptown sometimes. Pastor Clark, bless him, has a vision, but for most of us transplants, our good intentions come with all the presumptions we brought from suburbia. But she says God called her to Uptown, and Pastor Clark preaches the Word. She’ll stay until God tells her to go.
Denny and me—we’ve only been at the church since last summer. That’s when Honorable Husband decided it was time white folks—meaning us, as it turned out—moved back into the city rather than doing good deeds from our safe little enclaves in the suburbs. Denny had been volunteering with Uptown’s “outreach” program for over ten years, ever since the kids were little, driving into the city about once a month from Downers Grove. It was so hard for me to leave the church and people we’ve known most of our married life. But Denny said we couldn’t hide forever in our comfort zone. So . . . we packed up the dog, the teenagers, and the Plymouth Voyager, exchanged our big yard for a postage stamp, and shoehorned ourselves into a two-flat—Chicago’s version of a duplex—on Chicago’s north side.
But frankly? I don’t really know what we’re doing here. Uptown Community Church has a few black members and one old Chinese lady who comes from time to time . . . but we’re still mostly white in one of the most diverse neighborhoods in the U.S.—Rogers Park, Chicago. Josh says at his high school cafeteria, the black kids sit with the black kids, Latino kids sit with Latinos, nerds sit with nerds, whites with whites, Asians with Asians.
Not exactly a melting pot. And the churches aren’t much better. Maybe worse.
In Des Moines, Iowa, where my family lives, I grew up on missionary stories from around the world—the drumbeats of Africa . . . the rickshaws of China . . . the forests of Ecuador. Somehow it was so easy to imagine myself one day sitting on a stool in the African veld, surrounded by eager black faces, telling Bible stories with flannel-graph figures. Once, when I told Denny about my fantasy, he snorted and said we better learn how to relate across cultures in our own city before winging across the ocean to “save the natives.”
He’s right, of course. But it’s not so easy. Most of the people I’ve met in the neighborhood are friendly—friendly, but not friends. Not the kick-back, laugh-with-your-girlfriends, be-crazy, cry-when-you’re-sad, talk-on-the-phone-five-times-a-week kind of friends I had in Downers Grove. And the black couple who lived upstairs? (DINKS, Josh called them: Double-Income-No Kids.) They barely give us the time of day unless something goes wrong with the furnace.
So when Avis asked if I’d like to go to this women’s conference sponsored by a coalition of Chicago area churches, I said yes. I felt flattered that she thought I’d fit in, since I generally felt like sport socks with high heels. I determined to go. At worst I’d waste a weekend (and two hundred bucks). At best, I might make a friend—or at least get to know Avis better.
Neta Jackson, Who Do I Talk To?
