The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Decked Out Read Free

like to ask Peter Douglass, president of the Manna House Foundation, to say a prayer of thanksgiving as we begin.”
    Avis’s husband rose, ever the businessman in gray slacks, navy blue blazer, and red-and-blue-striped tie. But he gave a nervous glance at his wife as he took the microphone. Avis was usually the one with the mic as one of the worship leaders at SouledOut Community Church. But Peter shut his eyes and offered heartfelt thanks to God that Manna House had “risen from the ashes, like the phoenix bird in the old tales, a symbol of renewal, resurrection, and hope to this community and its people!”
    â€œThank ya, Je sus!” Florida, who’d taken a seat behind us, leaned forward and hissed, “Now that man is not only good lookin’, but that was some serious prayin’.”
    Avis hid a smile as Peter sat down, and Rev. Handley continued. “Before we give you the grand tour of our new facility, I’d like to introduce you to the folks who have kept the Manna House vision alive.”
    She called up Mabel, the office manager, a middle-aged African-American woman who got an enthusiastic round of applause. Then she introduced the board: two city pastors I didn’t know, one African-American and one Latino; a social worker with reading glasses perched on her nose; and the newest board member, Peter Douglass. “Special thanks to Mr. Douglass,” Rev. Handley said, “who established the Manna House Foundation after last year’s fire to rebuild the shelter and—” The rest of her words were drowned out as people stood to their feet and filled the room with applause and shouts of hallelujah. Even with Chanda’s major contribution, it was God’s miracle that the foundation had raised enough money to rebuild.
    When the noise died down, Rev. Handley read off the names of the newly formed advisory board. “Josh Baxter and Edesa Reyes, two of our volunteers. Edesa, by the way, has also taken up residence as live-in staff—”
    Denny poked me and grinned. Our kids.
    â€œâ€”Estelle Williams, Precious McGill, and Rochelle Johnson, former shelter residents who have chosen to give back in this way.” The director held up her hand to forestall applause as the five made their way forward. “Because of the input of this advisory board, we have a major announcement. Victims of domestic violence who come to Manna House will now be housed off-site in private homes, a major step to provide more protection and anonymity for abused women.”
    The applause erupted. Beside me, Avis mopped her eyes and blew her nose. Her daughter Rochelle had run away from an abusive husband and ended up at Manna House. After the fire, Chanda had invited Rochelle
and her son, Conny, to share the big house on the North Shore she’d bought with her “winnin’s,” and they’d stayed for nearly nine months while getting an order of protection and finalizing a divorce.
    I poked Denny. “Bet that off-site idea was Rochelle’s,” I whispered.
    â€œThanks to all of you,” Rev. Handley finished, “for making this day possible. And not a moment too soon. The mayor of this fine city has asked Manna House to take a busload of evacuees from Hurricane Katrina, who will be arriving from Houston tomorrow. Which means we’ll have a full house for Thanksgiving dinner next week. We have a sign-up sheet on the snack table for any volunteers who’d be willing to come and serve dinner next Thursday.”
    The director took a breath. “Speaking of volunteers . . . ”Was she looking right at me? “If you have volunteered before, or know anyone you think might be interested, please speak to me after the dedication today. And now, Pastor Rafael Kingsbury, our board chair, will say a prayer of dedication . . . ”
    After the brief program, I pushed my way over to Precious, who had stayed in our home for a week after the