The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Decked Out by Neta Jackson Page A

but He had come as a Servant King, con-founding those who’d been expecting a political deliverer and warrior.
    â€œHow little we understand the true nature of the kingdom of God,” Pastor Clark said as he closed his Bible. “Even today, we still have a hard time comprehending Jesus’ teachings that the last shall be first, the least will be the greatest, the meek will inherit the earth, and dying to self leads to life.”
    The praise team closed the service with a slow, worshipful ver-sion of “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” After Pastor Clark’s sermon, the words of the third verse took on more meaning:
    No ear may hear His coming,
    But in this world of sin,
    Where meek souls will receive Him,
    Still the dear Christ enters in.
    Whew. The promised Messiah definitely showed up in a way the “religious” folks didn’t expect—in a stable with the animals.
    But it was the meek folks—the shepherds—who ran to welcome Him . . .
    Afterward, as chairs were pushed back and tables set up for the potluck, I was grateful my sprained ankle gave me an excuse to stay anchored for a few more minutes, thinking about Pastor Clark’s sermon.
His low-key style didn’t compare to Pastor Cobbs’s dynamic preaching, and his voice was a bit raspy with age—but the man was deep. And what he said was true: I still struggled to understand God’s “upside-down kingdom.”
    Father . . . Abba . . . Daddy God, I prayed silently as lively com-motion swirled around me, forgive me for being such a knucklehead. Even though I’ve heard the Christmas story a zillion times, help me to hear the story this year with open ears. I want to know You and Your Son and Your Holy Spirit even more this year. Help me to look for You in unexpected places. And thanks for giving me Yada Yada sisters who aren’t afraid to get in my face and—
    â€œYo, Jodi!”
    I opened my eyes. Florida was snapping her fingers in my face.
    â€œWhat? I was praying.”
    â€œOh. Sorry.” Florida plopped down in a chair beside me. “Thought you’d zoned out. Want me to get you a plate of food? Ruth brought some blintzes, whatever they are. Says it’s a family recipe.”
    I declined with a shake of my head, noticing her “Zulu knots” were still holding. She craned her neck, looking around the room. “Where’s Josh at? Haven’t seen him for a couple of Sundays. He and Edesa goin’ to her Spanish church these days? Thought they was doin’ every other Sunday. Sure too bad about that Carmelita girl—an’ her leavin’ that poor baby without a mama. Mm-mm. Wonder what’s goin’ to happen to her?” Florida prattled on, but now I did zone out.
    Exactly what I’d like to know.
    AFTER THE POTLUCK, the teens invited any adults to stay who’d like to help them decorate the sanctuary, but Denny and I cut out. “I feel like a wimp, just sitting around not doing anything,” I said as Denny took my crutches and hoisted me into the front seat of the minivan.
    â€œThat’s it! You’re a wimp!” Denny grinned at me as he climbed into the driver’s side. “I always knew there was something special about you, just couldn’t put my finger on it.”
    He had me laughing by the time we got to the house, listing all my special qualities that had surfaced with my spill on the ice: a Cinderella foot that fit perfectly inside that foam-and-Velcro “slip-per”; a sexy swing of the hips as I perfected walking on crutches; a laid-back attitude toward life, letting the laundry pile up; the—
    Denny stopped midsentence as we came in the back door. The lights were on and music was playing in the living room. Denny and I looked at each other. “Hello?” he called out.
    The music flipped off. “Oh, hey, Mom and Dad.” Josh met us in the hallway, shirt hanging out beneath a pullover