2-in-1 Yada Yada Read Online Free

the youngest to the oldest,” and my dad tended toward long-winded prayers. Every Sunday morning we had to say a Bible verse from memory at breakfast, and John 3:16 wasn’t allowed as a fallback. I knew the Ten Commandments and the nine “Blesseds” of the Sermon on the Mount, and even though we were “no longer under the law but under grace,” I definitely knew what was expected of a good Christian girl from Des Moines.
    But who was that little girl, really? Baby of the family (a fact I shamelessly milked to my advantage whenever possible) . . . nuts about teddy bears (I’d collected one hundred stuffed bears by the time I went to college, a feat that impressed no one) . . . a scaredycat about bugs and big dogs (giving my two big brothers plenty of fuel for driving me crazy) . . . dreamy and romantic (of course I would get married to a dark-haired, handsome man and live happily ever after) . . . told everyone I was going to be a missionary to Africa when I grew up (which I never put together with big bugs and scary animals).
    What did that safe, protected, idealistic little girl have to do with—
    The voice of the lady in the red suit broke into my thoughts. “—the number in the little gold dot on your registration packet,” she was saying. Aha! I thought. The mystery is about to be revealed. I felt around under my padded chair for my registration packet, even though I knew my number by heart: twenty-six. “This is the number of the prayer group you have been assigned to for the weekend,” she went on, waving a packet. “Each group will have ten to twelve women. Roommates will be together in the same group; otherwise we have mixed up people from different churches and different parts of the city. After all, ladies, a major purpose for this Chicago Women’s Conference is to break down the walls and link hands with our sisters . . .”
    The red suit with the hand-held mike went on giving instructions, but my mind was already leaping ahead. A small group— now that might be more my speed than a huge crowd. On the other hand, I backpedaled; a small group was a pretty intimate setting for a group of strangers. I craned my neck and looked around the ballroom. Pretty diverse all right—if 80 percent black and 20 percent “other” counted as diverse. If this conference was supposed to draw together women from a broad spectrum of Chicago-area churches, where were all the white churches from Elmhurst and Downers Grove and Wilmette?
    The worship band and singers struck up a thunderous chorus of “Awesome God” as the rest of us began to file out of the ballroom to our “prayer groups,” presumably, though I’d missed where we were supposed to go. But Avis and Florida were “twenty-sixers,” too, so all I had to do was follow along—
    â€œMmm. Getting on toward my bedtime,” Avis’s voice murmured behind me. “Maybe I’ll just go back up to our room.”
    I turned, opening my mouth in protest. But before I could say anything, Florida jumped in. “Now I know these touchy-feely groups aren’t my thang.” A touch of street slang slipped in, making me realize I didn’t know cucumbers about this woman. “Though it ain’t my bedtime, that’s for sure.” She laughed, her beaded braids shaking around her head. “But I sure could do with a cup of coffee and a—”
    â€œWhoa, whoa! Just a minute.” I was surprised to hear my own voice throw a block on the deserters. I looked at Avis, who was stifling a yawn. “You got me into this, girlfriend.” (Whoops. The moment the handle slipped out of my mouth, I was sure I’d gone too far using the familiar tag I’d heard all around me that night. But I rushed on.) “The prayer groups sound like a major part of the weekend, so I’d like to go.” (Yikes! Was that true?) “But I don’t want to go