The Luxury of Rose Petals

How much do a dozen red roses cost? I just did a quick count on my climbing rose bush that graces our front gate, and I found nearly 100!! This spring they've gone wild with beauty...and it's all free. The rose petals strewn on the ground are a sign of abundance, of God's generosity, of His loving provision of even non-essentials. Did not our Father say, "And why do you worry about clothes? See how the lilies of the field grow (He might have said roses...). They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these..." Mt. 6:28-29)

I Do, I Do!!

Our friends just got married. They're both 51 years of age and his is the biggest wedding band I've ever seen!! They started dating when they were in their teens--she was his first girlfriend; he was her first boyfriend...but the marriage never happened. A lot of life has been lived, mistakes made, lessons learned,and now they tied the knot for good! Congratulations! We went out to eat after the civil ceremony and I fell in love with these birds. They are made out of a vegetable called chuchu. Isn't their nest just the cutest??

Spring brings chicks and...

BABIES! I'm going to be a Grandma again for the 6th time. And the parents are.....

PATRICIA AND NEVAL!!!! Congratulations!

"Sons are a heritage of the Lord, children a reward from him. Like arrows in the hands of a warrior are sons born in one's youth. Blessed is the man whose quiver is full of them." Psalm 127: 3-5a

SILENT SUNSHINY SUNDAY MORNING

A holy hush had descended on our neighborhood this Sunday morning after last night's rock band blared on into the wee hours just up the street from our house. No matter there is a 10 p.m. silence law, no matter their music is LOUD and travels through the air waves into our bedroom even with all the windows shut, No matter they just might be bothering the entire neighborhood. You know the line, "It's my party, and I can do what I want to..." Fortunately, these loud parties are rare occurrences, and usually the neighbors bite the bullet and don't call the cops. Maybe that's why the neighbors were quieter than usual this morning...But it was a glorious morning--the kind you want to last forever--the kind you wish your kids were there or someone called family--to share with you. The leaves on our ipê tree were luminous, the birds were singing and NO DOGS WERE BARKING. A rare moment indeed. Pat & I began to sing...(Remember this one? Such beautiful poetry.)

Morning has broken Like the first morning,
Blackbird has spoken Like the first bird.
Praise for the singing! Praise for the morning!
Praise for them springing Fresh from the Word!

Sweet the rain's new fall Sunlit from heaven,
Like the first dewfall On the first grass.
Praise for the sweetness Of the wet garden,
Sprung in completeness Where His feet pass.

Mine is the sunlight! Mine is the morning
Born of the one light Eden saw play!
Praise with elation, Praise every morning,
God's recreation Of the new day!
--Eleanor Farjeon

SUNDAY MORNING MUFFINS

Today was such a beautiful, quiet morning that I decided to break through my conservative nature and get rash! Yes, I decided to use the dried blueberries I'd brought back from the USA in 2004 (Did I rush into this?) to make wild blueberry muffins for breakfast. You see, the fun part of having foodstuffs from the USA is to open your cupboard and see them on the shelf, to dream about when to use it, and to close the cupboard and open it another day and still see it there. If I used them up quickly, I wouldn't have that pleasure, and it's oh, such fun, to see something to eat from the USA! Making muffins for Sunday breakfast reminded me of when we lived at the seminary in Coronel Fabriciano. There came a time when we were tired of eating the same kind of bread every day for breakfast and wished for something different. So, on Sunday mornings I got up earlier than the family and whipped up a batch of muffins for our breakfast before Sunday School and church. And, to make it extra, extra special, we treated ourselves to real butter--just on this occasion--and we would eat on our porch that overlooked the seminary grounds. All that reminiscing has made me lonesome for my kids...it would be fun to have them for breakfast on Sunday morning again. Well, this is how my muffins turned out.

BIG BROTHER

I had a chance to see my big bro & his wife last week. He flew "down" to Brazil on a missions trip and I rode a bus "up" to meet him. I translated for him one night and people said we looked alike, had the same voice intonation and used the same gestures! What can I say?

WHY GOD MADE BIG SISTERS

God made big sisters for several reasons—many good ones and a few not-so-good.

First of all, without needing to look it up, parents REMEMBER big sisters’ birth weight and height, the day they started drooling, or grabbed their big toe (thankfully, the rest of us have at least the weight and height part recorded in our baby books). And speaking of baby books, theirs are a work of art, filled with details of their development, each little syllable recorded for posterity, pictures galore of each new accomplishment, studio pictures even—taken by a professional—of big sister decked out with ribbons in her hair. Me? The odd time I had a studio picture taken, the night before my big brother took a scissors to one side of my head leaving me looking like a lop-sided ET.

God knew parents needed to try out their theories on some one about child raising. That meant big sisters got lots of SPANKINGS, heard “NO!” hundreds of times, and played in the confined space of a play pen. By the time I came along, my parents were tired and let me do what I wanted.

Parents also tend to be more protective of big sisters. Care is taken to sterilize, scrub and disinfect anything that baby might place in her mouth, but by the time I came along, I held my own bottle, ate food that had dropped on the floor, and was entrusted to the care of my big sister, who instead of feeding me my cereal, impatiently spooned it in a crack between the kitchen cupboards. (Now you know why they called me the Biafra Baby).

Big sisters are TAKEN to school, not sent. Mothers want to physically SEE that they are in the school building, need to be waiting to take them home when school is out. Years later that made it easy for me to walk across the field on my way home from school and ride with the neighbors without a twitch of anxiety on my Mom’s part.

Big sisters have to WORK HARD at being an example to the younger siblings. That way they get to do ALL the work while we watch.

Big sisters get to take baton twirling lessons, join Brownies, take figure skating, piano lessons and what-have-you lessons while we younger ones have to learn on our own.

Big sisters get NEW clothes while we have to wear their last year’s Easter dress.

Big sisters get to stay up later, get a BIGGER allowance, and hundreds of privileges reserved only for them. We’re lucky if father is still paying allowances when we get old enough to do simple math.

Big sisters get to CHOOSE the games we play and can use the power of their larger vocabulary and manipulative skills, plus their physical strength to get their way.

Big sisters get to drive a car FIRST, go on a date FIRST, and leave home FIRST.

But . . .

Big sisters also watch out for you when you’re feeling timid and afraid in the middle of a crowd of people.

Big sisters wash your hair, even though they lie about it turning the colors of a rainbow.

Big sisters let you play with their paper dolls after falling in the river.

Big sisters are fun to copy.

Big sisters let you play with their toys if you’re careful.

Big sisters cook your meals, wash the dishes, clean the house and iron your clothes.

Big sisters make one proud.

Big sisters model kindness, generosity, unselfishness and love.

Big sisters show by their life that if they can do it, you can, too.

Big sisters are people to look up to and emulate.

Big sisters love you and when you’re older become your best friend.

Happy Birthday to my big sis, Cathie!

SHEEP SHEARERS

This past Wednesday I did something scary--I tried a new hairdresser. ("Mine" moved away.) It went like this:
She: What would you like done today?
Me: I want to take off a little hair --when it gets long in the back it turns up like this, and with my hand I show her the turned-up ends.
She: It's too heavy...we'll just thin that out.
Me: But I don't want it so short my ears show...

She begins to snip, snip, snip (little snips, actually) and I, believing in her ability and intelligence, sit there--like a sheep before her shearers is dumb--watching her thin out my hair until there is no bounce left, discovering later that she changed the cut on me unawares. But at the present I'm hopeful that my fears are misplaced and the end result will still be beautiful. But as she blow-dries my hair, leaving the sides flat and lifeless, my hopes for a beauty miracle begin fast-fading away, and I am slowly dying looking at myself in the mirror wondering how I will go out that door and face the world... (baa! baa!)

She holds the mirror up for me to see the back. I try to be positive. Yes, it's nice. The hairs look neat and in place. She smiles kindly. I kindly smile back. (But I look awful... I berate myself for not questioning what she was doing, for not being more specific, for not taking the reins in my hands, but no! I am a dumb sheep...baa! baa! )

I, the eternal optimist, entered the beauty salon thinking I was going to make improvements, but I'm leaving, as I often do, disappointed. But the worst is, I paid money to look like this.

Baaaaaa!!!

P.S. My hubby was traveling on my "hair day" and only arrived this morning. He said, "Your hair looks nice." I stifled the "baa" that was rising in my throat and said instead, "Really?" All of a sudden, life looked better.

Happy Independence Day, Brazil

We spent a relaxing few hours at a park on Brazil's Independence Day, Sept. 7th. The weather was perfect. See how young my husband is?

Why I looooove spring!

"The grass withers, the flower fades; but the word of our God will stand for ever." Isa.40:8

How I know spring is here!

1. It was 70º at 8:20 a.m.
2. Pat didn't wear soxs to bed last night.
3. The sun hit me smack in the eyes at the breakfast table.
4. The robins are singing love songs.
5. I washed and put away our flannel sheets.
6. There are splashes of pink azaleas all across town.
7. I allowed the sun's rays to touch my tender, sleeveless arms.
8. Our pink ipê tree is gloriously blooming!
9. I don't mind taking a shower.
10. Spring fever attacked me--I'm slightly giddy!

Will Emily be singing...

all I want for Christmas is my two front teeth? I think she hopes so cuz she's very happy to have lost a tooth and the second one is very wobbly!! Way to go, Emily, I love you!!!

Are messy desks a sign of great creativity?

I hope so because I have been unable to clear off the decks (if you know what I mean) for several weeks.

H-E-L-P!!!!!

ERIC'S DINOSOUR PARTY

Eric is now 4 and his creative mommy Reesha knows how to throw a party. There were dinosaurs everywhere--among the candies scattered on the table, by the cake (you can see the volcano erupting!), in the sand box (where another kind of volcano is erupting--note the red lava spilling over the sides of the volcano). Even Eric tried on some dinosaur feet and tail...pretty cool kid! I love you, four-year-old!!!

183 Years Old

São Leopoldo had a birthday on July 25th and the party lasted 10 days...It's always a time for remembering the German immigrants, for dancing the polka, eating apple strudel, sausages, chocolate tortes, for displaying the German flag, it's red, yellow and black colors dominating the atmosphere. The gaucho culture somehow gets mixed in with the Germans and even the little tots show they can learn the folk dances. Pat and I do our duty every year...we eat our way through the food stands (the chocolate mousse was heavenly!), admire the dancers, wander through myriads of vendors selling everything from massage recliners to Bolivian ponchos and stop to listen to some of the bands. For Pat it was free admission--the first time it payed off being the big 6-0, but he was upset that no one asked to see his ID when he went through the gates.

He said, "That's life!"

I was jumping up and down in the water doing my exercises with my classmates when suddenly a new lady to the group blurted out, "I was assaulted Friday night!" She continued to bob up and down as if she'd said, "I had my hair cut last night," then went on to describe the scene. Her father-in-law was bringing her and her five-year-old son home (just a block or two away from our gym) when a car pulled up next to theirs and a guy jumped out and put a gun to her head while his companion parked a short distance away, gun pointed toward heaven. The lady screamed, gave him her purse while the little five-year-old cried out, "Don't take my backpack! Don't take my backpack!" (His Mom said it was because he had 50 cents in his backpack.) At the lady's second scream, her husband came running out from inside the house, pointed the remote control from the TV at the criminals and screamed that he would shoot. They evidently thought he was holding a gun and took off--fortunately!

A man in our class asked the lady, "Is this the first time it's happened to you?" Well, it was. He'd been held up some five times, he said, the worst being when the criminals got in his car and forced him to keep driving...Then he ended with, "It's a good thing this happened because now your little boy can learn this is life."

Is that a sad commentary on our society or what??

Ole, olá, amigos!

Seventeen of us gathered at our home for a Mexican Evening with couples from our church...

It was a night to be remembered because...

--I had worked all day and the day before to bring this off!

--Everyone seemed to have a great time

--We laughed a lot

--Pat gave a very good word about the legacy we want to leave behind

--We ate delicious Mexican lasagne

--There were eight different desserts to choose from

--We had a visit from a couple from Mexico (haha!)

What a wonderful world!

You gotta love this!

CACHEWS BY THE SACKFUL

I couldn't believe it but there it was--three sackfuls, not cans-- of cachew nuts on the table. My hubby just got home from a trip to northeastern Brazil and while there went to the city market to see the odd and different with a group of friends who were also visiting. Since everyone in the group expressed a desire to buy nuts, one of the group bartered with the cachew guy to lower his price if they bought a 17.6 lb. bag! Deal done! Except now there wasn't much enthusiasm on the part of some to buy the nuts--hence, my hubby came home with three sacks of unsalted, home-roasted nuts. It's amazing to realize how many pieces of fruit are represented by those nuts because each piece of fruit only produces one (1) nut. Now you know why they are so expensive. And they will.. (munch) keep... (crunch) in the freezer. Ahhhh! So delicious.

MAKING A PIPE ORGAN TALK

Music flowed from his fingers and toes as he bent over the keyboard absorbed in bringing life from the pipes and bellows of the organ. I sat in the balcony of the Clock Church with my neighbor, Zélia, letting the sounds of the pipe organ take me back in time...my dad's excitement at playing one, watching him delightedly push stops in and out until he found the perfect sound, driving miles to attend a concert. Then I remembered my Mom and I on a nostalgia trip visiting a church close to where she'd attended Bible School in Chicago so many years before and discovering this huge pipe organ there. And when the pastor's wife played a song just for us, the vibrations, the immense structure of those pipes and the power in them was thrilling.

But this night I am listening to Matthias Eisenberg from Germany play on a little pipe organ in my little town in a little church on a Friday night and I'm so thankful.

After the concert I asked the organist, who could speak English, how many pipe organs existed in Germany. He paused and thought a minute, then said, about 10,000. His friend who was accompanying him, added, "A new pipe organ costs about 300,000 euros."

I guess I won't be buying a pipe organ any time soon.

THE HOUSE NEXT-DOOR

Ever since we moved into our present home on April 14, 1997, I have looked wistfully at the empty lot next-door and wished it were ours. Pat put up a basketball hoop on the outside wall of the house, which was built right on the dividing line between the lots and for a while he and the kids turned a patch of the empty lot into a basketball court. One day I even planted some special corn seed I'd brought back from the States in the back of this empty lot, but the cows got it!! (There was no Little Boy Blue around to blow his horn!). Several times we paid someone to cut the weeds back...so through the years we've been babysitting, so to speak, hoping that one day it would be ours. One day I sat down and made a design of what I would put in that lot. I'm sure you understand that all these years I have been praying for the means to buy the lot! Well, one day we saw a FOR SALE sign on the lot. It sent cold shivers up my spine, but I still believed God was reserving the lot for us. The sign disappeared and I kept my hopes up. Uhh-ooh! Not to be! One day, a truck pulled up and two guys installed a light post in the empty lot. I realized then that God had answered my prayers afterall--but his answer was "No." All right, Lord, your will be done.

Maxine hit it right on!

Shoe Shiners

The night we traveled to Curitiba we were loitering at the bus station idly waiting for our bus to come when a 14 year-old boy came by with his shoe shine equipment and sat down in front of us. This is what transpired (to the best of my memory…).
Boy: Shine, Uncle?
Pat: No.
Boy: Ah, com’on, Uncle.
Pat: I don’t want a shine.
Boy reaches out and smears a streak of polish on one of Pat’s shoes.
Pat, jumping back: Hey, kid, I said no.
This was followed by more talking and bartering when suddenly boy reaches out and streaks polish on one of my boots. (I feel my space is violated!)
The boy then offers to polish both of our shoes for $2.65. Pat takes him up on the offer and he begins earnestly, head bent over Pat’s shoes. Efficiently and quickly he polishes, buffs and shines and we discover that he does go to school, but polishes shoes at night.
Pat: What do you want to do with your life?
Boy, a little surprised at the question: May it be whatever God wants.
(This is a very common answer— and one that I hate—fatalism is in the warp & woof of this culture).
Another shoe shiner comes by and parks his paraphernalia on the floor. We soon discover that the two boys are brothers, the newcomer younger. He remarks, “I give my earnings to my brother to keep me from spending it on foolish things.”
The older boy is now buffing my boots and they look like new. I am pleased with the results. Pat pays the boy and he goes on his way, but the younger one hangs around.
Younger Boy: Oh, Uncle, give me some change.
Pat: Nope.
Younger Boy: Please, Uncle, just some change…(whiney voice now).
Pat: Nope.
He walks away. Our bus arrives and we ride off into the night.

What street kids and street dogs have in common

Sorry about these pix...I can't seem to put them where I want them! Top left to right: Tramp's house, Suzy & her garbage, Tramp, The fiesty son, The abandoned mother

1. They live on the street

2. They beg for food

3. They form gangs

4. The girls get pregnant

5. People don't want to adopt them

6. They fend for themselves

7. They look through the garbage

8. They make people uncomfortable

Our street currently has 3 street dogs plus 2 more that wander over on our block at times. A pregnant, little black dog was surreptitiously dropped off on our street and she has since given our street two more street dogs (but one disappeared). Neighbors take food to them at their shelter on an abandoned construction site. The neighbor kids think it's a lark. Another nice, brown & white doggie "appeared" that my neighbor takes care, though he won't adopt her. He made her a house and buys dog food for her, treats her sores and fleas, but she continues to be called a "street dog." I named her Suzy. (My grandchildren had fun feeding chocolate chip cookies to her when they were here this past weekend). Today while I was trying to get pictures of them, the son of the little black dog took off after Suzy, his bark sharp and angry, in a successful attempt to defend his end of the street. (You see, they already formed street gangs!)

Further down my street, but on the next block, lives "Tramp", an ugly dog that someone else takes care of--but again, he continues to live on the street! It is uncomfortable for some people to walk on the street and, of course, they don't usually like the postman. The city is trying to remedy the situation, and they maintain a dog pound at the price of $3,000 per month!! Have they confused street kids with dogs???

What's New at the Zoo?

In Brazil Father's Day falls on the 2nd Sunday in August. This year we were blessed by having our daughter, Reesha, and husband, Leno, and grandkids Emily and Eric for the weekend. We did fun things like going to the playground near our home, having ice cream at McDonald's and screaming and scrambling on their playground equipment, walking (the kids wanted to walk to the center of town!) and on Sunday going to the zoo! While the fathers barbecued chicken and buffalo meat (It was delicious!), the women & children visited the animals (Later the men joined us for a stroll.) Here's what we saw...

Blessed

I'm blessed by my children. This past weekend Patricia and Neval were here for a visit. Patricia took it upon herself to do some much needed cleaning in my laundry room and kitchen. She even waxed the living room floor, made lunch for us while I was at my water exercise class and searched through my Christmas boxes to find a framed picture I'd put away in December to make room for my Christmas decorating--and never found again! Well, now it's back hanging in its rightful place--and all of this done in Patricia's effervescent, giving way. Neval's niece turned the Big 15 and this pix is how the elegant couple looked as they stepped out the door on their way to the big bash!

Bus Sleeping

We went by bus to Curitiba--a twelve hour affair--for a mission meeting a week ago. The bus seats are comfortable and recline, we are furnished with a pillow and blanket and a little packet of snacks and there is free cold water available at all times. Early in the morning the man sleeping in the seat ahead of me began to cry out in his sleep. I thought he was having a nightmare until I saw his hands stiffen and curl up and his body begin to shake! It was scary. The man sitting next to him jumped out of his seat and never returned to his place. Everyone sitting close by stared at him and a couple of ladies came up to ask how he was and why didn't the bus have first aid and to please tell the driver to stop. We kept a close watch on the man to make sure he didn't swallow his tongue or get his breathing passages blocked. Finally the bus driver did stop, but by that time he was coming out of the seizure and the driver turned the man on his side. He slowly came to, must have felt embarrassed to have so many eyes turned on him, turned on his side and tried to sleep. After a few minutes, he got up, vomited a little on the floor and without saying anything, went to the back of the bus to the restroom. We felt so sorry for him. During the night we heard his cell phone, but he never answered it, so we thought it was just a reminder of some sort (to take his medicine??) and after the seizure, the phone made the same ring and this time he did answer it. May God bless and heal him.

We spent the day in Curitiba and returned that very night by bus, but this time no one had a seizure. Two nights on the bus, but it wasn't sooo bad...

Bembleman's Bread, Brazil Nuts & Registering for a Wedding!

I woke up today thinking about making bread, and while Pat had a Bible study with a church member at the breakfast table, I quietly measured flour and stirred up a batch of Beth's delicious brown bread. I set it aside to rise and wrapped it in a blanket cuz it's still a little on the chilly side here. I cleaned up my mess, then decided I wanted to eat sweet rolls, too, and dirtied all my counter space again. You see, my daughter Patricia, arrived this afternoon and her husband, Neval, will arrive on Saturday, and he loves my sweet rolls with apricot filling...so I started making apricot filling, but had to stop to crack Brazil nuts that came from a real tree! (I know all Brazil nuts come from a real tree, but these nuts came from a YWAMer that got them from their own private tree in the faraway state of Rondonia in the Amazon. Now, doesn't that make them more important?) And better yet, my Brazilian friend, Joana, recently disclosed to me the ingenious way she cracks Brazil nuts in her home by wedging them in the hinged part of a door, then shutting it! She claims it works fine. (I used a nutcracker.) I had to stop all operations to make lunch and eat it hurridly because we needed to make a hospital visit to our neighbor boy during the noon hour. We got to the hospital in time, but when we got to João's room, he wasn't there! After inquiring we discovered he was still in surgery to remove a cist (?) from his cheek. (His surgery had been scheduled for 8 a.m., but obvbiously delayed.) We went home, and I put my brown bread in the oven, part of it was two pizza crusts...

Our neighbor called to set up a time for us to go with them to the register of deeds. His divorce finally came through and now he and his live-in can get married. This has been a matter of prayer and concern for years (!) and we are so happy their situation will be finally legalized. They asked us to be the legal witnesses, so today we had to register the fact that they are getting married and sign papers and then they type up more papers and when you're all done there are a lot of papers! I was surprised that the wife to be isn't going to change her name--to not have to go through all the red tape to change her other documents, like her driver's license, her voting card, her social security card, and who knows how many other cards. It took an hour and a half to get that done and I'm now worried about the bread I'd left to rise while we were gone. They invited us over for coffee, but I excused myself to first check on my bread. When I uncovered the one I'd shaped into a crescent roll, filled with apricots (and Brazil nuts), I immediately thought of Bembleman's Bakery (a children's story that I absolutely love) and the bread that grew and grew until it filled up the whole house and crept out the windows and kept growing. Well, my bread wasn't that big, but it was lopping off one end of the cookie sheet and was at least 4 or 5 inches high! I popped it into the oven and headed out the door to have coffee with the neighbors. (Dangerous, dangerous). And...when I finished coffee and was crossing the street, I could already smell the bread, and with my heart in my mouth, I cautiously opened the front door and was relieved there wasn't smoke billowing out the oven door (as had happened recently on another occasion, but we will let that lie...). My crescent bread had patches of burns-not 3rd degree burns, but maybe 1st degree--and later we were forced to try out the bread to see if I could serve it to Neval, and, well, I'll let the picture tell the outcome.

Patricia had to write a paper for school tonight, but when she was done, she asked if we wanted to take a buzz around town. It was actually 11:30 p.m. but hey, when your daughter wants to do something--even if it's 11:30 p.m--you do it. (She lives in this little town...) So, we "dragged the main" (that's what we called it when I was a teenager) and then strangely found ourselves seated at an ice cream place devouring (1) guava (2) baccio and/or (3) nozes ice cream, and it was truly delicious even at that hour of the night...and now I'm going to bed.

3 1/2 + 4

I started out the day wearing 3 1/2 layers of clothing on the bottom and 4 on top + a coat and/or blanket. That's because it was a chilling 45º inside. Pat beat me with 5 layers on top and still complained of the cold. Every year (at this time of the year) we ask ourselves, "Why do we live here?" We go to bed and get up using the same clothes and yes! we do take showers at great sacrifice...usually everyday! But now at the end of the day it is a comfortable 60º. This kind of weather makes one very hungry and Pat and I raid the cupboards every couple of hours!! It felt good to sit outside on our front steps this noon and sip coffee and eat chocolate after a delicious lunch my hubby prepared.

Peck & Perch

When I was a kid I liked to play a piano piece called "Little Robin Redbreast." The words went something like this:

Little Robin Redbreast

Sat upon my windowsill

Cocked his shiny head and said,

'Get up, you sleepy head!' (great poetry!)

I had never had a robin sit on my windowsill and it sounded exotic somehow. Well, now it's happened! One morning I awakened to a loud pecking noise, hastily got up and discovered a robin sitting on the windowsill in Patricia's room (She doesn1t live here anymore, but I still call it "Patricia's Room"). The bird would perch a while, then wildly flap its wings while flying at its reflection in the window glass. Then it would peck at the glass again. Peck and perch. Peck and perch. This has been going on for months while our relationship has gone nowhere! I kind of enjoy the visits except for the mess it leaves behind. I got this picture by waiting quietly in the room for it to return. I haven't been able to come up with a suitable name. Maybe someone can help me.

João's a Hero

Six-year-old João Hélio is a hero. His sweet face smiles at you from hundreds of T-shirts, his name is on the lips of Brazilian citizens across the country, his parents talk on TV, and a city plaza now bears his name. But his heroism is not the kind any of us would aspire to. No, João was the victim of car theft in Rio de Janeiro around 9:30 p.m. on February 7th shortly after he, his mother, Rose, and his 13 year-old sister left a spiritist center. They were stopped at a red light when three armed, young men surrounded the car. Rose and her daughter quickly got out of the car and hurried to open the back door to release six-year-old João from his seat belt. The bandits didn’t want to wait that long and took off like a bullet with João dangling from his seat belt on the outside of the car. Pedestrians hollered, but instead of stopping, the driver began zigzagging in an attempt to get rid of João. At first glance an observer thought João was a doll until he saw blood splattered on the vehicle. The car continued zigzagging for four miles until the robbers entered a dead end, abandoned the vehicle, and fled. Little João died of course, the bandits were caught—one is a minor—and now the country is left to deal with this heinous crime. A debate is on in Congress whether the age for convicting minors shouldn’t be lowered. Citizens march in the streets crying out for the government to be harder on punishing criminals. More than one mass has been held. There’s a lot of conjecturing going on, but none of this will bring João Hélio back to his parents.

He’s dead.

I'M A LEAVIN' ON A JET PLANE

It was exactly 33 years ago today that Pat, Reesha and I left behind the "old" world for the "new"--kind of like my Norwegian ancestors had done. We didn't know what awaited us, had only hearsay knowledge of the man who would be "our boss", our linguistic skills consisted of a two-month intensive course in Portuguese that had ended six months previous, and we had never laid eyes on the land we would soon embrace as our own. Sound scary? It sounds scarier now than it did in l974 because in l974 I was young, ignorant, and ready for adventure!

We left Minnesota on a cold February afternoon on a small 737 jet plane. And there was no big farewell at the Minneapolis International Airport as the occasion would seem to demand--just my parents and Dick, one of Pat's older brothers. We avoided conversation that would evoke tears, and in those last minutes before boarding talked about nothing of value, heaped our winter coats on top of Dick and laughed as we took pictures. We said goodbye the best we could, hugging and kissing one another, trying not to wonder if this would be the last time to see each other, letting Grandpa and Grandma have one more squeeze from Reesha. And then we disappeared inside the shiny, silver cylinder waiting to whisk us away. I settled in my seat, surprised at how small the 737 was inside and looked out the tiny airplane window. It was then I saw my parents--their faces pressed against the airport windowpane, hands shading their eyes from the glare of the harsh winter sun, and like an Apocalyptic revelation, I suddenly realized what I was putting my parents through. For a brief moment, I felt their pain sharp and quick, and a cry rose deep inside me, then died quickly as I denied it expression. The 737 slowly backed away, and my parents cast a lonely figure, like sentinels at their post, never wavering or flinching from duty, until they shrunk to tiny specks and were lost from view, but etched forever on my heart.

We hip-hopped from Minneapolis to Rochester to Chicago (circling O'Hare for two hours while a snow storm raged below), then landed in tropical Florida. There we boarded Brazil's Varig airplane, and hearing the tanned Brazilian stewardesses speak Portuguese, I suddenly realized I had crossed an invisible line into another culture. Florida's night had fallen as the plane lifted off into the blackness. I refused to take my eyes off the flickering white lights of Miami as they grew smaller and smaller until the last blink of my culture and identity was blotted out. We were being propelled through the icy black night that surrounded and engulfed us toward an equally obscure and unknown future.

We continued hopping--to Caracas for a fuel stop at 2 a.m. and a few hours later, Manaus. We looked spellbound at the mighty Amazon River flowing below us, discharging more water into the ocean than any other river in the world. We witnessed the dark, crystal-clear waters of the Rio Negro unite with the Amazon's muddy, yellow waters, called white waters in spite of their murky color. For miles and miles the black and white waters flowed side by side in separate, clearly-defined streams before they finally intermingled. It seemed a fit description of the meeting of my own American culture with the new Brazilian one. Like the rivers, our differences would remain intact for a time, flowing side by side. Not until 600 miles down the coast, when ocean currents agitate these rivers, do the waters finally intermingle, consummating the marriage. And it would take a long time before the waters of my American culture intermingled sufficiently with the waters of the Brazilian culture for me to say "we", not "me" and "you." Then we hopped to Brasília, where we went through customs, and finally, after a long layover, arrived at our destination--Belo Horizonte--where we were swept into a blur of happy, white, welcoming missionary hugs. We had arrived safe and sound!!

A Litter of Kids

A missionary friend who works in Paraguay told me this story. He was recently on a missions trip navegating the Paraguay River when they anchored at an island to deliver food, clothes and medicine. Someone came up to him and said, "So and so was looking for you." And So and so turned out to be a young boy from a poor, poor family that this friend had helped many times when they lived near him. They had since moved away, and now, he discovered them on this island. "Can you help us?" was the young boy's plea. Their parents had abandoned the three youngest children on a different island, and like many poor families with too many children--a litter of them-- couldn't provide for them, so they abandoned them like so many unwanted puppies. But the children weren't ready to lie down and die. They found a barrel on the island and put the youngest, who couldn't swim, into the barrel. Then all three set out, the two oldest swimming and guiding the barrel down the river until they came to an inhabited island and found help. But even the help they found was not sufficient, or they wouldn't have made an appeal to my friend. Yet, he cannot support this family, but will try to find a home for the youngest child at least. A pitiful situation.

IT'S ALL ABOUT PERSPECTIVE

I’ve been visiting hospitals a lot recently. I went to see a church member (I’ll call him Joe) who’d had his gall bladder removed. He shared a large room with four other men, so visiting for family and friends was restricted to an hour at noon. While we visited, Joe’s co-worker stopped by to see him. Excited, he told us what he was learning about God, that he read the Bible together with Joe and a few others at work. Then he said to all of us, referring to Joe’s spirituality, “He’s running; I’m just taking baby steps.” I didn’t say anything because I was thinking, “Yesterday, Joe told his sister to lie—to claim she was the wife of one of his roommates so she could pop into his room for a few minutes before the operation.” Instead of “running up front,” I saw Joe as a weak, stumbling, blundering Christian; yet, his friend looked up to him and wanted to be like him.
The night before I’d stayed in the hospital lobby with Joe’s wife, waiting for him to leave the recovery room so she could see him for a few minutes before she went home for the night. While we waited she told me about Joe’s sister’s hard life: Her husband left her, her oldest daughter fought with her grandmother, and as a result, they lost their rent-free house (from the grandmother). She presently spends two-thirds of her salary on rent, leaving about $47 for food, electricity and water, and whatever else is needed (bus money, for instance, or clothes). She works for her brother-in-law who only pays the bare minimum and takes advantage of her situation to get the most work out of her that he can, and she is illiterate, has no legal documents or training to get a better job. Yet, when I met her, she was happy, upbeat, had invited Joe’s wife to leave the hospital for awhile and have coffee with her at her house, and afterwards, she and all her kids joyfully walked a mile and a half to take Joe’s wife back to the hospital to meet me at 11 p.m., walking through a bad part of town known for its drugs and thievery.
And while we talked, I could see that Joe’s wife saw herself as so much richer and better off than her sister-in-law. She said Joe sometimes bought food for his sister, then added, “but he can’t afford to give a lot.” I, on the other hand, saw Joe and his family as poor and destitute. Sometimes, they haven’t had much food to put on their table, either. They have no car, and live with their six children in a cramped, two-bedroom house. Joe has only a second-grade education.
It was after one in the morning when we finally left the hospital--Joe’s wife feeling rich and blessed, me like a millionaire.

Shocking Spaces

Her gray head wagged slowly from left to right like an old Grandfather’s clock, sending an uncomfortable message directly to the pit of my stomach. Was that wag meant for me? “But I’m not even close to her,” my mind argued, “so why should she be upset?” I was pulling into a parking spot at Cub Foods when I noticed her putting groceries into the trunk of her car. She was parked directly in front of my space, and not wanting to scare her by pulling up directly behind her, I stopped—at what I considered a safe distance—and waited patiently for her to finish.
I had just flown in from Brazil only three days before and was spending the afternoon visiting my son and family. This quick dash to the grocery store had been prompted by a sudden urge to eat chocolate chip cookies—a desire stronger than my reticence at maneuvering my son’s old clunker through unfamiliar city traffic.
The gray-haired stranger took her time putting away her groceries, never once turning around to look at me, while my van rattled like a McCormick threshing machine. “If she’d only turn around and look,” I thought, “she’d see I’m not as close as it sounds.” Frustrated, I eased into my space as she walked around the front of her car to open the door on the driver’s side. I opened my car door and stepped out and it was then we saw each other ‘face-to-face.’ But before getting into her car she gave me another unsmiling wag. Shaken, I argued with myself that I hadn’t done anything wrong and determined it wasn’t going to bother me, but while I walked the aisles searching for brown sugar and chocolate chips I couldn’t get the wagging out of my mind. And all the way back to my son’s place, the scene kept replaying itself like a broken record. “What did I do wrong?” I repeatedly asked myself.
The answer came a few days later while shopping with my daughter Michelle. We had just exited the Brazilian Connection Store and I opened the passenger’s door on the right to get into the car. It was then I noticed an idling pick-up waiting to pull into the space adjacent to ours. But he didn’t stick his nose into the spot, as I’d done; rather, he stayed completely out of the parking space until I shut my door. “That’s the answer!” my mind shouted.
I remember when my husband and I first moved to Brazil wanting to back away a few inches when people would approach us to talk. They stood uncomfortably close, but thirty-two years later the close proximity feels normal. And, on our visits back to the USA we have been baffled by all the “I’m sorrys” we hear as we push shopping carts up and down store aisles not feeling we’d been offended in any way. But now I knew I’d had an epiphany. What had happened on the parking lot was an invasion of that gray-haired lady’s personal space—that invisible number of cubic feet (or inches) of space that surrounds each person like a bubble—and my proximity had punctured her bubble leaving her feeling vulnerable and violated.
But there’s an ironic twist to the space question. Like I said, when conversing, Brazilians stand closer to each other than Americans do, yet in most parts of Brazil, when visitors announce their arrival at someone’s house, they will not even knock on the front door. The visitor will stand back three or more feet and clap his or her hands, or in most cases, stand outside the fenced-in yard. Imagine then, how strange it feels, when a Brazilian is transported to the USA, and upon answering a knock on the door, finds someone standing close enough to kiss! Yes, in America one can stand close to the door and no one objects, but can not get too close in grocery stores (or in parking lots?). And why can Brazilians stand close to each other when conversing or shopping, but not dare stand close to your front door? Someone has said that culture is neither wrong nor right; it’s just different—and not necessarily logical.
The dictionary defines culture shock as “the alienation, confusion, surprise, etc. that may be experienced by someone encountering unfamiliar surroundings…”
If anyone should ask you to explain that, just tell them what happened on the Cub Foods parking lot that sunny afternoon in May.