I want the feeling of my wet tears sliding out of my eyes
and gathering on the rim of my glasses to last. Of being tangled up in two
blankets and my brother and still being cold as he wiggles around and jumps up
every time the movie gets exciting. Of watching the “Little Prince” and my
heart hurting and pounding out for someone to tame me. Of hugging the little
boy beside me and being glad I can hold him for just a little bit longer. Of
being glad of being surrounded by simple, innocent things that seem so far away
from a long harsh day of work and world and reality. Of talking with old
friends and seeing that some things never change. But changes within those
non-changes shake and rattle until it takes something away we never knew we
had.

So thanksgiving passed, with pumpkin pie for breakfast and
turkey noodle soup for lunch. We decorated the tree and I wrote my Christmas
letter and only have one more present to buy.

Please pray for Deandra’s family. Her brother’s son died in
a house fire last week. He was only 3. Her great uncle also just passed.

My cousin is engaged. So I am the next one in line for the
spotlight of single jokes and jabs. Three hours one afternoon is NOT long
enough to keep up with all things happening…it isn’t even long enough to learn
the names of the new babies being added to the family. When I asked Jessica about
wedding plans, she said the main thing was to have a party—a party that
celebrated all that loved ones had invested in their lives. I had never really
thought about a wedding being that. As a loved one, I like it. As I watched her
fiancé mingle and be indoctrinated into the family (through song, newspaper,
and embarassing outfits) I figured it is going to take one heckofa guy to
survive a Coombs family reunion.

I had such plans in Brasil. I was going to come to the US and do this,
this, and this. I was going to be with my family and make all the problems
disappear. I was going to cook and clean and listen and love and ask questions
and give answers. I would finish all the projects and paint all the pictures
and learn all the knowledge and come back to Brasil with presents for everyone
and everything in its place. WHATEVER.

I am going to have to forget, aren’t I? I had a dream
somewhere between when I woke up and when my alarm was supposed to go off. I
went to a wonderful place within a place, and felt things and learned things
and overcame my fear of murky water. Everyone else was asleep, and would not remember
this place when they woke up. I knew I had to go to sleep too. So I looked at
my friends and said “I am going to have to forget, aren’t I.” And then a nod
and a dream and I wake up in a cold room, trying not to move because I know as
soon as I do it will all fade away. Why do I always have to forget? Why can’t I
stay awake?

I have now worked on black Friday (day after thanksgiving).
I think I can put that on my resume. Pretty impressive. They caught a
shoplifter right outside the store. He put up a fight. It was interesting and
drew a crowd. We are such petty creatures.  

My cousin is getting married. this is her fiance–Brian.

The father of the bride and bride to be–sideways. sorry bout that.

The happy sideways couple

the wedding party preview

and then family pictures…the “normal” ones didn’t turn out. just these.

group picture…Coombs family. and we look so innocent, don’t we?

wanna come in?

Aunt Carol has magic fingers. we skipped the decorating and drank egg nog while she did the dirty work.

Thanksgiving meal–Xakk, Anna, Mom, Sharron, John, Nathan, Ester…

Dad, John, Steve, me, and Lillian

Alyssa! i think she is back in Brasil by now…this is her first time eating powdered donuts. what? And her first time going to the library. eating string cheese. riding in my car. and all those good things you need to do before you die.

Family reunions are dangerous.

Riding in cars with boys.

I met two gypsies at work. Real ones that travel and everything. Unfortunately, they also steal. They have stolen before so I was sent to give them “good customer service” until they left my department. The guy who makes sure people don’t steal (I am sure he has some title) came by my department and picked up my receipts. And read them. They started out something like “Hey God, how are you this morning?” and so he asks me “so, you are pretty religious?” I cringed and said “well, I like to think of it as more of a relationship kind of thing.” he said “that might be pretty hard on your boyfriend.” Hitting on me or not…I had never thought about it like that. It is the common terms now to say “oh, not religion—relationship.” But if you actually think about it…pretty hard on your boyfriend.

Anyone with a real heavy accent or that speaks another language; I automatically speak in Portuguese with them. Without even thinking. The lady at the Chinese food place looked at me strangely when I said “Obrigada” and I didn’t even notice until I was out the door with my food.

When I say “I don’t know” it doesn’t normally mean I don’t know, it means wait a minute, I have to think about it…

I like the US. I like my car. I like my family’s church. I could get used to this…but I want Brasil. Most of the time you only know what you have. I know 2 worlds. And I have my choice of them. How lucky is that! Except not. Because I always know and feel what I am missing know. In hard times I wish for the other. In good times I wonder “what if?” and I feel this huge responsibility to “DON’T MESS UP RACHEL” because I am the only one to blame for a wrong choice. I am the one who has to live with my life. So where does God fit into all of that? Or working at Carson’s? I mean…what do I do during the day…how is the fact that I am a Christian make my life, my job, my day, different?

I understand Dad now. Coming home and sitting on the couch and just being tired. The sore shoulders that sag a little lower every hour until it is time to leave. The feet that ache until you move them and then they throb. You don’t want to do anything, but you don’t want time to pass because then it will be closer to the time you have to go back to work again. Plans are made for those illusive times called “weekends” or “vacations.”

I own a space in a parking garage. Normally on the 6^{th floor. Opposite end from the elevators. I’ve bought a piece of suburbia. I have my own parking space. At the end of a long day, when I wonder if this is how everyone feels and who made up the idea of workdays and the irony and bureaucracy of it all. I walk the six blocks with my scarf wrapped around my chin. I push the bottom and solemnly walk into the elevator and ride it up 6 floors. It dings off key as I exit. It is dark outside, and from the 6th floor, the city is lit up in anticipation. For what? Another work day? So this is what it looks like in cold dark places where people get mugged. I like the solitude. The dusk-yet-not-night. My friendly car roars to life and we being the decent, florescent light after florescent light—passing and flickering like another thought of what I forgot to do, have left to do, or should have done. Faster and faster they stripe my eyelids. I slow down for the sharp corner. Dizzy and throbbing, I wait for the blockade to rise. And I have ended another day.}

Things I like about my job:

Things I do not like:

The problem with Christmas is the buildup. So much time is spent hyping it up that even a good Christmas is a letdown. How sad. Not many people pay in cash. I get a little buzz when the cash drawer opens and I get to use actual money. Some people drop hundreds like bagels.

Airport baby…L to R: Ann, Me, John, David, Mariana, Lindsay, Assuario, and Alyssa

Red eye to match. Alyssa, me, and Mariana. i am bummed because Mari didn’t come stay at my house. she was homesick and flew down to Texas with friends.

Art museum with my buddy. i really like long skirts. can’t wear them in Brasil…

it is nice to be home with family. yep yep.

*

so yeah…first day on the job. a REAL job. Like when i was 8 when i asked my mom for REAL milk for my birthday (i hated that dry milk stuff). This is the first time where the word “ministry” is not involved in the job description. I am a sales person. people ask me things like “Where is the mezanine floor” and i don’t even know how to spell it, let alone answer it. But now i know…because that is what you do during training. I learned how to fold clothes today. put together displays. And i rung up three people. They were nice old ladies who did not mind waiting around while i learned how to remove those tacky plastic things that beep if you steal them.

I talked with Joyce and Susan and Heather and Lindsay and a lady who’s name started with an L…and now my shoulders hurt and…dang, i feel like an adult. i brought my lunch to work and everything. leftover feijoada.

Saturday night was the CCS missions banquet. Except it isn’t called CCS, it is Lifepoint. But it still has a bunch of people that I knew from growing up at that church. Andrew and Ann Sims spoke, about their work with the Ketenbam tribe in New Guine. Amazing. To go somewhere, learn a language that is not written, figure out how the grammar works and how to write it—teach the people, and then translate the Bible into their language.

I sat in wonder. These are some of the missionaries I grew up hearing about and from. I remember playing with their kids when I was 8. I remember Christmas letters and updates and slide shows. I heard their stories. They came to my church and showed me things I had never imagined. Every Sunday I saw their picture on the bulletin board, with a little flag marking the spot where they lived on the world map. I stared at those pictures until I almost saw the people move. When I was 16 these missionaries took me to places I had never gone.

And now I live a life in a place far away. A place like those pictures. And I take pictures of my own. Sometime, I am going to show those pictures to little children. Maybe to a little girl about 8 who will look at my picture on the bulletin board, a little flag marking my home in Brasil, and stare so hard she sees me blink. And I will show her things she never imagined. And maybe when she grows up, she will go places she has never gone. And take pictures.

So I have been back a week. I am not really sure where all I am. I just got a call from Borders. Borders Downtown. The job I REALLY really wanted. They want an interview. Groan. And I just got trained at the store RIGHT ACROSS THE STREET. oh well. so yeah, i work in the womans department at Carson Pirie Scott. I never get the name right. that is bad. very bad.

Mom made feijoada and bolo de rolo yesterday. Pastor Assuario and I had a nice long talk in Portuguese on the couch. When we were looking at pictures of ’99, he asked “Do you know some girl that came and drew a picture of the church and gave it to me?” I did, actually. It was me. Turns out Pastor Assuario saved that picture. Even in going to Africa and back. When he has an office, he is going to frame it and put it on his wall. Small world.

My Aunt and Uncle flew in from California. That is what you can do when you are retired. They rented a convertible, and we rode around in it with the top down—on November 14^th. Yep, pretty sweet. I think I really like retired people. Uncle Loren said he wanted to make sure he got to see those pictures on Xanga for the next while…so guess who has a lovely new camera? I am so excited. We picked the one that would last the longest time even with frequent dropping and manhandling…

I have come to realize that I worry about way too many things. It gets so bad that then you get used to worrying. And then, you come to a point where life without worrying is weird. But worse still is when you find that you actually LIKE worrying.

What is worrying saying? That I don’t think God is really there? That I need to have a back up plan…I need to stress and make things happen?

I feel so heavy. There is nothing heavier than sin sleeping on the bed of depression. It jumps up and down right above your left eyebrow. It leaches the energy out of me. Worse, it drowns the seeds of hope. It makes me cringe and think that things are still bad…and will always be bad.

How depressing. Not only am I selfish and self-centered, but so is everyone else. Ok. Almost. There are a couple people who have mastered being unselfish. But I think even they still have to make a conscious decision to not be selfish. I have had a few rare moments of stepping outside of my skin and really caring and loving someone else. Normally, they come in spurts, like a burst of something that will not be silenced.

Sometimes I just have to hug someone. I look at the person and dang–I love ‘em! Hug. Or a tree. I went tree hugging a couple times. Sometimes I just have to sing. Like in the wind or sunshine. Maybe just because I can’t hug God.

Sometimes I can’t do anything but stare at the person. Like my eyes are greedy and starving and my only food and salvation is seeing that person…this only has happened to me twice–both when I realized I was losing someone. When I realized I couldn’t hold on to them…and that was okay–but dang I was going to live now and right now I was with them. I could think of no better way to pass the time then being as close as possible to them and just staring at them. I bet it was quite unnerving.

And somewhere in those moments, I lost myself and began to love.

**

You can’t go living life with God without soon realizing that there is something very big, very scary and very much more important than you going on. Like “V for Vendetta” there is no such thing as a coincidence. I am filled with a certain dread when I see little decisions I made in the past affect a whole world of people. At the same time, I see little obediences that add up to a million good things and I bubble over in awe. I am a part of this, and belong–for all the good, bad, ugly, and breathtakingly beautiful.

He calls me forward, to places I cannot see, to a journey of sifting sand where I am promised no companion but an invisible hand. A hand connected to this Power, Force, King–and yet my Lover, Consoler, and Friend. He calls me deeper, to treasure troves of untainted gold, and I am claustrophobic, clawing for the end of the tunnel, and am then led to a place where I see the inside is bigger than the outside. He calls me to Himself, where like a new crush, all I want to do is ask what He thinks about life and toothpaste and women preachers. Where fascination draws me to his eyes and I cannot look away. His words take on new meaning, and monotone is turned into music. Those words aren’t for the crowd anymore–they are for me.

My trip was good. The first thing I noticed was the soft toilet paper. I guess USians think that is important. My second thought was that there cannot be everything bad about a culture that has things like vanilla chai.

I was rather bitter at this point because I was freezing because of the AIR CONDITIONING in Miami. The weather itself was fine, lovely, beautiful. I traveled all day, via Sao Paulo and Panama City and got to Miami at Midnight…but the baggage holder place was closed, so catching a bus with two trunks did not sound appetizing. I slept in the COLD airport with my stuff and warmed up with vanilla chai. Dunkin Donuts is always open. The world seems to wake up at 5:00am. The airport at least, and then I dumped my bags and made a run for the beach in time for the sunrise. Via Detroit, I made it to Indy in time for dinner Wednesday night. I managed to take this trip without one intelligent conversation. Two people asked me if I was old enough to travel alone. This is not intelligent conversation. Especially at 2:00am when I forgot how old I was.

I snuck out. The meaning of a red eye flight. Everyone thinks they are going to tell you good bye the next morning, but when they wake up, you are already gone. Maybe then they cried. Maybe not. It doesn’t really matter because you are not there to see it. So it doesn’t count. You stare down at the morning sky and wonder at their tears. Or lack thereof. And wonder at your own. Maybe just stress. Maybe the romance of being somewhere between two worlds. Somewhere between leaving and arriving.

There is nothing romantic about leaving. It sounds romantic, and then you build up and plan and get ready and say goodbyes–I guess there is some romance in all that. Maybe in tears…but then you leave, and it is all black and white. it’s the headache and nagging tug that says you forgot something. It is the fear you might not come back because all your plans are overruled by the words “Nothing is sound” by Switchfoot yelling in your inner ear. It is the unresolved note at the end because you cannot tie up your relationships and let them wait in the corner. And then you are alone. Dreadfully alone. Maybe someone wanted to wait with you, maybe no one did. But it does not matter now because you are gone.

**

And now I am back. Do I forget all that I have learned when I come back? I wake up in this bed and wonder how much of it has just been a dream. John crawled into bed with me this morning and started talking about albatrosses and hot air and whales and sonar. My intelligent reply to my seven year old brother was something like “Albatrosses…they are something like seagulls, right?”

I went job hunting Thursday and Friday. Was overly efficient and ended up getting three jobs. As you know, highest bidder wins. But Borders never called back. Durn. It would have been really nice to work at Borders and get a discount on all those lovely amazing books that are calling me to buy them. Then I went to the youth center and…wonder if I would rather work there again instead…if I had the chance.

David and Alyssa and Mariana are here from Brasil safe and sound and tired and cold. Pastor Assuario came in Tele’s place. Swing dancing on Friday–the milkshakes were better than attempting to learn yet once again.

Randomly, I like hair short enough to let the wind take it where it wants. It is amazing how you can get used to an idea–any idea, if you think about it for long enough. The good news? All those bad people out there–yeah, there is hope for them. The bad news? All those good people…aren’t really good.

…My last week in Brasil

Dona Angela update:

If our greatest strength

Is also our greatest weakness

It would explain a lot

Anyone with a heart

So big

So pure

So strong

Is bound to run into

Problems somewhere

Five surgeries

And a pacemaker later

I marvel at this

Strength, weakness

Of her heart

My last couple of days in Brasil were amazing. I went to see Dona Angela in the hospital. We prayed and prayed and all her doctors got together and said she needed to do this one exam, and maybe MAYBE she would not need her sixth by-pass, but a pacemaker instead. We prayed and prayed and the next day got the results from the exam…only a pacemaker. The skies opened and angels rejoiced! And surely, this is another miracle that God has done in this woman’s life.

The clean smell

That makes your hair stand up

And prickle the back of your ears

I hadn’t been in a hospital

Since I tasted the salty dry

Feeling of death

And I’ve spent

A day longer

Trying to forget

The frustration of uselessness

Something is different this time

I am drawn, compelled

Yelling at fear and security

Something born within me

A foreign substance struggling

Maybe I have learned to love

My ears prickle

My mouth goes dry

I am as useless as ever

But now

Just being here is enough

It satisfies my hunger to know

She is still here

It pacifies my thirst to sit

And look at her

I saw her there at the hospital, so frail and weak. I wanted to run home and hug my mother. You think mom’s are invincible. I mean, they raised you. They kissed your pain and it went away. Mom’s seem so indestructible until you wake up and realize one morning you are old. And that makes your mom really old. And you begin to think of someone else for once. And you’ve crossed the line and become an adult.

We also took a trip to the mall. Luzia is a good cook. And she keeps Dona Angela company (she works for their family). She cleans the house real good, throwing water on every inch of floor and scrubbing. She’s been talking about it for weeks–at least the weeks that I have known her. When Junior comes in the room, she says “now don’t you forget–you promised!” the joke never gets old and she bristles every time he replies “Promised what?” She has never been to a mall. It makes me wonder what other places she has never been to. This will be her first time. She has applied for a credit card so she can make her first purchase with it at a real mall. It almost didn’t happen. Something always comes up. But it came and I saw the wet perspiration of excitement cover her. She calmed down quickly and had all the cool of an experienced shopper…until the escalator. She just stood at the top and looked down. Her face blankly watching each crack turn into a stair as people streamed past her. And then she took her first step.

Saturday was an evangelistic street meeting in a really bad part of town. There is nothing better in the world than sitting in the middle of a cobblestone street with a little girl clinging to one knee and another one sitting on top of your other knee with your leg tingling and falling asleep. The children all around staring expectantly with mouths half open, waiting for the next song, the next play, the next word…

Sunday night something unexpected happened. He (the nameless he) stood up behind me and I cringed. Why did I cringe? I was so familiar with the tilted features, the slurred words…he spoke a different language, but I could tell it was hard to understand in any language as those around me leaned in with attentive yet sometimes pained expressions of concentration. Every now and then we would catch on to a word and cling to it–murmuring agreement and encouragement. He had a song to sing. I wondered how long it would take until I felt comfortable again. He shuffled to the podium and the music began. He opened his mouth and a beautiful voice came out. I stared in shock, until I heard the familiar stutter of the man’s voice continue on after the voice on the CD had stopped. He was trying to lip singing. It was a common song, and so we all joined in. at times, his voice would drown out the CD, but now we were with him. We understood. And I looked at the autistic man and saw he was just like me. He waved his hands expressively, and he knew the song so very well. I wonder how many times he’d listened to it, mimicking a person he would never be able to be like. It was beautiful–because there, in front of all of us, he was able to communicate. He was able to stand there, open his mouth, and let loose his soul to people who could sing along. I longed to join him. I wanted to music to never end. I wished that once, just once, I could stand before these people and not mutter “ah, I don’t know” and try to explain myself in simple words and gestures. To have all that is inside me truly communicated. Music and courage brought this man to the front of the church, and he left it having been able to express himself in ways his words cannot. I want that too.