I want to say thank you to my mum and dad…for having a home that is always open for one more. I love how everyone that I bring home calls my parents “mom and dad.” I love how I can bring over lots of people, and they will be loved and greeted with a “Hey, can I get you anything?” I love how my parents not only encourage my ministry, but embrace it, even opening their home to strangers from Brazil.

I started with the neighborhood kids coming over for a snack. It grew when I began working with an inner city alternative school, and brought over 20 kids to go sledding and have hot chocolate. It continued with Good News Ministry youth center, where my mom would have a Bible study and my dad would order pizza. Those who know me, know my family. That is just how it works.

Thank you. Mom, thank you for keeping all my kids in your prayers all this time. Here is one of my babies, who is not so little anymore. Please continue to pray for him.

“On the eve of Rosh Hashanah, all things revert to their primordial state. The Inner Will ascends and is retracted into the divine essence; the worlds are in a state of sleep and are sustained only by the Outer Will. The service of man on Rosh Hashanah is to rebuild the divine attribute of sovereignty and reawaken the divine desire, “I shall reign,” with the sounding of the shofar. (The Kabbalistic masters)” (http://www.chabad.org/holidays/JewishNewYear/template_cdo/aid/3082/jewish/The-Waking-of-Creation.htm)

Rosh Hashanah is the first day of the Jewish year. It is the anniversary of the creation of Adam and Eve, and their first actions toward the realization of mankind’s role in G‑d’s world. It emphasizes the special relationship between G‑d and humanity: our dependence upon G‑d as our creator and sustainer, and G‑d’s dependence upon us as the ones who make His presence known and felt in His world. The Kabbalists teach that the continued existence of the universe is dependent upon the renewal of the divine desire for a world when we accept G‑d’s kingship each year on Rosh Hashanah. (http://www.chabad.org/holidays/JewishNewYear/template_cdo/aid/4762/jewish/In-a-Nutshell.htm)

Besides listening to the shofar, there is lots of eating sweet things (for a sweet new year), blessing each other with “May you be inscribed and sealed for a good year,” and saying the Tashlich prayers and “casting” your sins into water to start off with a clean slate. The women also get to do the whole candles and blessing thing like they get to for every Jewish holiday. My Jewish knowledge comes from “Fiddler on the Roof” and my mother: I need more. And I think I am going to pay a visit to the ocean with a copy of the Tashlich prayers.

Slowing down and asking if God will continue the existence of the world. Beautiful. I feel like I need to slow down and ask God about the existence of my life. I watched 2012 (the movie) today and it made me think about the end of the world and if I knew when I would die. There is only three more months to 2011–what if that were it for me? I am where I want to be.

I would stay here and continue working with Living Stones. Have a slamming good Children’s day party. Celebrate the beauty of these children’s lives–futures that have yet to be written. I would enjoy the Amazon with my cousin. Enjoy showing her Brazil–that is one of my deepest joys: sharing what I love with those I love. November I would come home and share Thanksgiving with family get togethers and time to be. I think of my little brother and nephew, two lives that I have yet to make enough memories with. I would fix that.

I would live and write and live some more. I wouldn’t go to bed without having written something. I would talk to people and then process my thoughts and talk to people some more. Be with my family. Just be. Because they are my family and nothing changes that—nothing ever will. I would spend more time sharing ideas—ideas that I found, ideas that were shared with me, ideas that are worth talking about. About what it means to live day in and day out as a Christian. What surrender looks like. What life more abundantly looks like NOW.

I would write more letters, because they bring joy to people and can be seen over and over again–and because they are so overlooked in our society of instant gratification.  I would sit and love…just love as much as I could. I would look each person in the face and tell them what I thought was their special gift and what they were good at and what I thought they would be great at in life. 

I would take longer hot showers and eat more fruit. I would make more cookies and smoothies for more people, since I have gotten quite good at doing that. I would call more people more often. I would finally do a back flip on the trampoline. I would talk to LOTs more strangers because they are people too. I wouldn’t be ashamed of crying, or any emotion for that matter. I would watch more sunrises and sunsets. I would talk about heaven a lot more. I would whistle more–even in church. I would wear more perfume and quit worrying about it running out. I would visit friends without calling first.

I would love all women and men as brothers and sisters. I would punch them in the arm when they said silly things, even if I did not know them. I would ask those questions I always think about but never feel that I am in the position to ask, because I would not care what they thought. I would bicycle anytime I didn’t have to drive. I would always have my camera and take pictures of strangers and friends—just because they were beautiful. I would have music playing all the time, and would buy tons of CDs and give them away to the first person I thought of when I listened to the song. And if money were no object, I think it would be pretty amazing to invite all my closest friends and family on a Disney cruise with me. Yeah, that would be nice.

I wonder which of these things I can make real in my life now. Happy Rosh Hashanah!

I also wrote papers about myself in college:). Rachel’s Autobiography:

I was born on August 26, 1982 at Methodist Hospital in Indianapolis. My mother’s water broke at 10:00 a.m. that morning, but I was not ready to come out until 11:00 p.m. and many complications later. I am the first child in my family as my mother and father were married less than a year before I was born. I was seven pounds and one ounce and 19 inches long. Mom says that once I was born my father was very much affected and re-evaluated many of his priorities.

My mother had many health problems and did not work outside the home, so I had her all to myself. Just after I was eight months old, I began to walk with help and then took my first steps two months later all by myself. At eleven months I say my first words: “Da-da,” soon followed by “Ma-ma.” I loved playing with our family dog, Wendy, and my first birthday was complete with cake all over my face and body.

My mother says I was a very easygoing child: I would go to bed when told, listen when told, and was very amiable. There were only two distinct things that I would absolutely refuses and throw temper tantrums about. One was drinking powdered milk, and the other was wearing the color brown. Mom said it was easy to potty train me.

I was a quiet and shy child growing up. I was very imaginative and playful, and felt very free around my home, but more frightened outside my home. My favorite playmate was the family dog, Wendy, who I would dress up in my clothes. I loved to sing, and could catch tunes very quickly. I loved to create forts. My mother took on my education at home, and my kindergarten year (I was 5) was stressful because we both had to learn and adjust to the other’s learning style.

With school, I also started activities such as swimming, gymnastics, and piano. I was close friends with the Fletchers, who had two daughters my age and a son a few years younger. My mother had great expectations for me, and I remember one day feeling truly horrible because I could not get a picture just how I wanted it. Exasperated, a friend of the family called and told me it was all right as it was. This seemed to solve my perfectionist problem, then and always.

My sister was born when I was six.  This and my mother’s added health problems left me playing a lot with my sister and on my own for completing school assignments. I became self-regulated since there was no one telling me what to do, and was creative with what we had.

Style was important to me, at least my own version of it. At one stage, I would not leave the house without wearing two belts. Another time I had to have elastic at the bottom of my pants. I tried to do the 80’s frizzy hair, but my hair refused to comply, and my pictures show only a slick little lump of bangs instead of the five-inch high ones I desired.

Around peers that I knew well I was open and outgoing, but in larger groups I instantly became quiet and reserved. I gave my best friend a “best friend” necklace and she replied that I was not her best friend. After that, I began to be good friends will everyone, but not focused in on one close friendship.

 I was never in the popular group and often wondered if this meant there was something wrong with me. I had glasses and was not self-conscious about them until someone called me “four eyes.” I tried to imitate what was cool, but found that I failed miserably and it took to much work to try to fake.

I started to do a lot more thinking as I got older, and became a lot more hesitant and reserved. I remember going over and over things that happened in my life and turning them and thinking what else could have been or should have been. I would not do something unless I was asked to if it involved being in the public eye. I wanted to see what everyone else thought and did before I would do it.

At 13, I began to take voice lessons. My achievement in those lessons helped me to be more open and outgoing in other areas. I figured that if I could do one thing well, then perhaps I could do other things if I tried. I wanted to be adventurous, and went bungee jumping with a friend. At 14 and as a freshman, I found more acceptance with my peers than before. Getting contacts instead of glasses made me feel much better about myself, and the change in how others responded to me impacted the idea that I was only pretty if I put some effort into how I looked.

To the end of my sophomore year, I began to feel some internal changes. Although I was friends with everyone, inside I was lonely and never really felt included. At home, my father made some changes in his life, really practicing all the things we had learned about in church. We began having family devotions together, and my father took an active role in having a closer relationship with me.  

I wanted to please my family, but I wanted to do anything it took to fill the loneliness that I felt with my friends. I tried to dress like them, talk like them, listen to their music, but I just felt like I was different. That summer (1999) I went to Brasil for a short-term mission’s trip. Coming back from that made me feel even more out of place with life in general. I did not see how I fit into anything.

During that year I came to the conclusion that it was all right to be different. I gave up trying to fit in and was still friends with everyone, but that was not my source of fulfillment. Instead, I began a deeper relationship with my heavenly Father. I had professed Christianity since I was 7, but it did not become real to me until this time.

My junior year I began working at an alternative school in the mornings (I was home schooled and did my work in the afternoon). I was in charge of character training for the 4-8 year olds, and then tutoring with the 4-13 year olds. It was an inner city setting, and I walked into a completely different world and culture than my own.

I got to know the older kids and they seemed to always wonder about my standards and beliefs. Through their questions, I discovered where I stood on issues like God, dating, clothes, music, and so on. Suddenly my parents were not there to tell me the right answer, and I had to come up with it on my own. I was building my own identity, and sometimes it surprised me.

I graduated when I was 17 not knowing what I wanted to do, but knowing I would enjoy learning whatever came my way. What came was a car crash as I ran into a parked car. Out of that came my decision to live with my elderly grandparents that fall, something I will never regret as they have now passed on. The time with them was very quiet, as they were older and lived alone on a farm. I had a chance to reflect on life and set my own schedule and daily disciplines since I was not under parental authority.

The next year (2001) I spent getting training and then working at a home for juvenile delinquents. It was the hardest year of my life, but the best. During this year I really gained a sense of what I wanted to do in life: help underprivileged and hurting youth. I saw that I had been given so much in life—and a loving home—and now I needed to learn how to give to others. I also found purpose, fulfillment, and complete satisfaction in the Lord Jesus Christ.

Love relationships have always been different for me. When I was younger I was too shy to talk to guys, or only saw them as friends. Growing up, I did not purposefully “fall in love” but found that I would wander into one “emotional attachment” after. I didn’t date much. Instead, I had closer friendships where one or both of us were attracted to the other, but nothing came of it for one reason or another.

After the juvenile delinquent home, I began to work at Good News Ministries Youth Center, an after school program for children 8-18 that serves dinner, helps with homework and tutoring, gives a Bible study, and assists the children physically, mentally, and spiritually. I finished my associates of art degree in Child and Youth Character Development with internet classes through TELOS, and then started taking classes at Crossroads Bible College.

In 2004 I had an internship in Brazil for three months and began taking classes at Ivy Tech Community College. I continued taking classes, receiving my Associates degree in Early Childhood Education. I also continued going to Brazil, teaching English as a Foreign Language at an International school and learning Portuguese.

By 2008 I realized that I wanted to stay in Brazil longer, so received a student visa by beginning college in Portuguese, and continuing my dream of working with street children through the Living Stones program. 2010 I took a year off to graduate from IUPUI with a Bachelor’s degree in General Studies and to spend time with my family and my new nephew.

This year I am back in Brazil (with a summer trip home and to Hong Kong), working as coordinator of Living Stones, developing curriculum and raising awareness for the program. My goal is to help start/assist 10 Living Stones programs in 10 towns in the next 10 years.

I am investing in the next generation today by working with youth. My role will change with marriage, children, and time, but the basic idea of what I plan to do with my life will stay the same, whether with working in my own family, with my own children and grandchildren, strangers, inner city children, or youth in Brasil. My life purpose is to serve, assist, influence, and encourage seeking young people through writing, teaching, and counseling for the reason of them surrendering their life and each day to all God has for them.

I sincerely hope that this purpose will not change, no matter how old I get. I want to be one of those sweet little old grandmas that can get away with anything because everyone loves her and they know that she loves them. I don’t intend on ever retiring. There are too many people out there to love—and so little time.

Besides family, what I miss most about home in the fall is the Covered Bridge Festival. Every year my family plans a day away. We get up early and waddle out to the car, wrapped in coats and blankets. The sun begins to peek through the dark tree branches about an hour later.

Rockville is a major hub of the Festival, but we normally only stop there for breakfast. Beat the crowds, you know. Fresh crullers and hot chocolate, or biscuits and gravy if we are hungry enough. Someone inevitably burns their tongue as we huddle together under the red and white striped tent.

Back in the car, we take the scenic drive to the Bridgeton (I think?), passing through a couple of the covered bridges. I remember the time we drove through with Grandpa and Grandma. There was one bridge built in 1914, the same year as my Grandfather. Somewhere, we have a picture with the bridge and Grandpa—the same age.

Since it is light out, we begin the tradition of finding the best tree. One person will claim a tree and everyone else votes on it. Good trees get an “8,” great trees get a “9.” Perfect trees get “10s.” The person who ends up with the most points wins. Something.

One year when we stopped at a bridge, Anna met a puppy. We almost took it home.

Dad stocks everyone up with lunch money when we arrive at Bridgeton. By this time we have already passed or stopped at a couple garage sales, where growing up I began my model horse collection. Everyone has their own top favorites, including unlimited beans and cornbread, soup in a bread bowl, kettle corn, pork rinds, fudge, and of course—pumpkin ice cream. It is a beautiful thing.

We walk around and eat and then eat some more, crunching leaves under our feet and looking at arts and crafts and apple kitchen décor. It is just a Winzeler family tradition. We have brought many friends and special people over the years, and I hope that continues forever.

As the story goes, one of the first Covered Bridge Festivals (before us kids), mom and dad went with their friends Penny and Kenny. Girls in one car, boys in the other. So mom was driving my dad’s old orange volkswagon. Penny was getting into the spirit and yelling out the window about random things. Then she saw a scarecrow in someone’s yard, so she yelled out a howdy.

The scarecrow was actually a person, sitting there for just such an occasion. It stood up and started for the car. Penny jumped into my mom’s lap, who now cannot shift the car, which began convulsing. The scarecrow continues to chase the orange bug as it slowly shakes it way down the fall highway, the gentlemen in the car in front of them laughing more than is appropriate. Penny stopped yelling at scarecrows. We kept going to the Covered Bridge Festival.

Mom, Dad, Anna, and John–you guys gotta help me add to these memories! I know I am missing some good ones…

I don’t like chocolate. On my mother’s side of the family, liking chocolate is a part of being female. They have questioned if I am adopted. I blame my father. As the story goes, my mom went off to do some shopping, and when she got home, my dad was feeding me chocolate cake and braunschweiger. I was six months old. I haven’t liked either since.

My parents helped out with the youth group at church when I was little. I loved it because I always got to sit on the cool older kids’ lap during church. One weekend, we had some of the teens over to our house. Daddy had gotten Limburger cheese the day before. If you have never had Limburger cheese, that is because the stuff is not normal. I have never eaten it either, but only because I cannot get close enough to it without being revolted. It smells horrible.

I don’t know how it started, I just remember sitting in the bathroom—the only room in the house that had a lock—with six or seven teen agers, because dad was chasing us with Limburger cheese. It ended up being a chase around the whole neighborhood. From the graphic memories that I have, I think the Limburger cheese won.

My dad grew up on a farm. He decided that Anna and I should have farm experience, even if we lived in the suburbs. So he brought home some baby chickens. These baby chickens grew quickly. Anna and I took care of them, feeding them, corralling them in the back yard, catching them when they got lose (once, a baffled looking guy sat in his car after I chased the chickens back into the yard saying “wow! I really saw the chicken cross the road!”).

Even though we were warned not to name them, they still got names. And six weeks later, dad set up “the block.” The block was a thick piece of wood that had two nails in it, with just enough space between them to slide the neck of a chicken…

Mom was chosen to help hold the chicken while dad positioned the neck and then sliced. Anna and I ran inside and cried. Mom wasn’t much of a country girl either, and screamed and apologized to the first chicken after it went running around headless (yes, it really happens). As the story goes, somehow when my dad went to reach into the chicken to clean out the organs and such, the air suction created a noise and my mom was SURE it was talking.

But dad did make the best BBQ chicken ever. Another part of him growing up a farm boy meant he had a green thumb. We always had an amazing garden. I am told that I used to slip out of my diaper and run striking out the back door to the raspberry patch. Makes sense to me. Raspberries are still my favorite fruit today.

I remember summer nights of fresh green beans and tomatoes. You don’t need much more. One particular year we had a bumper crop of tomatoes. Anyone who has had tomatoes knows it is about impossible to keep up with them. After awhile, some of them just get wasted. Well, not our tomato patch. The next door neighbor boy and I had the most fantastic rotten tomato fight. Epic. I think that should be a part of everyone’s childhood.

My mom always made my dad’s lunch growing up. In fact, she still does the whole brown paper bag thing. I can remember “helping” her when I was little, standing on a chair to help spread the mustard on the sandwich. But the special part was always the napkin. I would get to help write a “secret” message on it (normally it was “I love you”). Even now when I return home, I hear mom moving around the kitchen, making dad’s lunch. It is just a part of how things work.

We didn’t have a lot of money when I was little. It was the best thing ever. The neighbor kids didn’t always get it though. They thought I was a little strange. When I was turning eight and was asked what I wanted for my birthday, I said “I want REAL milk.” At that time, instant milk was cheaper, and so that is what we got. And I hated it. The frozen orange juice, the kind with the pulp, was cheaper as well, so that was what we got. And I hated it.

Every morning my mother would put a glass of instant milk and pulpy orange juice on the table, and tell me I needed to drink it before lunch was over. My mom also had a lot of health problems during this time, so could not keep a very close eye on me. And I knew it. I tried a couple of different options before finding my escape of choice.

I tried pouring the milk and juice down the drain, but I was too short. I had to move a chair to the sink, climb up with the cups…and it made too much noise. I also tried pouring it down the toilet, but it looked pretty suspicious carrying a glass of milk into the bathroom. But then I found it. The heating and cooling duct. Right there in the kitchen—a hole where things magically disappeared.

Fast forward 10 years. We were sitting around the table telling old stories and laughing. Someone brought up instant milk. I brought up how I hated it and found ways around actually drinking it. Silence at the table. Apparently, two and two had never been put together: the mysterious sticky duct leak, and Rachel not complaining about drinking her milk and juice anymore. Mystery solved.

Cod liver oil was even worse than Limburger cheese because we weren’t allowed to run away from this one—we had to drink it. Taking pills is fine, but imagine a spoonful of the real stuff. Perhaps it is time and my imagination, but I remember it being green and slimy as well. Slimier than normal oil. But yes—come cold season, my whole family lined up and got our cod liver oil.

My father is one of those people who likes everything. Really. And he thinks it is educational for you to try everything as well. Good thing he forgot where he stopped and bought that brain sandwich in Michigan. Liver, tongue, and sauerkraut were my worse memories, trying to chew without breathing and thinking “Why can’t I just be in a normal family?”

We were taught that you eat everything that is put on your plate. Period. Our neighbors did not have the same rules at home, but they sure did when they came to our house. Cathy was known for being able to slice a lima bean into eight pieces, and then carefully gulp each one down like a vitamin pill. But Becky’s story was better.

Becky, four years old, came over for a weekend while her little sister was being born. She never complained about the food, but she also just didn’t eat. When we finally went out for ice cream one night, dad got us each big cones, knowing we’d need help with the “drips.” He reached for mine and helped out, and by the time he reached for Becky’s, there was nothing left.

One of our favorite meals to cook together as a family was egg rolls. Dad would get out the wok and knew how to fry them up just right. Mom would cut up the vegetables, and Anna and I would roll them up in the wrappers. Sometimes, if we were lucky, mom would make tapioca for dessert.

Sunday nights were made for popcorn. When we were little, mom read Laura Ingles Wilder books out loud to us. In the story about her growing up in the big woods, it talks about how she liked to eat her popcorn with milk. So my Sunday nights consisted of a big glass of milk stuffed to the brim with popcorn, with cheese on the side.

You can have some good conversations when you walk 4 kilometers. Flavio, Frank, and I were discussing legalism and license, and how it seems like in our own personal lives, and in the history of the church there is a back and forth pendulum of falling in one side of the ditch or the other.

The church in Brazil seems to follow the American church, for better or for worse. The current trend in the USA seems to be toward license (with the emerging church movement), while in Brazil the church still seems to be headed towards legalism, like America 20-30 years ago.

The thing is, Brazil has had a stomach full of legalism. With the Catholic church and then the Assembly of God—the thing we can offer that is different is grace—the one thing that will truly fill them. If we let go of that, we not only let go of the truth, but of what makes us different than everyone else parading out there.

Having lived through falling in that side of the ditch, it kills me to watch rules become the dominating force in a church, becoming an “us/them” situation which stunts the growth of the people to a checklist of dos and don’ts. While I am not running to throw out doctrines and truth, I have lived legalism, and do not wish that path for anyone if there is anything I can do about it.

Frank shared about “Between Noon and Three,” this book about a guy preaching about a man who was married, but cheated on his wife. Many times. And with one woman, they got to know each other, and she really fell in love with him. They planned to meet at this hotel, but when he got there, he started feeling guilty.  He flat out stated: “I’ve cheated with others before. I am a bad person. This is who I am.” And she responded, “I know. I know who you are—but I love you. I want to go through with this.” He still felt guilty and continued, trying to shock her: “There have been many before you, and there will be many after. I have a wife. You are just one stop.” She looked at him, took his hand, and they went in.

“By and by, I want to tell you a story.  It will be about a man and a woman who actually succeed in getting away with something.  I think I shall make him a university professor and her a suburban housewife finishing some long-interrupted work on a master’s in English.  Paul, perhaps will do for his name: forty, tall, dark, and handsome.  And for hers?  Linda?  No, Linda is a waitress with a sad, uncomprehended history of failed romances.”—Robert Capon

In the story the pastor then ended the story as a parable, saying that man is us. If we are honest, we can see it: we are sinners, that is who we are. God is like that woman, who offers and gives all. Puts Himself out there. That is a picture of grace. And it is not an excuse to go out and sin again—but you know you have, and you know you will. If you know yourself—you know you are that man.

“…They will not be discovered, ever…In our fantasies, immorality can never be allowed to simply succeed; cosmic disapproval must be given the last word…No, as much as you and I prefer that sort of thing, I shall not give it to you…We do in fact get away with almost everything.” “However much we hate the law, we are more afraid of grace…Grace cannot prevail…until our lifelong certainty that someone is keeping score has run out of steam and collapsed.” –Robert Capon

I was blown away by this parable, and the idea. I am not saying I agree with all of it—I haven’t even read the book. And I am sure the analogy falls apart in many places. Part of it is simply for shock value. But it makes you stop a minute. It makes you think. Here is what I found written about it online, along with those quotes from the book itself. (http://russlackey.com/?p=54)

“In his book, Between Noon and Three, Robert Farrar Capon writes a parable about the radical nature of grace.  This is radical because the man in the parable receives grace from the woman he has an affair with.  For Capon, grace is not power to reform one’s life or marriage (the Moral Theologian’s desire).  Grace is not getting a new chance to run off with the woman he truly desires (the Spiritual Director’s advice).  Grace is not getting away with what you deserve (the Old Party’s threat). 

Grace is not bookkeeping at all.  Grace is resurrection.  In the parable, grace occurs in bed as the lover whispers to her beloved that all is as it is supposed to be.  In this moment, there is no condemnation.  There is no judgment or death.  There is only life and freedom.  This of course is the gospel.  In Christ, the beloved speaks his Yes (word of promise) to us.  With these words we are made alive.  There is no condemnation.  There is no accusation.  There is only life.        

By his own admission, Capon acknowledges that this parable promotes grace at the expense of justice.  His reason is that “the Terrible Trio of the Moral Theologian, the Spiritual Director, and the Old Party have conspired to keep the church from any serious consideration of the doctrine of grace.  Every time it [grace] is rediscovered, she sends in an army of moralizers, backwaterers and scholasticizers to get her clear of it in the shortest possible time” (122).  Much like what the religious leaders did to Christ between noon and three.

In reading this book, one needs to remember this is not a treatise on ethics.  This is not a careful balance of law and gospel.  Rather, it is a parable.  It means to offend.  This is what parables do (especially parables about grace).  So be warned as you pick up the book.  It will offend you with outrages claims of grace.  Hopefully it will also set you free.”

I think…I want to learn how to tell more stories. “The Gospel needs to keep its shocking effect. You can never claim to have fully understood the Gospel. It always should keep you on edge and never satisfied.” –Henri Nouwen

I forgot to post pictures from Ivanilson’s birthday party two weeks ago. We had the scary episode with the snake (poisonous, and as long as I am tall)

And Ivanilson, of course, who is now 13

Special thanks to Roy, Irene, and Frank who have been coming to Living Stones to help out while visiting Brazil!

Monday: I opened the box with the pressure cooker in it. I stared at it blankly and went to work. Flavio soaked the salt out of the meat while I sorted through the beans and picked out the bad ones. Then the inaugural attempt using the pressure cooker. I went to cut up vegetables to put in the beans and realized I’d never seen this bumpy green thing before. I held it up and asked the kids “How do you cut this?” I didn’t even know what part of it was edible.

Pressure cookers are scary. You open it at the wrong time, and it will explode. Paulo sat at the table, telling us how his cousin got burnt all over her face when she opened it wrong. We played around with the tampa, lifting it up to let the steam out. We even got it going to a beat while we danced around the kitchen.

The problem with pressure cookers is that you have to get all the steam out before you can open it, and only then can you check to see if it is cooked. Boo. After a few false tries, bingo. Rachel’s first time making beans: and it was good.

Tuesday: I bought too many bananas. It was just one of those deals you can’t pass up. So I brought them to Living Stones and made vitamina de banana. Flavio made spaghetti and sausage meat stuff to add to the rest of the beans. And it was good.

Wednesday: Fried chicken. Oh yes. And I am a vegetarian. Growing up, the only time I made chicken was the boneless, skinless stuff you stick in the George Foreman machine: it doesn’t even look like it used to be an animal. After wrestling with gooey skin and fat whatever that stuff was, I made a sauce and fried that chicken. And made spaghetti. I was told my cooking was subliminar. And it was good.

Thursday: Flavio’s motorcycle was in the shop, so we walked the 4 kilometers to Cajueiro and got there too late to make a whole meal. I decided to make something different: my own version of cappuccino with cookies. While the cookies disappeared, I was told “Why can’t you just make normal chocolate milk? We don’t like this fancy stuff.” Well fine then. And I thought it was good.

Friday: I got out the big cuscus make. In Brazil, cuscus is sort of like cornbread,  not the middle eastern grain. You steam it to make it stick together. Along with my own version of sausage and eggs, when the kids saw the traditional Brazilian food, they declared that I had officially learned how to cook, and so now I was ready to get married. And it was good.

Saturday: Flavio picked up the kids in the Kombe (Volkswagon bus)  and brought them to my apartment—the trip into Carpina (the big city for them) was pretty exciting. They came in and looked at all my pictures and explored my bathroom and (I think) finally decided that maybe I wasn’t so weird after all.

I made three very large pizzas, three kinds of juice, and cut open a watermelon. All of it vanished, except for the green olives I put on the pizza, which I found scattered all over the apartment after they had left.  They could have told me they didn’t like them—I only put them on the pizza because that is traditional in Brazil.

We called my mother on Skype and all the kids said hello. You should have seen them crowding around me. I took them up to the top floor of the apartment, where you can look out over the city and feel the wind in your face: they loved it. It was the highest up that some of them had ever been. It was beautiful to see their faces. To get those hugs.

Food brings people together. I feel like since Living Stones has been able to offer food in Cajueiro Claro (since Flavio got the kitchen facilities donated in July), it has really brought us together like a family. I have to smack fingers out of the pot, trying to get a taste. I have to shoo boys out of the kitchen when they get underfoot.

We all file into the classroom, sit around the makeshift tables, and sing  “God is so good” before eating. That’s why there will be so much feasting in heaven—because it is a bonding thing. That is why I think church should be at Bob Evans. There is something special about eating together.

The kids feel it too. When I walk down the street in Cajueiro, I have one boy holding my hand, and two wrapped under my other arm. Tell you what—that saying “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach” is true. These lil guys love me. And I love them too.

I still need to learn how to be alone. “Without solitude there can be no real people. The more you discover what a person is, and experience what a human relationship requires in order to remain profound, fruitful, and a source of growth and development, the more you discover that you are alone—and that the measure of your solitude is the measure of your capacity for communion. The measure of your awareness of God’s transcendent call to each person is the measure of your capacity for intimacy with others.” –Henri Nouwen

This has been one of my most successful weeks  ever in ministry. Things are really happening. Coming up with great funding ideas. Money coming through. Moving forward on re-opening Paudalho. Cooking every day for the kids in Cajueiro, and having such a good time. Saturday was the a climax, sharing at the pastor’s meeting and then having the kids over to my apartment for a pizza party.

I was able to be here and orchestrate things for these kids they have never had before. Opportunities. New ways of seeing things. And I got to watch it play out on their faces, so expressively. It is something truly beyond riches of any kind.

And yet I am still empty. “Somewhere there must be a need for a total affection, an unconditional love, an ultimate satisfaction. I keep hoping for a moment of full acceptance, a hope that I attach to very little events.” –Henri Nouwen

 I am happy and successful in what I am setting out to do, but something still isn’t right within me. The holy longing has been growing the past couple of weeks, and I hear the call, but I do not know how to respond. I guess you just pick up the phone when it rings, but it still seems so hard.

“It is this type of extremism, of absolutism, of total surrender, of unconditional “yes,” of unwavering obedience to God’s will, that frightens me and makes me such a wishy-washy soul, wanting to keep a foot in both worlds.” –Henri Nouwen

Missionaries get the bum end of the deal. Because the times when it looks like things are going the best is when they are the most vulnerable. God, who to me feels so insatiable, calls for more. The point is never a successful ministry. He is never looking for anything more or less than an open heart, seeking Him.

Success falls short. And so I look to fill myself with satisfaction elsewhere. He doesn’t let me win, anywhere. Nothing less than Him will do. “Thus says the Lord: by waiting and calm, you shall be saved. In quiet and trust lies your strength.” Is. 30:15

“My name is John, and I am an Uncle” was how my brother introduced himself the other day. Rowan Garrett Embry. 7.4 pounds, 21 inches, born March 21, 6:15pm. I am an Auntie.

All I know about childbirth is you wait a long time. So I packed a lot of things. When my sister was born, I was packed off to a friends house and waited. When my brother was born, we sat in the waiting room and waited. We got to the hospital at midnight Saturday night. I curled up on a couch and did what I know to do. Wait. And wished I’d brought those little eye patches they give you on long plane flights.

In and out came reports: lots of contractions. Get the epidural. By 10am I ventured into the room. Dilated to two centimeters. How fast does it grow? I ask. I get yogurt at the hospital cafeteria. Dilated to three centimeters. The nurses are nice. I ask my sister about contractions—are they like cramps? They are not that bad if you had time to rest between them. Oh—and lots of people to rub your back. She feels itchy. Dilated to four centimeters.

I read aloud while she tries to sleep. Some book by Jewel. I didn’t know she could write and sing. I get into it. I get hungry. Poor sister can’t eat anything but ice chips. We’ve been here 15 hours. The baby has to come 24 hours after the water breaks. Or else. I drive to Safeway for actual food. Mushroom and cheese sandwiches. I have recently become a mushroom fan. Dilated to five centimeters. She asked me to French braid her hair so it will be away from her face. I am more than happy to be able to something to help. The rest of waiting is so slow. Dilated to six centimeters.  

The other centimeters go quickly and I do homework as people rush in and out, giving reports and calling people on cell phones. Then my mom and Donovan go in and the door is shut to everyone else by 5:30pm. And the proud dad and the new teary eyed grandma come out less than an hour later. He’s here!