They came running down the dirt road, the puffs of dust scattering behind them. They were wet and happy, just come from the river, where they swam and pretended to help their mother wash clothes. She walked slowly behind them, a big tub of clothes balanced on her head. They saw me from a distance, and I waved.

“Tia Raquel! Tia Raquel!” They shouted, and Neto, wearing torn underwear, came running, with Erasmas and Polyana close behind him. Hugs were given freely and fiercely. And I think I was born for moments like these. Two children tucked under my arms with two more holding my hands, looking up at me with big smiles.

It is hard to pinpoint just when you move from stranger to friend. In 2009 I started going every day to Living Stones Paudalho. I brought Uno, or Memory, or Candyland. I played dodgeball until the bottom of my feet were sore from the pebbles in the dirt. I greeted each one with a “Good Morning” and made sure to look every child in the eyes when we said “Goodbye.” It was a good time.

When I returned to Brazil in 2011, the program ended. The church was doing construction, and the government was corrupt and didn’t care enough to provide the funds that it had promised to continue the program. But those friendships has been built, and we work to keep connected. We had the Christmas party in January, and the Easter party. Now, we will have the Children’s day party.

I’ve been passing out invitations this week. The party is next Tuesday. Mercia, one of the older girls, has been kind enough to take me around many of the homes—she knows everyone. Most of the time we have a whole train of children around us, little ones running ahead to yell, “Tia Raquel is here! And we are going to have a party!”

Even Marcone, my deaf boy (who is now taller than me!) was grunting and making guestures to one of the kids to go get an invitation from me. I ask them how they’ve been, and to make sure to come because there will unlimited cotton candy and popcorn and clowns and a bounce house.

 I’ve been around to visit the homes of the children over five times now, so the mothers are getting to know me and warm up to me—except for the occasional one who will stare at me like an alien and say “I don’t understand a word she is saying—what kind of accent does she have?” Some of the mothers shyly ask if they can come to the Children’s day party too. “Of course!” I smile.

I’ve been running around like crazy with party preparations. It is harder than it looks. So many people have donated things from the USA and from Brazil—my apartment was covered in presents as I tried to organize almost 200 gift bags: pencils and erasers and journals from Cherrylynn and her VBS kids in Texas, bookmarks and stickers from Disneyland, Lik-a-Made from the Youth Center, toys from Karianne and her mother’s ladies group in Michigan, toys from Sandra in Paudalho, snacks from the ladies in Cajueiro claro…This day is being made special from so many!

Everyone who purchased jewelry made in Brazil (and to Nicki)—thank you—because that money is providing for the party package with clowns and balloons and a bounce house and trampoline and pool of balls. I’ve already signed up everyone I could from the Paudalho church to come and help out—singing songs and giving a Bible lesson for the kids as well. I am recruiting as many photographers as possible to capture moments to share with everyone who has become a part of this project. It is truly a time to celebrate these special ones who are so close to the heart of Jesus.  

There is still time to give! If you would like to help out with some of the last minute expenses (because those always happen), please go to www.wribrazil.com to donate. Please write in the comment area that it is for the Children’s day party.

(Daniel, celebrating with us for Children’s day in 2009)

I love “Reunitarias,” the reunion for the community churches. Seeing all these people that I have met over the years, seeing all the fruit of what God is doing in the different cities in Northeast Brazil…it is overwhelming. This is why I am here—this is a miracle in a picture.

I found out a couple days ago that I would not only be helping with the children’s program, but that I would be in charge of lunch for 15 kids—11 growing boys included. I walked up and down the aisles of the grocery store, trying to figure out what to bring. How much to bring.

15 packages of cookies. Three loaves of bread. Ham and cheese. Pop, cups, and napkins. 9 packages of crackers. Bananas. I got twice as much as was suggested. The reunitaria was at Word of Life, a camp complete with pool and waterslide.

After the kids put on swimsuits, I jumped into my mom duties with a big thing of sunscreen, squeezing it into everyone’s hands and  rubbing it on noses. I told them it was super powerful sunscreen since it was from America.

I ended up being the slide monitor at the pool for most of the morning, because my boys were the troublemakers. Basically, if there was anything loud going on, I could know it was one of my kids. How they got their hands on the drum sets, I will never know.

Rogerio gave each one of the kids a pair of shoes (some of them didn’t have any—just flip flops) and a toy, and while we were eating lunch, some of the families around us saw all the hungry boys and helped out with feeding them. Not only did we eat all of the food I brought, but we ate everyone else’s leftovers as well.

I told the boys not to run around like little lost boys without their shirts on, so they would carefully put on their shirts anytime I made them take a break from swimming. Whenever they got the okay to go back swimming, their shirts would be off and flying at me with “I love you Rachel” as they ran and dived in again.

There is a river in Cajueiro claro, so like any rural boy, these guys swim like fishes. But this is their only chance to swim in a real pool with clean (ish) water. They won almost every race, and we all cheered them on.

Being mom to 15 kids is draining. I do this for three hours a day and special activities, and then come home and plop on the couch. I can’t imagine being a full-time mom. No breaks. You live with the little buggers. And this is my job. I write about it and people say “good job—that is great what you are doing with the kids.” And I love it. But I also like coming home to quiet aloneness. A mom is so permanent. So for now, I am just a part time mom. God knows I am not ready for more. Not yet.

Hello my xanga friends. Every once in a while you meet special people like this one–Carina:

If you know me well, you have heard about or met Carina. Yes, she cut her hair. And she left the country to do this program she found online. Apparently, it is not only legit, it is WONDERFUL:). Last time I heard, she was learning how to professionally present herself. oooooooo. I wanted to know more about the program–especially after I found out where it was located and saw the beautiful pictures online. And it is awesome enough to share about–and so that is what I am doing right now.

Do your eyes need a new landscape?

Does your heart need a fresh purpose?

Do you want to learn new skills through practical application?

Located in the Caribbean on the remote island of St. Vincent, Richmond Vale Academy trains community service leaders to work in developing countries. RVA’s programs focus on:

• Sustainability
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No degree is required, just a willingness to volunteer and learn about how you can make a difference!  The program is taught in English, but Spanish language courses are provided if you choose a Latin American program. You must be 18 to apply. Fees include food and accommodation for the entire program, flights to and from, pocket money, and heath insurance while in Latin America.

30 Days. Wow. I wrote every single idea I had. Yep. No more. I even googled “Inspirational stuff about family” to try to think of something. And yeah, some of the days were off…day 30 is actually tomorrow…but tomorrow is Children’s day, and I have become mom to 15 kids who are going to be running around a huge camp all day. Part of my “mom-ing” duties is feeding them all. I don’t think I bought enough bread.

So I leave you with this:

There are ten of us Winzeler kids, really. Seven of us just didn’t make it all the way here. I was the first, and then there were three miscarriages between Anna and I. I don’t know if they were boys or girls. Since I was so young, all I did know was that I would spend the night at the Jones’s while my mom was gone. I can’t imagine what my mom must have gone through.

Even though I am older now, I still cannot imagine the emotional pain of what it would be to lose a child. Between Anna and John were four more miscarriages, one which we know was a boy. We are all three miracles, really, with my mother’s health issues and two (one was later removed) blocked fallopian tubes. It is just hard to understand why. Why there weren’t ten miracles.

Once I started writing poems, one of my first ones was written to my seven unborn brothers and sisters.

Where did you come from?

Where did you go?

What happens when

You don’t make it through?

I like to imagine

You think about me

I want to think

I will get to meet

You someday

Did you wish you could see me?

Were you ready to trust God

When you had to go?

Are you happy where you are?

Can you see me walk through life?

Did you ever wonder what it would be like

If you had become part of our family?

Because I do.

What would you have looked like?

What would you have liked to do?

What would have been your favorite color?

What would life have meant for you?

I wish you were here

I wish I could hold you

Will I get to someday?

Will you know me then?

Sometimes it is hard

To know and to trust

There was a reason

You could not stay

But please tell Jesus

I am trying

Sitting in a Chinese buffet restaurant. That is when it happened. When between sauce covered broccoli and fortune cookies I stepped back from the table talk around me and realized it. I had the family I always wanted.

When you grow up, you have this idea in your head—the idea of the perfect family. I thought I’d met them when I was eight, but then I spent the night at their house and we had to go to bed at 7:00pm. That was NOT the perfect family. In fact, the more I got to know other families, the more I realized mine wasn’t as bad as I thought.

And then I became an adult. I grew up and left home. Fortunately, I don’t seem to leave permanently and I keep coming back, so a Chinese buffet it was. We have issues. We have problems—I actually wrote a letter to my first boyfriend telling him to run away, very, very fast. But we are a family and we love each other.

And sitting there together, not caring about if we laugh too loud or eat too many noodles, I knew those people would always be there for me, and I for them. And if I could choose anyone, it would be them. And bonus points for being fun, too. I really like those people.

Even though I am left handed, I cut things with my right. I didn’t realize this until this week, when from all my time in the kitchen, I have cuts all over my left hand. Only my pinkie has escaped. I am glad, at 29 years old, to finally feel like I can cook.

It was one thing to learn how to cook in America with microwaves, canned food, and pop n fresh,  but is something completely different to cook in a third world country where you must use separate water, boil it, and make everything from scratch. Oh, and everything is written in another language. Most of the ovens are so old that I can’t tell what temperature it is, and if I can, it is in Celcius. Add to that cooking for 10-15 people every day, within a time limit.

I remember the first time I came to Brazil, staring at the cubbards and crying because I couldn’t even make macaroni and cheese: the milk was different. The cheese was different. The noodles were different, and I couldn’t figure out how to turn on the stove.

This week the girls have been helping me cook. We sit at the table cutting up vegetables and stirring pots while chatting about life and what we want it to look like. I thought I knew how to make cake. Apparently not. Marcella made a cake for everyone, giving me all this advice on how to do it. Cake making in Brazil requires beating in the ingredients in one by one for half an hour. I normally plop everything in the blender and pour into the pan—or use a mix.

The girls think my cooking is extravagant, because I like to use various spices and flavorings in everything. I wonder what kind of bland food they are used to. One of the girls brought a bag of potatoes from her garden, so we had potatoes with everything this week: beans and potatoes, noodles and potatoes, cuzcuz and potatoes, soja (a soy bean meat substitute) and potatoes, chicken and potatoes. It was a lot of potatoes.

They are also enjoying my banana milkshakes. My secret ingredient is cookies. Don’t tell. I am writing so much about food because it takes up so much time, but really, much more is happening. Next week, October 12, is Children’s day. The community churches use this holiday to get together at Word of Life and celebrate with our church family as well as our personal family.

It is $10r a person, so many of the Living Stone’s children do not have the money to go—this is their one chance a year to go swimming in an actual pool with a waterslide. So last week we put together some jobs around the church to do in exchange for the money needed to go to the party next week. The boys worked hard, weeding and raking the grounds, while the girls washed down the whole church and all the classrooms.

This lil sweety (Kelany) wanted to help clean too:)

One marked memory is when five or six of the kids were in the kitchen (while I was trying to cook), sweeping and mopping the floor around me while we all sang and danced to the World Cup song “Waka Waka.” Paulo came in from outside, covered in sweat, so he got all wet and then started doing slip-and-slide—belly first, across the kitchen floor. Good times.

Plans are still working towards our big children’s day party—hopefully on October 25, the funds are coming in (if you would like to help, please go to www.wribrazil.com to donate, under Living Stones), and we are planning on almost 200 kids coming to an afternoon of fun and evangelism.

I had two dead birds and a live grasshopper thrown at me. Twice. The joy of working with 8-14 year olds. Mostly boys. There was a dead bat in the sink. There are numerous bats in the ceiling at Cajueiro Claro, and I can hear them sniggering at me while I cook. They leave their “leftovers” everywhere, and randomly fly out over my head. I have no more sympathy for them when the kids catch them.

The way to a man’s heart is truly through his stomach, and this is especially true of little boys. Since beginning cooking for the kids, my ribs are sore from all the hugs I received this week, and they have started calling me “mom.” The analogy of the Living Stone’s project being a family continues as the kids called Flavio and I together for a meeting and told us we needed to get married. Flavio explained that this wasn’t happening, but they still have that cunning look in their eyes.

For all practical purposes, we do function much like a family, complete with me saying “You need to listen or I will go tell Flavio,” which normally works. I consider myself a stern person when I want to be, but these kids take it to a new level. I might be able to get kids in Indianapolis inner city to listen, but these kids still hold out. Flavio said I needed to toughen up. I am not sure if that will happen, or if I want it to happen. Yelling and punishment do not make me happy, but it is all they know. It will take a long time to retrain these things.

I know in my spiritual life a huge turning point was when my father decided that the whole family was going to get up in the morning and have devotions and breakfast together. After growing up in the church, this was the first time I really connected Christianity to life. To food. To daily devotions. Living Stones starts with us sitting in a circle, in the church or under a tree, and having devotions. Then Flavio gets out the guitar and we sing. Who knows what will happen after that. I have stopped trying to figure it out.

Oh, I always plan something, it just normally doesn’t work that way. Sometimes we get into a conversation started from the devotional. Or we talk about something that has been going on in the kid’s lives. Or we play Frisbee or soccer. Other times, we really do what I plan and talk about a character quality and color a picture or do a craft.

Sometime during, in, and through this time, Flavio or I am figuring out what to cook for lunch, cooking lunch, serving lunch, and then washing dishes. This week at church we had communion. I explained what it was to the children: remembering Jesus’s life and death, body and blood. How it was celebrating what connects us and makes us a family. How it was only for those who were a part of Jesus’ family and walking with him.

Two of the four children who made a public profession of faith last week decided to share in communion for the first time with the adults. This led to some giggles and whispers by the others, who are still watching to see how this Christian stuff works. What a beautiful process to watch.

First day of getting out of bed, going to school, and being on your own all day long. Then coming home to tell stories. I was so big and grown up. I laid out my clothes the night before. Did all my “Back to school” shopping and filled my pencil case. My binder had horses on it.

The ride to school took FOREVER. Long enough to sit and worry. Worry about the teacher, my classmates, school work…I’d been warned about horrible homework. I got lost trying to find the classroom. I tried very hard to not look lost.

With four chairs per table, and I sat in the first one, closest to the teacher. I was ready to be teacher’s pet. Mr. Bowke. Sideways, he reminded me of a triangle, with his tall, straight back and then middle that came out to a point. Mr. Bowke was big. From where I sat, he was even bigger. 

One student had a piece of candy. I listened to every crinkle as they unwrapped it and slowly swirled it around their mouth. I couldn’t wait for lunchtime. Reaching for my pencil, I knocked the pencil box up and over. My face flashed red as it was raining pencils. All was quiet: even the candy stopped clicking against the boy’s teeth. Mr. Bowke stopped the class.  He walked over to me, picking up the pencils. He put his hand on my shoulder and told me it would be all right. I believed him.

I bought my own clothes for the first day of school. I drove my own car to my first class. Being homeschooled from kindergarten through high school,  my first day of school was in college.

I never believed in Santa Clause, but I never missed out. When I was little, my mother sat me down and explained that Santa Clause was not real, but Grandma was. And Grandma always filled up my stocking and made sure there were presents under the tree. I listened closely and decided that this worked for me.

I was a bit of a “know it all” as a child already, but made sure to hold my tongue around other children about Santa. I didn’t want to ruin it for them—and besides, they might not have a Grandma, and how sad would that be? But with adults, I sure to let them know I knew what was up: Grandma’s are where it’s at.

My mother tells me of many amused adults who would grin sideways at her while I explained to them the “facts” about Santa and Grandmas. Thank goodness for Grandmas.