I feel sorry for her, sitting there across from me, digging into the recesses of my toes. For $4, she is removing the dirt I’ve been carrying around all summer—from Indiana to Cleveland to Chicago to Michigan to Hong Kong to West Virginia to Brazil. I’ve tried to clean my toes, but I can’t do it like she can—and she hasn’t done them for four months.

I wonder what she is thinking as she digs and scrapes and cuts: “dang her feet are dirty.” Feet across the tile floor, across the cobblestone path, through the grass; hoping there are no scorpions. My feet get the brunt of it. Taking me all over Brazil. Jogging through sugarcane fields in a moment of quiet, stepping up to the Kombe, hanging my leg down the side of the motorcycle. Dirt from everywhere.

I only do it once a month. It is frivolous, getting a pedicure while working among people who cannot get a decent meal. But it is something special. Something simple. And it hurts like the dickens because she cuts and digs and prods until my toes are warm and pink again. It is investing in myself. It is taking time to stop and clean up, let go, take off. And it is worth it.

It was a sleepover filled with fun and laugher and way too much giggling at ungodly hours in the morning—just like is supposed to happen. We made pizza and inside jokes together (I am still not sure how to translate them, so don’t ask), and went to church where the girls realized there are kids even ruder than their friends. They didn’t know it was possible.

I must say, their first experience with milkshakes will never be forgotten. I tried to make them pick something new, but they still ended up with chocolate and strawberry. We walked around “downtown” and took pictures, and had the girls riled up for hours—they blame the shakes.

When it came time for bed, I took them up to the top floor (where everyone hangs their laundry) and we sat in a circle with a candle and told funny stories. Embarrassing stories: the story about my skirt falling off in the middle of the airport won. But what scared the crud outta them? The true story of God healing my mom. Smile. Good thing they didn’t try to make me think up a ghost story…

Then church again and lunch (successful cooking by Rachel, by the way) and swimming in the pool. Their attempt to throw me into the pool failed miserably, but I let them think they won anyways.

And I finally got one picture of the Claudia, who wouldn’t get in front of the camera the whole time:

How to you explain color and dance and drums and fireworks and school after school marching through town to display sweaty children in heavy costumes and marching bands?

“It is all about the music,” Cecilia, one of my English students said, when I asked her what the difference was between the Carnaval parade and the Independence day parade. There is slightly less drinking, slightly more clothes for the females, and it is focused on schools rather than samba clubs: but about everything else is about the same. Everyone comes to town to see and be seen, eat lots of food, and march through town in fancy outfits. Basically, that seems to describe almost every holiday in Brazil.

The group from Cajueiro Claro set up a “barraca” (vendor tent) to sell all kinds of typical snacks: Water, pop, hot dogs, coxinhas, impadas, chocolate truffles, and cakes. I added my bit of flavor by making a bunch of snickerdoodles (sugar/cinnamon cookies) and calling them “biscoitinhos americanos.” When we didn’t have any customers, I would just yell out to the crowd in English “Cookies! I am American! My mother’s special recipe, imported just for you!” And then translate it. The confused people wandered over and normally ended up buying something…even if it wasn’t my cookies.

Edivaldo showed me around, and I danced down the street behind one of the bands as we went. He was thoroughly embarrassed: “Stop it! Rachel! Quit dancing!” which of course only made me do it more. Then I got Milena to dance with me and he just abandoned us all together. I love scandalizing my kids. I am going to make a great mother someday.:)

I woke up this morning in Joelson and Aninha’s spare room. It is so weird to think of them having a spare room. Of being married. Of having a house. It made me miss Dona Angela like the dickens. Aninha’s mother. I remember waking up, not being able to roll over because there were 3 in the bed and not wanting to squish anyone. The morning light streaming in so purely.

I love that house—so many memories. Before Junior fixed it up. With the peacocks strutting and making their funny call, the roosters in the morning, the ducks adding their two cents. And the turkey. That turkey scared me. Sitting on the concrete while someone fried up some eggs and we laughed and giggled and wondered about so many things.

Dona Angela died in 2008. Junior was the pastor and did her service. And then it seemed like everyone was lost for awhile. At first we all pulled together. Everyone came over to the house and we’d sit together on the bed, recounting stories. Stories that made me want to quit everything to write a book and make them all famous, because they are my heroes. But so many stories that will never be written.

Then Aninha went into herself. Cacao and Patricia had problems with their job. Everyone was disillusioned with God and religion. Everyone reacted their own way. Now Junior is living with his partner in the house. And I miss him as he was. Aninha went back and forth and finally settled down and married Joelson. And they built a house just down the street. And got married.

And I woke up in their spare room and asked Joelson what he had learned from being married: “I’ve learned about patience and tolerance.” To which Aninha stormed in and said “what? You’d think I was hard to live with or something! I am the one who’s had to have tolerance and patience!” and it made me laugh because I think…that is a very accurate picture of marriage…

And then he said “Rachel, it is one thing to live life having your own goals and reaching them. But when you open your life to someone else, have a goal with them, and then manage to reach it and see how it affects not only you, but also them…well, that is joy exponential. And that is marriage.” Even Aninha was satisfied with that answer.

I walked outside the school and down the road. What used to be a pretty entrance is now a scraggly cut up walkway that will soon be consumed into this huge highway project. Highway. The name of the road that connects all the little towns out my direction. It has always been a two lane road. One lane going in, one going out. But they are doubling it, and using quadruple the space. And so, like anything in Brazil, this project has been ten years in the making, and will take ten more to finish. The dirt and dust blow past me as I wait for a ride to Living Stones.

A kombe stops. It is a gamble to grab a kombe, because some of them will stop in Paudalho until they are full. And all you can do is sit and wait. But I like to sit in the front, and the front is empty, so I hop in. the driver blows his nose. Again and again. Some kind of nose issue. But when he pulls out a handkerchief, I instantly like him. I like him because of a million reasons that have nothing to do with him.

Because my grandfather used a hanky, because my father still does. Because I folded them in the fresh laundry. Because he used them to wipe my tears. And that is my biased opinion on why all men who use hankies must be good. But I felt an instant comrodery with this man, as he tucked it into his pocket. I still think they are unsanitary.

They have flattened the road to Cajueiro Claro a little better. When riding by motorcycle across it, I no longer almost fall off from the steepness. Funny how things change. How Flavio and I started off walking, then got a motorcycle, and now he has a car. Funny how even the road seems to loose a couple of its bumps. But I still remember how it was. And sometimes…I miss it. Simple and having nothing is something you cannot buy.

Flavio is busy getting ready for tomorrow, so there is no “projeto” today. But the kids see me coming and run back. So we color and play soccer a bit. I sort out the closet and all the donated things Flavio let accumulate there. Donated broken dolls and underwear with holes in it…I throw out a couple bags of things I could, in no way with a conscience, give anyone—and yet, the bags disappear before I manage to get them to the trash heap. Someone will use them for something.

Things are so much more structured at Mussurepe, and I can get so much more done—like actually teach a lesson! Imagine that. But I like Cajueiro better. Maybe I always like the bad ones  best. Maybe it is all about the amount of time you invest in it.

It is so beautiful to see the kids sing. Something miraculous in song. In sitting there with 25 kids, clapping in the afternoon sunlight and singing “aqule que esta feliz, diga amen: AMEN…” it makes me know that no one could be so lucky as me, and want to film it so as many people as possible could join in.

He is from Jamaica, grew up in Connecticut, and is finishing college in South Carolina. In South Carolina, he met the director of Good News Ministries, who offered an opportunity to work at the Youth Center in Indianapolis last summer. While I haven’t officially worked at the youth center since 2010, I still visit and stay in contact with the kids, and we have a reunion of sorts every year. Rachel meets Caid. Caid meets Rachel, but Rachel is leaving for Hong Kong in five days. They were five very nice days.

We kept in contact, and our friendship grew, even though we knew we were just putting off when we would say goodbye. Our lives were two complete circles, and none of the points intersected. Two weeks at the end of summer were filled with fun, games, chaparones, and laughter. And then Brazil for Rachel and South Carolina for Caid.

And I wanted more than friendship , but Caid wasn’t on the same page. So I said goodbye. Around Christmas he asked me if we could be friends again. With enough time and space between us—and the realization that I would probably never see him again, I said yes. We kept in contact every once in awhile until May, when it turned out he would be passing through Indiana for a day while I was there as well. An intersection.

For me, we had established a good friendship. But for him, now the tables had turned. This year, while I was in Hong Kong, he asked me to be his girlfriend. We both knew I would say yes . We got to meet up and go camping in West Virginia for a couple days while he on his way to South Carolina, and I was packing to return to Brazil (John enjoyed being our third wheel—grin). So Skype and Facebook it is until Christmas.

Caid is a senior, finishing his degree in youth ministries and music. I have plenty more things to do in Brazil with Living Stones. We don’t know the future, but are following the Lord towards a path that leads together. I am hoping to come home for Christmas 2012, but plan on being in Brazil all of 2013. In 2014, Lord willing, it will be a year of transition. Thank you for all of your prayers and encouragements and love—what an exciting life it is to live with Christ!

 Ha! Now that I am settled in Brazil and working on catching everything up, I realize that I stopped posting for awhile, and forgot to catch up. So backtrack with me, as I get everything organized:).

The last camp in Hong Kong, QLS 2, was incredible. We had 99 campers for 6 days. During those six days, we also had a typhoon 8. Over a previous break, we had had a complete lock-down, and a typhoon 10–it was the worst Hong Kong had had in 13 years. So another typhoon so soon was a big deal. And a typhoon with 99 campers is much different than one with zero campers.

All of the office workers, team leaders, and campers pulled together to have an incredible time, even though we were quarantined into one building for a night and part of a day.

Professionally, I grew to a place where I felt confident that I knew what I wanted to share, and I could get that message across quickly and efficiently. And I had a lot of fun doing it.

My friendships grew deeper as I felt my time in Hong Kong closing, but I was very satisfied that I had accomplished all I had come to do. Thank you everyone–that I met, and who supported me: it was incredible.

Dashing around the world and then home and then around the USA and then back to Brazil…so today was my first day back to Cajueiro. The more time you invest in a place, the more it is yours. And so, Cajueiro is currently the place with my most hearttugs. It is sad, yet realistic, to know this can change…

So there was this guy interning at the International school for a month. He is working with international business, and I am sure is a genius of some kind. He came to Brazil (through a university organization) because he wanted to see the other side of things. He’d seen the rich side. He’d lived the money side. Now he wanted to see the ‘have not’ side.

And so he came to Brazil. And there was nothing in Recife. So he asked to be sent to Carpina. And saw the school—which is still rich. And today is his first time, after being here almost a month, to finally find it: poverty. funny how sometimes it takes such a long time to finally find it. It is so close to all of us…yet so hard to find. So hard to truly see.

He joined me, going to Cajueiro Claro. Standing with me in the too full bus. Pushing through people’s crotches to get past. Riding a motorcycle around and then down and then up the countryside until you finally feel it: the middle of nowhere. And then the yellow dingy church. It is dingy, for mold finds everything in the tropics. But it is mine. A

My kids tumbled out of it and greeted me with hugs. Sincere hugs. Hugs that said I love you, and at the same time said “Now that I see you, I know I really did miss you. And that is nice to know.”

After devotions and singing and soccer and lunch and hugs and dancing I took him to see around the “town.” I forgot how Milena’s house was made of sticks and mud. How you look in and see a worn couch and sunlight through the cracks of the other wall. How the roof is made of some kind of dried plant stalk.

I remember when I first came, how the children wouldn’t talk to me, wouldn’t come into the same room as me because I was a foreigner. Now, they hug me shamelessly, and invite this stranger, from South Korea, into their home as well. I’ve opened a door, and it is a wide door. The consequences are lasting and sometimes that frightens me.

Puppies are everywhere. At Camila’s house there are kittens. Then we walk down the road to Paulo’s house. A trail of children follow, as wherever I go there is a processional. With one kid on either side, and Flavio telling me we are late. I run into people everywhere. I’ve infiltrated this whole community, I realize. For better or worse—you are responsible for what you have tamed.

I see a patchwork house of trash and dirt with a makeshift kitchen out front—who’s house is that? Mine, says Eduarda’s mom, with a slightly proud air. I wonder if my lip had turned up at all, for it is very humble, and perhaps my words riled her. But not enough to dwell on. I hope not. For it is truly all she has, and we both know it, and that is that. Gustavo’s house is falling down even worse. The wall is stabilized by some sticks, but you can see it won’t last long. It must have been a hard rainy season this year.

I call out to Paulo’s mom and she calls me to come in. I brush past the fluttering sheets put up instead of doors in the basic brick house. It is simple but clean. She points out it’s humility as I come in and I say “but it works!” and give her a big hug. Paulo grabs my leg, hiding under the bed. I am glad it isn’t a rat.

And on the ride home the intern is silent. I ask if he has any questions and he says it is a lot to processes. It is, I say. Sometimes I think I haven’t processed yet either. Sometimes I know it. I give him my card and tell him to keep in contact. Friday he will reenter the business world of suits and the richest people from around the world. I don’t want him to be able to wash the dirt off of Cajueiro Claro that quickly.

Weird weird weird. Everything is weird leaving and coming and going. And you enjoy the weird and call it normal except for when it feels funny. When I got back to Brazil last week my body quit on me. A couple days of nothing—not even eating (that is when you know Rachel isn’t normal) as I’ve not really rested for the past 3 months.

A lot happened in those three months. And now that I am back in Brazil, in my apartment, where I feel more like home than anywhere else at this point and time in my life, I am reflecting on it. Distance gives perspective. And coming back into my life, I am trying to sort out these new perspectives.

Every time I go to Living Stones I feel like I need just as long afterwards to process everything. Or at least write something down. I am getting used to life in Brazil with a boyfriend in the USA. It isn’t like I’ve ever tried to portray myself as a desperate single girl, but you should see the way most of the people I know congratulate me. You would think I won the lottery rather than got a boyfriend from their smiles, hugs, and words. It is sweet.

It is interesting to see how the kids respond. For as much as Brazil says it isn’t racist, there is still some thoughts and feelings there. I can feel them. But they haven’t learned how to hide anything in Cajueiro Claro. When I showed them his picture today, someone said, “Why is he so black?” to which the other kid said, “He is the same color as you.”

Edivaldo, the darkest boy, didn’t say anything but gave me an extra hug when we were done. It said something. Something like “hmmm, maybe you really do love us.” Funny how sometimes I feel they still doubt it sometimes. Funny the things that prove my love. Something like “you picked him when you could have picked any color you wanted. Maybe you really do love my color too.” I do.  

How is color such a big deal? Take away the right and wrong of it, and just wonder…how? I understand how beauty and ugly is. Even though I still feel guilty when I notice myself pulling towards the beautiful and away from the ugly. Karine said, “Rachel, if he were fat and white you wouldn’t have dated him.” And this. Is. Probably. true.

Hmmm.

Tomorrow is Independence day in Brazil (since 1822). Living Stones/Cajueiro Claro is having a consession stand at the parade tomorrow. I’ve volunteered to make “biscoitinhos americanos,” which is how I have translated “snickerdoodles.” I wonder if anyone will buy them?

I’ve also given up my weekend to the girls. I know I shouldn’t be inwardly groaning, but I am, so I guess that is a sign I am growing old. I promised the girls in Cajueiro Claro we would do a girl thing when I got back. The first words out of their mouths when I arrived? “Remember, you promised!”

So they are coming over. No, I am going over. I will take a bus, then a motorcycle to go out to get them, then walk back a couple miles with them and their bags, catch a bus back to my house where I will feed them food and go sleepless for the next 24 hours. Ahhh. But it will be lovely. And I am smiling inwardly already as I imagine their glee. I am a pretty cool person. Especially when I look at myself from a 12 year old girl’s eyes.

I live in an apartment in the “big city” of Carpina (60-80,000 people). We will make home-made pizza and then walk around the “praca,” watching all the older kids make out and giggle at everyone else not making out. I will take them to Mr. Mix, which is the cool place to go because it has 29 different flavors of milkshakes. Milkshakes are the new big thing in this town. They’ve never had one.

I will then make breakfast of some kind, and we will catch a bus to church. After church I will make lunch of some kind (by this time they will insist on having meat, if not beforehand), and I have permission for us to use the pool at the international school. Yesssssss. Hoping they have slept (or allowed me to sleep) sufficiently, we will then take a bus or Kombe back to the entrance of their town, where we walk another couple of miles, wet and with their things, to deliver them safe at home.

I will then make use of the Monday and Tuesday off (Not only does the country have Independence day on Friday, but my town, Carpina, has their town anniversary on Tuesday, making for a five day weekend), and sleep. In the end, we all win.