I am so tired, but the band at the Catholic church down the street just finished warming up. They aren’t as off key as yesterday’s band, the sign says the festival—for St. Joseph—will be every night through next week, so my sigh of resignation escapes. I pull out a piece of paper to write since I cannot sleep.

I look at the bug bites that come the first two weeks being back in Brazil. After drawing first blood, they normally leave me well enough alone, but one insect outdid itself, tripping across my wrist and leaving a red bump bracelet. Two across my forehead. Every once in awhile I connect the dots and realize that means random creatures are crawling across me while I sleep….but I let that thought go because it leads nowhere beneficial.

It is interesting working in 5 completely different settings from very rural (Mussurepe) to 100,000 population urban (Carpina). From completely destitute (Trash dump), to children who can read and write decently (Carpina). Each has their own set of problems and I am amazed at how it isn’t the income level, but the level of family cohesion that makes the difference in the children.

Mornings are with Pastor Flavio in Cajueiro Claro and Mussurepe—both rural areas with mostly mud hut houses. Afternoons are with Glory Sports programs in Carpina and Guadalajara, both in the city, but in needy neighborhoods. Evenings are working on my post-grad in Educational Psychology. Weekends are at the trash dump, and teaching English in the community.

Being in the USA over the winter meant I lost what little tan I had, and as the children put it, “Tia Rachel, you came back looking like a cloud again!”

Oh rain. Running from bus stop to car/building and getting around in general by public transport in the rain is just a hassle. Mud puddles attack you from all sides. I went to Carpina to help with the girls sports program. Didn’t have a clue what I was doing. The guys running it are laid back. They are fluid like the culture, and I want a bit of ridged discipline until the girls and I have found a nice balance and understanding.

I am now a post-grad student. After a year and a half of waiting for the Educational Psychology program to begin (once they had enough students), it has. Actually, I am late. It started last November, so they have already finished two modules (each class is a month long module).

When working on my undergrad, I was not very impressed with Brazilian private education. In Brazil, you work your butt off to get into a state college, because that is where the good teachers are, and if you pass the entrance exam, college is free. For everyone else, you pay. When I studied, I was in a class of 94 women and 3 men. With a volume level to match. It took half an hour for everyone to sign the attendance sheet. Half the people were late, so starting at 7 meant 7:30, and people did the “rustle your stuff and leave” show from 9-9:30. Have you ever met a Brazilian women? Basic samples show me they are friendly and gossipy. And these were just that. The whole class time. It has to get pretty bad by the time I “shush” them.

Post-grad doesn’t seem to be much better. This module is the “psicopedigogia de desenvolvimento do processo de aprendizagem” which simply means talking about how we learn. Brazilians love the flowery way of saying things. I say cut the crap. The teacher had everyone introduce themselves. About 60 women and 4 men. Why does this ratio haunt me? In two seconds I had identified the class clown, and after I introduced myself to the class, he stood up and loudly sat next to me (still in the middle of class), and began letting me know he had begun taking English classes two weeks ago—this must be fate! I tried politely shushing him in English. It only made him more excited.

The teacher then spent the next hour of class having us write down positive and negative things we felt about the class. This kind of post-grad I can pass. By the time she finally pulled out a syllabus, the class had already argued down the guy who said we needed to be punctual, and cheered me on when I said I looked forward to new ideas people brought. I need to be popular enough that someone will let me into their “group project” when it comes time to present. “group projects” seem to still be code for “One person does all the work and everyone else signs the paper.” I have long given in to this, since everyone knows my Portuguese grammar stinks. All other papers, I do in English and then translate, and turn both copies in. so far, this has gotten me a soild “A” average.

By my 4^th class, it was time for a presentation. Since I didn’t do any writing, I told my group I would help present. Since no one from the group showed up, I did it myself. Luckily, it was about Piaget, so I could pull something out of my butt, and do a reasonably decent job of it. I threw in some information from Supercamp, and the whole class was enthralled. They stopped to listen because they thought my accent was cute, but continued listening because it really was good information. And I managed to center everything around passion fruit. Ha. But in all seriousness, I think it was the first time all 65 students were silent for a whole 8 minutes.

1. Wake up and say “Great day” three times fast. Because it is true, it helps, and it is what I want for you.

2. East a yummy breakfast, like those toaster strudel things.

3. Wear some kind of birthday item to school. Since attending BJ, I guess not birthday glasses…perhaps a birthday tie?

4. Flap your birthday tie meaningfully at people all day and enjoy all of the well-wishes

5. Call your mom. She likes that.

6. Have some time with God–dedicating this year to all and anything He might have for you

7. Eat lunch someplace nice like Hibachi grill–tell them it is your birthday and maybe they will give you a free meal!

8. Open the card I left for you. And read the book.

9. Watch this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RyGC4A48Sdc because it is a good story

10. Watch this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k_wErQLSnDw because you are awesome!

11. Watch this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cq8tHscbCaY because I just made it for you.

12. Call your girlfriend. She likes that.

13. Write out some goals you have for this year

14. Think of a really funny birthday status to put on Facebook because you are so popular (do you really have more friends than I do?)

15. Watch this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sa0RUmGTCYY because it is really interesting

16. Watch this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e5RuGj0g1tk and get it stuck in your head:). These words are my own…

17. Climb a tree. Just do it.

18. Write a song.

19. Do extra birthday flips at work

20. If you don’t get a birthday cake, buy yourself an ice cream cone and make a wish. The outcome is the same: happiness.

21. Write a letter to your future self of how you how life goes

22. Listen to music you love.

23. Save all your birthday money to come see me in Brazil for my birthday.

I love you, Caid Ferguson! Happy Birthday:)

Must remember to bring my own airfreshener. Smells affect me more than general cleanliness. Just make it smell good and we are fine. I am the minority–female and white. I feel subdued, realizing I hold on to my middleclassness more than I wished. The buses are nice–much nicer than the bus stops and their cold black grate chairs. Unfortunately, the bus stops are where you get stranded at. My bus doesn’t show and I spend midnight to 6am heating up those cold black grate chairs, talking to a couple brave souls who interrupt my nose-in-book routine.

One is a friendly Greyhound worker, who simply takes the book out of my hands to read the cover, and who’s eyebrows raise as he reads “A Year of Biblical Womanhood” (he is about as surprised as I am that I like reading it). He pats my head and says he is proud of me. Normally he sees trashy books and pretends to read aloud the title “How to Kill Your Husband.” But not for me. “So are you?” He asks, “Going to kill your husband?”

“I don’t plan on it.” I blush, willing the pink off my cheeks, “When I do marry.” “Well what are you waiting for?” He asks. “For him to finish college” is my oversimplified answer, to which he chuckles out something about not waiting too long and “Lucky fellow.”

The other conversation resulted in recieving Maudi Gras beads from a traveling musician who had missed his bus to go hear his girlfriend sing at the Grand Ol’ Opre. “I’d better do something aweful nice for her on Valentine’s Day!” he says, to which i heartily agree, and then wonder why he asked me out for drinks in the next sentence. No, I tell him, I have a date with my blanket.

In Cinncinati, I met a fellow Indianapolis-ian who tells me somberly, “I just can’t wait to smell Indianapolis.” I nod, thinking of my bed more than my nose. The huge snowflakes fall perfectly, drifting and dusting everything without the intrusive wind that ruins the winter season for me.

By the time I’ve finished people watching, dozing, and ”Biblical Womanhood,” the snow is gone and we’ve entered Indiana. I am four hours later than scheduled, but surprisingly rested. Some thing you can’t control. So you just ride.

When did we start calling people colors instead of Nationalities? I am “Proud to be an American,” and I know many people have worked long and hard to be called that, but isn’t it just lazy? What about where you came from before (except Native Americans)?

Call me German, not white. And if you must call me a color, get a paint swatch to figure out what color I am because I’ve seen white paper, white shirts, white shoes…and I am not white.

We have forgotten how to be creative. Or maybe, we have forgotten to figure out who we are. I don’t relate to being German: beer, chocolate, snow, WW1 and WW2–no thank you please. I don’t know much more about Germany than that. And that is a shame. I haven’t tried.

I was watching “Lincoln” with my black boyfriend, thinking, “Man, this is so applicable to us.” But he isn’t black–he is Jamaican. He was born in Jamaica. For him, it was a conscious choice: he came to America when he was 6 and the children laughed at his accent. So he lost it, and embraced all that was called being American. He cried when his sisters told him he was still Jamaican. He turned to me in the movie and said, “This is our history.”

He identifies with American culture–he chose it–whereas I have always looked for a way out. I never have culture shock leaving the country: but always have counter-culture shock when returning. So the American-trying-not-to-be and the non-American-trying-to-be find a middle ground and begin to create their own culture. And don’t call it gray.

One tear

two tears falling from my face

How can I feel so strong

From a story so far away?

(http://www.kissesfromkatie.blogspot.com)

The words hold my heart

Aids. Dying. 4 children. Mother.

There is so much suffering in

This world

I hold my own world tight

because I am not sure

If I can handle letting anymore

Sorrow in

But don’t you see, My child?

That’s where I enter in

I use those holes and cracks

To make heaven.

I am still making heaven now–

It is not done for you yet.

You can only brush shoulders with people

For so long

Before they start brushing your heart

And that is as it should be.

I’ve been convinced for awhile now that the best of life happens when you can’t write. Just like the best ideas come in the shower or right before you fall asleep, and so can’t be marked down. It is Wednesday. My first return to my mini-sabbaths, which have been able to fit into my new schedule. Breathe.

I read http://www.kissesfromkatie.blogspot.com and it always makes a bit weepy because it is life and it is beautiful and i can feel it and it is so close and yet so far. Katie is doing many things I at a level I have never reached. And I half envy her at times. The other most of the time, I know enough to never wish that on anyone…carrying so many burdens. It is a beautiful horrible life. I say a prayer for her and her people.

From inside my apartment I can hide and finish unpacking and writing more papers and plans for the future. And my mornings are divided between Cajueiro Claro and Mussurepe, my rural Living Stones, and my afternoons are divided between Carpina and Guadalajara, much more urban areas, where I help the Athletes in Action group with basketball. Weekends, of course, at the dump. I’ve only been once so far, and felt the familiar feeling of hands crawling up my arms to hold my hands and rest on me. To just…touch.

We are planning Easter good stuff. And for my Mom and friend to come visit next month. And regestering all these new children and birthday parties to catch up from January and February. And stories to tell like Gustavo, who had a head infection with pus coming out of it–healed. Like the boys riding up on their donkeys in the middle of our coloring circle. Like Cajueiro claro getting uniforms, and getting Edivaldo to answer just one question in front of everyone, because he is so trained into thinking he cannot do anything right in school.

I am glad to be back. Home. I look at the groceries on the shelf and I think about what it will be like to shop with him next to me. I walk to church, and can’t wait until he will walk with me. I doodle his name, and write him the weirdest messages on skype because I am used to texting. Long distance relationships. All of the best and worst of human interaction. Breathe. It is a different focus, thinking about how things will change to where I am coming home with him. to him. Exciting and scary and one step at a time.

I find myself lacking many words many times. And wondering how to enter life, in general, on a deeper level. This growing up stuff seems to just keep going and going. I thought I already did that. Already claimed my adulthood. Why is there still so much to learn? Thank God there is still so much to learn!

And the children. So many, with their lives ahead and their pasts behind, and who knows what they need right now, and how do I handle the kid in the bright yellow shirt who keeps yelling at me with that smirk? And then how do I leave and do other things like paperwork and organization? And now I am a grad student. In a class overflowing with gossipy women who are nice, but make it so I can’t hear the teacher and make me wonder how the future of the world will be, if this is what it means to be at the top of the educated world. God save us all—no one knows what we are doing.

“Alas…men talk about finding the perfect person in order to love him. Christianity speaks about being the perfect person who limitlessly loves the person he sees.” –Kierkegaard

Happy Valentine’s day. What? Even those in happy relationships have some kind of horror story from the past. And there is always that melancholy tug on holidays in general. Ugg. Perhaps it is because my expectations are so fuzzy. I am supposed to be waiting for someone else to make me feel happy, loved, wanted, right?

When I go out of my way to love, it is a beautiful day. So now, my first Valentine’s day with a valentine. Officially. Who is mine. My first ever. I am 30. It has been a long time coming. And it is still heart-tugging, because I am not with him. Exactly now. I was able to be with him a couple of days ago—an unexpected pleasure. But like most things, it quickly turns from gratitude in what was to ingratitude that I don’t see it still.

(he was Aslan in “Narnia”)

Our relationship is mostly long distance. Ouch. And he is busy. And I am busy. And when unbusy actually meets for a little bit, a phone conversation doesn’t include kisses and closeness. But I love him, and he loves me. And we work hard to make the other person feel loved. So I consider it a successful Valentine’s day.

“I have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only love.” –Mother Teresa

I am in the in-between phase where I am not engaged, not planning a wedding, but thinking about how/when that will happen. When I have found the one my heart loves, and my heart keeps asking me “Then why are you doing anything else in life other than gazing into his amazing eyes?” And my brain can’t come up with any rational answers.

I have a life, I have a to-do list that is quite urgent, but it melts away so quickly to the thought of getting to talk to him, or write him, or anything involving him. Oh transitions, how you pester me. And how to do them gracefully. I read a book called “Altered: the true story of a she, a he, and how they both got too worked up about we.” Because in the heart-rush of the excitement of a relationship that is actually healthy and happy, it is so easy to close off and forget the rest of the world. The book is basically saying “Hey, what about the rest of the world we are called to love?”

“The only man who has the right to say he is justified by grace alone is the man who has left all to follow Christ. Such a man knows that the call to discipleship is a gift of grace, and that the call is inseparable from grace. But those who try to use this grace as an exemption from following Christ are simply deceiving themselves.” –Bonhoeffer

“When we overfocus on our own notion of marriage or family, we risk exchanging a “costly grace,” which requires us to follow Christ first, for a “cheap grace” that allows us to cling to our own plans. This is not to say that marriage and family won’t be a huge part of our lives—and a building block of our communities—but rather to remember that we cannot appropriate His words to our own plans. To follow Jesus means to truly seek Him before all other things, and that emphasis must not be lost on us. Discipleship is about much more than raising and protecting a Christian family, or succeeding at family in general. It is about seeking God first, before all things .” –Claire and Eli

One of the most romantic things my boyfriend ever said to me was that he loves me second best. After Christ. Because that is the only way it really works. And I love that. I need that. And I am scared about this transition. Because it is one thing to be single and travel and fall in love with Brazil and 170 children who live there. What about marriage? What about kids? I am scared I am going to turn into an overprotective Wal-mart mom who doesn’t want her children to get dirty. Who can’t let them play in the mud, in the ghetto, in real life. I don’t want to box away everything I have learned while being single and say “well, on to settling into normal life now.”

So we’ve had the ring talk. Gives me tingles. And the only thing I really want is something not expensive enough to have to worry about if I lose it or it gets stolen. And as he put it, ”If I got you something expensive you’d end up selling it and giving the money away to feed kids.” And he is probably right. And I think…that means he understands a bit of what makes me tick.

“Well, you marry; and what then? If you had no other object in life before your marriage, it will be twice as fearfully hard, almost impossible, to find one. Marriage can never bring happiness unless those who marry have a common purpose. Your purpose in life must not be to enjoy the delight of wedlock but, by your life, to bring more love and truth into the world. The object of marriage is to help one another in the attainment of that purpose. The vilest and most selfish life is the life of the people who have joined together only in order to enjoy life; and the highest vocation in the world is that of those who live in order to serve God by bringing good into the world, and who have joined together for that express purpose. Don’t mistake half-measures for the real thing. why should a man not choose the highest? Only, when you have chosen the highest, you must set your whole heart on it and not just a little. Just a little leads to nothing.” –Tolstoy (in a letter to his love-struck son)

Can’t have Valentine’s day without saying something about sex. Nope.

“Marriage was presented as the main fix for lust (because of) a shallow version of self-denial (preached). If self-denial to us meant only that we didn’t have sex until we got married, and then we could gratify ourselves, we missed one of the larger implications of discipleship and of following Christ. Discipleship is not just hanging on until marriage; it is a gradual and complete reordering of all our desires, sexual and otherwise, so that we can live more wholly for Christ. Learning to say no to our desires is a major part of orienting our lives toward God, and it can often be a life-giving discipline. Indeed, if we said, “Deny yourself” instead of “True love waits” and if we practice setting aside desires rather than just hanging on until we can satisfy them, we might be less surprised and better prepared for the actual challenges of marriage. By ensuring good behavior from unmarried people with promises of “reward sex,” we have missed an important piece of what the Christian life is all about. We don’t obey because obedience is currency that brings us our desire tenfold down the road. We obey because Jesus told us to. We should obey out of love.” –Claire and Eli

“What I did not consider (while dating Claire) was what God might have been asking of me or what might have been best for Claire. In the hurry of working toward the vision of life I saw ahead, I didn’t find much concern in my heart for God or for Claire, my neighbor. Instead, as long as things continued to move forward, I assumed that Claire’s mere presence in my life and my continued attraction to that presence was enough. And no one challenged me to seek a broader vision. Claire was what I wanted, and I had heard from almost every philosophical input in my life that choosing a spouse meant matching what you wanted with what the other person had. You might not get everything, you should be prepared to live with disappointment—no relationship was perfect—but the starting point was clear: track down the person who best fits what you want. The problem was that the search had revolved around me. Claire, in one sense, had become a means by which I could assemble the life I wanted. But Claire was more than a means. Looking back, I wonder how my life might have looked if I had learned to see others the way Christ did, if I had made His love my object rather than finding the One. “ –Claire and Eli

I had another outburst. Where I cry and wail and half wonder what is wrong with me and half wonder what is wrong with everyone else. Where all the emotions of the injustice in the world and the inequalities hit me, and I just want to scream “it isn’t fair” over and over and over again. This happens about once a month. And I have come to see this is part of who I am.

I know plenty of people who have seen what I have seen, or worse, and never have this problem. I wonder which of us is crazy. I wonder why others aren’t yelling with me—or at least yelling loud enough to do something about it.  “There has never been a war on poverty…a squeamish, possibly.”

Why don’t we do something drastic like stop eating until everyone gets something to eat? Or at least write something and put it on our blog. But for gosh sakes—make it look like you care at least longer than the 30 minute lecture!

But I am beginning to see that everyone has their “thing.” unfortunately, daily survival often hinders finding this thing. And more unfortunately, using our time doing stupid things like TV and video games often hinders most of the rest of people from finding their “thing.” The thing that moves them to action. The thing that can make them the happiest, the maddest, the saddest in seconds. Their passion in life. These passions have all different flavors. I’ve found mine, and to tell you the truth, it is a horrible inconvenience. Because I can’t be normal. I can’t fit in. I have these fits at least once a month.

And no one really “gets” them. Because their passion is different, or they haven’t found it. And so people pat me on the head and tell me what a wonderful job I am doing, and how I am like mother Teresa, and how God would never expect me to give up anything more. And their good intentions crush me. Because I don’t deserve their praise, and yes, I think God does expect me to give up more—EVERYTHING more.

I am doing wonderful things—because they are God’s things. But that doesn’t mean I can calm down and think everything is okay. It isn’t okay. Open your eyes—there is so much “not okay” with the world—even with your little world and the people you know. It is full of hurts and wounds right below the surface if not on top. And what is your thing? The thing God made you for? I hope you find it. I hope you have your monthly “fits” of some kind. I hope you make a difference. I hope you cringe when people tell you to calm down and don’t worry because you are doing enough.  Because God always calls us forward. To more of everything: more surrender, more life, more abundance. Thank God for that.

It is a sleepy Saturday, with snow lazily falling outside. I am under two layers of clothing and two more blankets. The e-mail catches my eye.

THE E-MAIL.

It is even capitalized in my brain. Because at the beginning of every month, I get an e-mail that lists the donations from the past month for Living Stones. I find out what can/can’t be done the next month for Living Stones. For my children. For God’s children. That is what I have to remember.

I have fallen into random rituals: hot and cold flashes when I see it in my inbox. That instant thud of my stomach. The automatic prayers to God, “Please make it be at least THIS MUCH MONEY this month—we need THIS MUCH MONEY. The holding my breath as the adobe reader slowly opens to reveal the truth.

Perhaps I am overreacting. You roll your eyes at my antics. But when we have $400 a month promised by faithful donors, and $1000 a month budget (that needs to be changed to $1500), you are holding your breath for $1,100 every month. Hoping, wishing.

We are feeding children who need to be fed NOW. Hunger doesn’t wait for me to visit the respectable amount of churches, or write the magic number of letters, begging for support. The money that comes in, comes in—and that is what we have to get to the children (transportation), provide food and love and anything we can—depending on the dollar sign that is on that e-mail.

Breathe, Rachel, Breathe.

Last year, I told everyone the biggest lesson I learned was gratitude. Thankfulness creates abundance. Giving thanks builds trust. And yet, with God, I still played the “open the e-mail” game. Every month. Like it was a slot machine and I am yelling at the computer, “Jackpot, baby, come on—Jackpot!!” as it turns to open the document.

And at the end of 2012, I look back and see we LACKED NOTHING. There were scraping the bottom of the barrel moments, there was frantic writing and calling at times—but we were able to consistently be there for the children when they needed us, and be that faithful light of Christ in the darkness. We walked into 2013 with a surplus to help us get started.

And now it is February. And another e-mail arrives. And I tell myself to not play any silly games, but there is still a “feeling” lingering. And a thud when I read it. Because it isn’t nearly enough. Half of what we need for February. We will have to dip into the surplus from last year that is diminishing quickly.

Anger. Worry. Tired.

Anger at the numbers. I am working as hard as I know how to raise money right now. I am meeting with whoever will have me, multiple meetings every day, finding new ways to get people more involved. I am angry that it isn’t working. I am angry that God isn’t having people give more. I am angry that I have a hard time being direct with people and asking, “This is the need—can I count on you to give?” Because I know they have a million other things in their lives that need that money just as much as I do. Because I don’t want to be just another nagging voice. I am angry there are no results. No fruit in the form of dollars.

I am worried. If this is how much is donated in a “big giving” month, what about the “dry nothing” summer months? If this is the number when I am dedicated to fundraising, what about the rest of the year when I am in Brazil, dedicated to hands-on ministry?

Tired. The emotion flows out and leaves me burnt out. Why try anymore? “God’s will done God’s way and time will never lack God’s supply.” BS. I just want to take a nap and forget about it. I am tired of asking for money. I am tired of being a salesman, trying to peddle my ideas and dreams. If it is a good thing—God’s thing—shouldn’t people want to give money?  

Thank you? It is so hard to say thank you when it isn’t enough. When it isn’t what I wanted. I promised myself I would be grateful for whatever dollar amount was on that e-mail, but I am not. I am pissed off. These children deserve our best. They deserve a chance at life…I am not talking about a new video game or outfit or college scholarship—I am talking about regular food, a safe place to sleep at night, the ability to read.

Sometimes…it just hurts so much to walk into one more church and see all of the well off people who will spend more for lunch that day than the families in Living Stones make in a week. The  children who are wearing shoes that could feed one of those little ones for a month.  And I say, “Please. Please give.”

And I could tell you stories to make you feel guilty about everything you have. I feel guilty myself. Because if you went, if you saw for yourself, you would know that I could give more. That I should give more. And I grapple with this. And I hope you do too. But all of those things fade away. God still stands there and asks, “Will you be grateful? What if no money was given? If there was a big zero at the bottom of the page? Would you still thank me? Would you still trust that I will provide? Will you still love all those people who didn’t care—because I do. “

And sometimes it really sucks that God is perfect, because you can’t argue with that. Gratitude has to be a constant choice. A constant decision that says, “I still trust you God, so I can say thank you for these crappy circumstances, because somehow…You are going to make something beautiful out of them. Something that is Your will for Your glory. And that is what I want. So I guess I needed this crappy circumstance after all.”

I laugh, because when I do this, it is always in a grumpy voice. But the next moment it becomes a little lighter. And a bit true-er. And then I say it again. I make the grateful choice again…and eventually it happens: I am able to step away from the circumstance and all the emotion flying around it, and put it all at the feet of Jesus. And walk away.  

God loves every one of these children in Brazil more than I do. He is working in their lives, and will continue to do so. He will provide Living Stones with the resources, in whatever form, that are needed to accomplish His goals in the lives of these kids and their families. And I want no more or less than that.