1.
Rice and Beans
Experiment
First week: Just rice and
beans. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Like 1.4 billion people who live off of
$1.25 or less a day. Three weeks: Rice and beans as the staple, but can add
other things. Like the 3.5 billion people who live off of $2.50 or less a day.
Week 1: I don’t even know
how to cook rice and beans. Eating what we want is a simple pleasure: being
poor takes that away. The secret is to be busy with things other than food. Is
it possible to overeat on rice and beans? Poverty does not look like rice
and beans: it looks like rice and/or maize. Beans (the nutritious part of rice
and beans) are too expensive for the world’s poor. Trying to understand what
creates/perpetuates poverty make my head hurt.
www.live58.org says we can end extreme poverty, and has a
plan: “In
the past thirty years, extreme poverty has been cut in half. In 1981, 52% of
the world’s population lived in extreme poverty (defined by the U.N. as living
on less than $1.25 per day). But by 2006, that number was 26%.”
I’ve been eating crunchy
or burnt beans until day 6. Soak them and they are much harder to mess up. “Thanksgiving
creates abundance.” –Ann Voskamp. Is this the secret to my rice and beans
quest? To working with children in poverty? Is it all about learning to be
thankful?
Week 2: I am American: I
want a life with food on the side. It takes time to make rice and beans yummy.
God and I had a conversation about how unfair poverty was. God won. Matthew
6:25: “Hey Rachel! Don’t worry about your life, about food, or about clothes.”
Me: “But God—there are so
many of them—them that don’t have! My
kids that are hungry, that don’t have proper clothes, that can’t read or
have any opportunities in life!” Matthew 6:32: “Don’t you know I (God) already
know that? That I know what you need, what they need? You are acting like
someone who doesn’t know me.”
Me: “But I am just being
realistic. What is see is LACK. What I see is that You are NOT providing and
they are going hungry, they are living empty lives.” Matthew 6:30, 26-27: “You
of little faith. Look at the little things—you will SEE. Look at the birds: and
I love you more than them—I love your kids more than them. Look at the flowers:
and each one of those children is much more precious than anything in nature. I
WILL take care of them. When has worry ever helped you? Hum? That is what I
thought.”
Me: “So what am I supposed
to do?” Matthew 6:33: “Work to find me (God) in everything, and put me first.
Learn to see me working in families that have no food, no kitchen, no bathroom,
no education. And everything else will be taken care of—I (God) will take care
of these children, whom I love even more than you do.”
Me: “But it is hard. I
still struggle.” Matthew 6:34: “So quit worrying about the future—because you
can’t even handle today. Just work on finding ME in everything today.” (All
Scripture was paraphrased by Rachel if you couldn’t tell). Further reading:
What the Bible says about the poor: http://www.zompist.com/meetthepoor.html
Week 3: Half way there! It
is hard to be creative. I only make yummy food about 40% of the time. Fact:
Time + Resources + Motivation + Creativity = Tasty Meal. How often do those
four things line up for someone in poverty? Go to Ted.com and watch everything
about rethinking poverty. You will learn much.
“The
trouble with being poor is that it takes up all your time” — Willem de Kooning
Week 4: Weekends and
experiments don’t go together well. Everything I want to do involves food other
than rice and beans. This experiment was just a little layer of experiencing
and understanding poverty. It is easier not knowing. It was never about rice
and beans: it was about sacrifice, limitations, small frustrations, and the
patience and creativity to overcome. I hope this is not the end of this
experiment.
One kilo (2.2 pounds) of
rice and a kilo of beans every week for a month: $20. Three weeks of adding
things to rice and beans to make them more tasty: $40. Total cost of eating: $2
a day.
2.
Coming or Going
“Who are
YOU?”
Said the Caterpillar.
This
was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly,
“I--I hardly know, sir, just at present-- at
least I know who I WAS when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been
changed several times since then.”
“What do you
mean by that?” Said the Caterpillar
sternly. “Explain yourself!”
“I can't
explain MYSELF, I'm afraid, sir” said Alice, “because I'm not myself, you see.”
–Lewis Carroll
“Voce quer fruitas?” The winkled hand of
the elderly woman held a pineapple towards me. I smiled and moved on quickly,
as unsure of what I wanted as I was of what she had said. “Smile and nod” I
thought to myself, “smile and nod.” Finding yourself in a new place can be
scary. The anxiety and feelings that you encounter has been labeled “Culture
shock,” with three phases: honeymoon, negotiation, and adjustment.
Sitting
on the cool tile floor eating fresh pineapple, I waved my hands energetically
and sprayed pineapple juice on Emanuel: “I just cannot get over the beauty. I
can’t get over the feeling that each day is an adventure because I have no clue
what is going on. I have this idea that I will learn something new every minute
if only my brain could contain it.”
The
honeymoon stage is everything from pre-experience excitement to delight with
novelty. Differences are seen in a romantic light, exotic and fascinating.“You speake Engliss?” asked a dark, curly
haired stranger as he leaned in to kiss me on my left cheek and then my right.
“Y-yes” I replied shyly, unsure of what was culturally correct to do next. Some
friends I made in Brazil asked me to teach them English. My credentials? I was
a native speaker. Thirty people showed up, most of whom I had never seen
before. I cleared my throat, pulled my sweaty palms out of my pockets, and
began: “My name is Rachel, what is your name?”
“Toto, I’ve a
feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore” –Dorothy, Wizard of Oz
I
sighed, and waited. What could I do? The only one home was the maid, who didn’t
speak English. I rested against the tile wall and tried to figure out the best
solution. There was no toilet paper, I didn’t know the word for “Toilet paper”
in Portuguese, and I needed toilet paper. I could try yelling “papel of
toilet!” and hope the maid would get the idea.
In
the negotiation stage, things that used to be beautiful are now irritating. All
you want is (fill in the blank), and it always stays just out of reach. This
stage can have mood swings and can lead to depression or withdrawal from the
new culture. The Brazilian wind whipped through my hair as I held down the
paper and wrote quickly, “I am so far away from American culture and thinking,
surrounded by different everything—it makes me wonder who I am. I have no
expectations to live up to. No one here knows who I am, what I stand for, and
what I believe. It is like a blank piece of paper, and I have no idea what I
want to write on it.”
But
I adjusted. “What was it like?”
Emanuel asked, as we dug into the meat filled pancakes.“It was hard because
coming here I was the extra person added to the mix, instead of making up part
of the mix. I had to learn to be like icing on the cake: the icing has to form
to the mold of the cake, trying to fill in the cracks and help out where it
can.”
By
the time of adjustment, you have developed new routines, and things, in a
different sense, feel “normal.” You begin to either understand the new culture,
or understand that you don’t understand it yet, and that is okay.“Not all who wander are lost” J. R. R.
Tolkien
“It
is so weird, Emanuel—it is like nothing is real. Being back, my thoughts flake
off and float down to the floor. What is mine? What is me? I am stumbling
through life. Not half bad, but not all there. And no one else knows me well
enough to know I am not here. Not here really. I am living outside myself.”
Emanuel
finished his shake and nodded, understandingly. The same three stages can be
seen in returning home after being gone. In some, it is noticed even stronger
than while in another country. Reverse culture shock is worse for many people
because they are not expecting it. They expect things to be different in a new
place, but not where they grew up. All your old “normals” feel strange.
Emanuel
stops as I unlock my car door. “Brazilians
have a word for it that you do not: “Saudades.” You can’t explain it—you have
to feel it. It is the longing, melancholy feeling that never fully leaves you,
even when you are happy. You feel saudades when you want to be with the ones
you love, but you can’t. It is when you long for something that is out of your
hands, out of your control. This word, saudades, is what you have carried with
you back to America.”
I
stare down the row of soy sauces at Kroger, the glass bottles blurring and my
head pounding. I sink down to the dingy linoleum floor and rest my back against
the aisle of cereal boxes. “Just pick up some soy sauce. Just pick it up and
go.” My brain tells me, but my body refuses to comply. So many choices and so
much stuff. I miss the feira in
Brazil with fresh fruit and vegetables. I miss the two aisles that make up the
entire grocery store in the rural town. I am overloaded with everything around
me, all the advertisements competing for my attention. “It isn’t fair. It is
not right.” I complain to my mom as I hand her the soy sauce. “We have so much,
and we don’t even know it.”
“I went a
little farther,” he said. “Then still a little farther—till I had gone so far
that I don’t know how I’ll ever get back.” –Paul Scott
It
is often hard to remember that things have changed while you have been away, or
that your ideal of home (while gone) is not reality. Many times people don’t
want to hear about your trip—and even if they do, they just don’t seem to “get
it.” This can lead to the same kind of frustration as you had in the original
negotiation stage. “I returned and felt like everything had changed.” I share
with Emanuel. “Before my friends and I were all triangles. While there, I
became a square—with even more angles—while my friends were all rounded off
into circles. Now I am constantly bumping corners.”
“The whole
object of travel is not to set foot on foreign land; it is to at last to set
foot on one’s own country as a foreign land.” –G.K. Chesterton
I
pause as I put on my coat to go to the art museum, and turn Emanuel
reflectively, “There are some things that I can only learn in Brazil, and
others I can only learn in America.” Having spent three of the past seven years
in Brazil, (continuing to teach English, but now focusing on working with
street children), I can now talk with Emanuel in Portuguese—but we always
return to English.
“When are you coming back to Brazil?” Emanuel asks
me. “I am not sure yet,” I tell him truthfully, “But I will go back. I have
been through so many times of going back and forth between countries that I
feel blurred sometimes, but I would not change anything. I have become my own
person, a blend of two lives in two countries. Brazil and America make up who I
am and are a part of me, but I am still a whole me on my own. It has taken a
long time to be able to say that.”
“And the end of
all our exploring
Will be to
arrive where we started
And know the
place for the first time.” –T.S. Eliot
Sometimes I feel like I am
lying when I write different statistics about Brazil, or post pictures. Yes,
they can be impressive and/or depressing, and they sure would make me reach for
my wallet if I were you--but life here is so much more than statistics.
The stories you hear or the faces you see are only one pose captured to represent
something bigger.
Brazilians are incredibly
resilient people. Truth is, if Living Stones doesn't provide for the children,
they will learn to find some other way to get what they need (although,
probably not a healthy way). They can survive on nothing, and then throw a
party on less than nothing--and everyone has more fun than most wealthy people
I know. Daily life is often the "Stone Soup," where everyone puts in
a little to make it work. Community and family hold a deeper meaning than I
ever knew growing up, for here they are keys to survival.
In the United States, hope
seems to be buried in the next job/career that I will find. I know things have
gotten harder since the recession, but America is still the land of
opportunities--the place where hard work will pull you up by your bootstraps.
Poverty in Brazil is a
different flavor. Eric Jensen's "Teaching With Poverty in Mind" lists
six different kinds of poverty: Situational poverty (from a crisis or
situation, like in Japan), Urban and Rural poverty (each have their different
aspects, as I am learning from Cajueiro Claro), Generational poverty (it is in
the family for a while, and they are not equipped to move out of their
poverty), Absolute poverty (day-to-day survival), and Relative poverty (can't meet
the society's average standard of living).
America most often has
relative poverty (while generational poverty is sadly growing as well), while
Brazil is dealing much more with absolute and generational poverty. When you
walk around a rural Northeast Brazilian town, you can almost feel the lack of
opportunities around you. The few jobs that are available are almost always
minimum wage (a little over a dollar an hour) or less.
Brazil's hope is rooted in
something different. You hope because it is better than not hoping. Even
without seeing the opportunities. It reminds me of the fruit trees that are
planted everywhere, for anyone to pick. You eat its sweet fruit and remember
that the best things in life are free. In Brazil, hope grows on trees.
The Brazilian people are
not the statistics I list for you. They are not the smiling brown children in
the pictures I post. They are people, with the potential of saint and sinner
just like you. They are not more "worthy" because they do not have,
but they are also not forgettable just because they were born on a different
spot on the globe than you. Their value comes from the same place as
yours--created in the image of God--and so each one is worth saving and loving.
And that is why I am here.
4.
How to Relocate
your Heart
My first encounter of the dump
was driving past a pile of trash and having a flock of white Ibis fly off it.
The contrast of beauty and putrid struck my heart, as did the overwhelming
sense of helplessness at “discovering” a people group called catadores , or waste pickers, and seeing their daily lives and
needs.
Official statistics say
that a quarter of a million Brazilians engage in waste picking[1],
and are responsible for the high rates of recycling (at least aluminum and
cardboard) in Brazil. These untrained, self-appointed workers are doing more to
save the world than any other program currently working in Brazil[2].
This is true for most third world countries around the world.
Twenty minutes after I put
out the trash, I left my apartment for the day. I see my trash bag torn open,
with bits of paper flying down the street, floating behind the waste picker who
is now wearing my broken hat. I sigh, bemused that any secrets I wrote on those
papers were in a language he couldn’t read.
Millions of governmental
dollars are saved through these individuals[3]. “In effect, waste pickers subsidize formal solid waste
systems. Their recycling efforts also provide raw materials at low prices to
recycling industries. Further, the waste pickers conserve resources, reduce air
and water pollution thus contributing to public health and sanitation, and
reduce greenhouse gas emissions thus mitigating climate change.[4]”
We passed
out cups and soda and snacks for all the children. One small girl let her
cookie wrapper slip from her fingers to the ground. “Eduarda!” I chided, “Don’t
litter!” She blankly replied, “But this is the dump.” I looked around
hopelessly. Why shouldn’t she litter? This was where the rest of world sent
their litter. But this was her home.
These unlikely
heroes are often starving and living in inhumane conditions[5]. The
local governments are happy to receive their free services, some even feeling
proud of “providing jobs” for their community. This can unfortunately lead to
exploitation and general ignorance of the problems and possible solutions
involved.
Andreia and
Washington, the couple leading Massa Humana, head up the program for children
(with Living Stones) in the trash dump. They left their number with some of the
ladies in case of emergency. One came from Maria Jose, who’s respiratory
infection had gotten so bad that she had to be rushed to the hospital. The
doctor said she would have died an hour later, and that she could not continue
living in her house made of trash—it was causing/worsening her infection. The
church, with Massa Humana, began to build Maria Jose a simple brick home. It is
smaller than the average American living room, but the stuff that dreams are
made of in the trash dump.
In 2010, Brazil ended 20
years of arguing on its National Solid Waste Policy, and signed it into being.
It is trying to make sure private sectors pay for proper disposal of their
products, and has a “special provisions for accommodating waste
pickers, who have traditionally played a central role in the waste sorting and
disposal system in Brazil. Community outreach and retraining are part of
efforts to shift to more municipal solid waste landfills.[6]”
I walked down the street to the corner, which long
ago had been declared the place where the neighborhood dumped their trash. I
went slowly, because the two horses and sickly dog were busy eating whatever
edible unidentifiable items they could. I threw in the trash bags and ran when
the horse started moving towards me.
The Federal law means that current trash dumps will
be closed, and more sanitary landfills created. The documentary “Wasteland”
talks about this from a personal perspective at one of the largest dumps in Rio
de Janeiro[7].
While the Federal government has set aside funds to “local governments to help
improve recycling and training, including social inclusion programs for waste
picking communities,”[8]
many fear the actuality of this happening[9].
Many are even questioning the environmental benefits of these changes[10].
“Here is another bag of clothes for those poor
children at the dump.” She says, handing me a huge plastic sack. I thank her
politely, but my lip curls in disgust once I begin to sort through the clothes.
They are old, torn, stained, and dirty. Why do we only give our leftovers? Do
they deserve nothing better?
Thousands of questions are being raised around HOW
this law will be enacted, which is to be completed by 2014, according to
federal regulation. In Carpina, the trash dump community was a hot topic in the
last elections, with many promises made. In January, they announced action—the
whole community would be moved to a different part of town, where 70 new homes
would be built for the waste pickers.
“I think it is a beautiful thing that we are giving
these people new homes.” Says Daniel, one of many Brazilians who are happy see
progress. I, on the other hand, am weary, having seen the speed of most
government promises. Washington pragmatically tells me that he is hopeful that
the houses will be built, and relatively soon, since the local government is
being pressured, and they can make a goodwill “show” out of providing homes for
the homeless.
What worries me is the training and re-education
that is also to be involved. That is a long and tedious process that cannot be
“shown off” or receive instant gratification. Professional analysis about it
says, “The
existence of a body of legislation for inclusivity is not a guarantee that
solid waste management in most cities are abiding to the law but it indicates
that catadores
(waste pickers) have sufficient public visibility and recognition. The implementation
of legislation depends a great deal on the level of social mobilization of
organizations of catadores and their supporting NGOs.”[11] In
other words, it is up to us.
I haven’t been able to find
much information on the success rates of Brazilian “transplant” programs, but
know that in the USA, they never turn out as helpful as they sound, mostly due
to weak follow through. All these people have known is trash, and trash is
their culture. That doesn’t change in a new house. How many of them are
emotionally ready for a change this big?
We sit on the ground and
color, bringing soup on the weekends, as promises fill the air. It isn’t how
life should be, and yet it is. People and governments are trying to change it,
but here it is still. And Jesus says go. Love. I can’t find anywhere where He
suggests waiting until the government or rich donors finally complete their
promises.
What does all this legislation mean to the
children of the waste pickers? Nothing. The adults pause, holding their breath
to see if the papers signed will come through. The house we were building for
Maria Jose and her family? Stopped, because the area will be bulldozed. The
land given so we could build a community center/church? It will lay empty and
life goes on.
And so we work in the dirt
once again. My legs turn black streaks and I flick disease-ridden flies off my
face and shudder when they land on my lips. I carefully hold little girls who
moan when I accidentally brush against their multiple bug bites or various skin
diseases. I brush back lice-ridden hair with my fingers. I see open wounds fill
with dirt as they sit down to color a picture with me.
5.
Travel
It
started at my grandparents' farm. Or maybe earlier. I would walk down the
railroad tracks and keep walking. West. The sun would set and I knew I had to
turn back--but I didn't want to. It hurt. Something in me ached so badly I felt
like I was killing it when I turned around. Feeling so limited. My body can
only run so far before it is out of breath. And I can't fly. That has always
been a sore spot with me.
Since
then it has gotten worse. Roads call to me with a taunting, "You don't
know what’s at the end.” Every sunrise calls me East to follow the new day, and
every sunset I am called West, trying to catch the colors more
brilliantly—maybe if I were just a bit closer I could. Whenever it is cold I am
called South and whenever it is warm I want to move around until I feel the
wind in my hair.
I own the open road. Not
the closed road. The road next to the home. The familiar road. The comfortable
road. No—the open road. With the feeling of not knowing. A little bit of dizzy
heights, a little bit of insecurity with determination of courage, a lot of
anticipation, and even more assurance that at the end of the day...it has been
a good one.
I own the open road.
The road that stretches to the place you must reach or die. West. Always west,
into the sun. The road that makes you put away your camera--not take it out.
Because capturing it in a small box is beyond impossible. The open road is some
place familiar touching unfamiliar, calling you deeper and telling you that one
day it will be even better. Even truer. Even realer. The open road is the place
you travel to reach rather than use to travel.
I don't understand
how I can be comfortable both here and there: the cold, hard silence of the
metro speeding to the center of Chicago to the chattered, sweaty breath of a
Kombi in the Centro of Carpina. Yet I am equally myself in both.
Brazil,
you are so far away. Yet I can feel my legs walking underneath me, up the
cobblestone hill to your house. It is the 5:00pm sun, warm and soft, telling me
to get ready for darkness. The feeling that I’m almost there, and then I can
take off my shoes, sit on the cool tile floor, and watch. Watch the world as it
should be. The love I have for Brazil feels dangerously close to loving a man.
How could I have a love affair with a country? And that is how it is.
Tonight
it came out under the porch light, as it lights up the numbers of my house. I
shuddered in the car, the radio singing me a lullaby. The hard, stone chimney
stood in the shadow, and the banister cast zebra stripes down the lawn. I was
other. I wasn’t there and wasn’t here. I clung to my car as some kind of magic,
transporting me from one place to another. Still wearing my seatbelt, keys
jingle and tears fall, my questions unanswered. I am other.
I
am scared to go because there is so much I want here. I will lose familiarity.
I will lose all the rites of passage and comfort of doing things how I am used
to them being done. But I want Brazil. I want the simplicity. I want my spot in
this world where I can make a difference, and see it. But I want my family as
well. I want to have a family. And I feel like to go is to give up my chance.
But to stay is to atrophy and turn into everyone else. I am other.
I
have finally figured it out. After all the times of people asking me about
Brazil and why I go...it is love. I normally list a couple of superficial
reasons like palm trees and Maracuja, but I know it isn't that. It is like when
you love someone and people ask why. You may say because he makes me smile or
because he flosses his teeth, but those aren't really why you love him. You can't
explain why you do. It seems unscientific and sometimes very stupid. But you do
and that is enough. I love Brazil. I just know, that's why. It is part of me
that was made to fit there and nowhere else. It calls me and I go--with the
smile of God.
6.
Poor and Needy
A good language teacher doesn’t correct, they
rephrase. “I writted this paper!” receives the reply, “Oh! You wrote the
paper?” to which the student responds, “Yes, I wrote the paper.” Brazilians
have done this naturally, consciously and unconsciously for the past nine years
that I have been learning Portuguese.
One of the first times they did this was when I
told them I worked with impoverished children. Underpriviledged. My vocabulary
simplified to just criancas pobre, poor children. Their replies were, “Oh! Criancas
carentes.” Hum, said my brain, carentes is the word I use here. So filed away in the
recesses of my mind became the idea that “Pobre equals poor, carente equals needy. Needy is the proper term.”
Fast forward some years, to when I had a deeper
conversation with a Brazilian friend about what I do. When speaking Portuguese,
my brain still trips over my mouth, trying to move faster than it is able. I
use whatever vocabulary is close to whatever point I am trying to make, and
sometimes I grab the wrong word. I used pobre to describe one of the children.
My friend stopped me. “You don’t mean that. To a
Brazilian, who has nothing, he is working his whole life to gain something—to
make it just a little bit better. Life is already against him and to call him
‘poor’ is throwing in his face that he isn’t going anywhere. We say ‘needy,’
because who doesn’t need something sometime?”
It reminded me of all I was trying to learn
between the verbs “Ser” and “Estar,” which always returned me to the age old
difference of “I am joyful” (the permanent “To be” that describes things that
don’t change) because of Jesus and the “I am happy” (the fluctuating “To be”
that floats as far as your whims). Pobre is to Ser what Carente is to Estar. Because who doesn’t need something sometime?
My friend continued, “You may think this is
something little, but it isn’t. You’ve been taught your whole life you can do
anything you put your mind to. That is the label you were given, and you
believed it. Those who are needy in Brazil, they haven’t been taught that,
they’ve never been believed in. And to then label them poor is to kill any hope
that might have been born in them.”
Words are powerful. Even the ones we say, ignorant
of the hundreds of years of culture behind them. Fast forward to today, when I
open my Bible to Matthew 5:3 (“Blessed are the poor in spirit”). Inquizitive, I
wonder which word will be used. There it is: “Bem-aventurados os pobres em
espritito.” Pobre.
Not Carente.
Because who doesn’t need something sometime? But my job is to learn I need
everything at all times. From God.
I hope that becomes my label: Pobre.
Because I want the promise in the rest of the Matthew 5:3. Because I want to
become more like Jesus. Because I realize I don’t know one iota of anything
there is to know, but I know that I can trust God, and He does know. Because
I’ve experienced that nothing is worth it without Him.
7.
Quadro
At
the quadro the kids start flying kites. They are tissue paper and sticks, with
cut up trash bag tails. The problem is there is not enough string. They argue
and divide and share the string, wrapped around tin cans. I drop my backpack
and join a game of futebol. It starts raining, and our bare feet slip across
the slick quadro. After a good game or two the kids give a round of hugs. Some
of the little ones call back to us, peering through the crossbars of the bridge
with their dirty hands and faces. Their "Tia! Tia! Tia!" cries
continue until they are like kitten's meowing for their mother and we walk on.
It
feels like home. The belonging feeling. Flying kites with no string. Running
with pounding feet, trying to catch a flat, broken ball. Laughing when I fall.
Guarding a little kid who shows me up and then grins with a "heh, aren't I
amazing?" look. Passing out cookies. Receiving hugs and hands that just
want to touch me, just want something that is real. All that I love and miss at
the youth center and those summer days at the park...things really are not so
different in the world.
*
I
bought band-aids and visa photos at the pharmacy. My idea of first aid (after
my mother's high hopes of me becoming a doctor) is antibiotic ointment and
band-aids. I brought my band-aids to Brazil, South America, where I was
learning about Living Stones, a church
community center for street and working children. I would fix boo-boos. The
first casualty came quickly--Anderson's thumb. I brought out the band-aids and
out popped all the eyeballs. The kids had ever seen band-aids before.
"What is
that? What does it do?" And the big question for the
antibiotic ointment: "Does it sting?"
The crowd asked for their own band-aid as well. I told them I had to see blood
first. bad choice of words. I was worried they would get hurt just to receive
one.
It hits you in the little things. It makes you ask what kind of life they must live—a life without band-aids. Without beds, dressers, toilet paper, showers, food. Patricia wonders why I am surprised at these things: "Didn't you know about pobreza before?" I did. I thought I did. I’ve been working in the inner city since high school. I wanted to save the world. I’ve read books, studied poverty, lived with the ghetto. But it is different being here. It is another country—it is another world.
I am here to meet these children. To play with them and love them. To learn about this program and help raise funds. I think I am the first one to ask them their favorite color, animal and food. They sit and contemplate it like they've never thought about it before. Pink? No...Green. Most everyone likes dogs. They’ve seen dogs. And food? They shrug and look blankly. Favorites don’t matter when you have nothing. This is day to day survival. We laugh hard and play dodge ball all afternoon, and I forget that I will go home to a meal, a refrigerator, a computer, a bed. They will return to a cement square with a dirt floor.
It hits you in the little things. It makes you ask what kind of life they must live—a life without band-aids. Without beds, dressers, toilet paper, showers, food. Patricia wonders why I am surprised at these things: "Didn't you know about pobreza before?" I did. I thought I did. I’ve been working in the inner city since high school. I wanted to save the world. I’ve read books, studied poverty, lived with the ghetto. But it is different being here. It is another country—it is another world.
I am here to meet these children. To play with them and love them. To learn about this program and help raise funds. I think I am the first one to ask them their favorite color, animal and food. They sit and contemplate it like they've never thought about it before. Pink? No...Green. Most everyone likes dogs. They’ve seen dogs. And food? They shrug and look blankly. Favorites don’t matter when you have nothing. This is day to day survival. We laugh hard and play dodge ball all afternoon, and I forget that I will go home to a meal, a refrigerator, a computer, a bed. They will return to a cement square with a dirt floor.
Of course these children can’t afford a luxury
like band-aids. I just had never followed the thought through that far. You
don't normally travel your thoughts down to reality until you see it. You see
it on faces that have never seen band-aids.
8.
Band-aid Help
I have been
in Brazil since 2004, but I am still only doing “band-aid” help in so many
areas. Come in, put a band aid on the gaping wound, and hope it makes
everything better. It is hard to take the steps to invest your life, not just
some time and energy, into serving others. It is also hard to know what a
sold-out life looks like: there is no manual—it is simply living life with God.
In ministry at the youth
center, the first year I was giving my mind: knowledge that I had about God,
life, helping, having my first real job. Slowly I began open up and understand
more. Slowly I began friendships. Slowly I opened my heart to the kids, and a
little slower, they opened back to me. By the second year, I had finally formed
real relationships with the kids—investing my heart. And then I noticed a
change after 3 years: I was beginning to learn how to invest my life. To know
that I was called to give everything. And that is when I really began to see fruit.
In Brazil, it took the
first year to wrap my head around a new culture and learn a new language. It
took another year before I really could begin to help in a ministry, and one
more for me to learn how to do that ministry in the culture I was in, instead
of my own culture. It was only after the third year that I was able to begin
leading/training in this ministry. True ministry takes time.
I am a
seller of dreams. Of ideas, of myself. Being a missionary—or in ministry—you
are presenting yourself to people. Your sacred dreams of changing the world.
And saying “Please—please trust me—believe in me—and support me
financially.” The truth is, I’ve been working with children in poverty
for 15 years and still don’t understand it. As I sat and watched the kids at
the dump, I asked myself: what they do when they poop. Leaves, I guess?
Are their certain kinds of leaves to use? What about for babies? What do girls
do when they are on their period? Do they really never floss? And so on. I want
more than just “band-aids.” I am learning. And it is an incredible
responsibility to KNOW.
It takes
extra grace to go back and forth between the world of HAVE and HAVE NOT. I feel
like I am losing grace and getting mad more easily at overly expensive cars, as
I wait for the bus on the side of the road. Extremes are so blatant in Brazil.
And to see them zooming by in what they don’t need, purposefully not caring
about those around them…I cannot excuse them. There is no excuse.
I feel the
bitterness growing inside of me…cars too fancy for their own good. People too
rich for their own good. The “It’s not fair” echoes in my head. And I have a
car; I have chosen this life. Imagine someone who didn’t. Seeing the “Haves”
all day. Pass by without even knowing. I think it is the not knowing that
irritates the most. How can they continue to be so ignorant to the needs around
them?
Where is
grace? Where have I let it go? And this is being a responsible adult: having 50
things on your plate to do and learning to do every single one of them with
grace. The hard part about being poor is, everything takes extra grace. But the
amazing thing about it is that the grace you need is always there—the exact
amount you need. I guess that is what makes us all equal in all of the
inequalities: the grace we need is always there.
After
living in community with the people I am serving, I realize I need to
reevaluate my definition of success. In ten years, when I see these children,
what do I want to see? That they know and love God. That they can read and
write, and do basic math and are able to provide for their family. That
they know how to be faithful and love as a spouse and a parent. I have to let
the rest go.
In her book
“One Thousand Gifts,” Ann Voskamp writes three things she is grateful for every
day, discovered many things along the way, including two simple sentences that
marked me profoundly: “Thanksgiving creates abundance” and “Thanks is
what builds trust.” Could it be that the abundance the children I work with
need—that I need—in all areas is found through thanksgiving? Through being and
teaching gratitude? Thanking God for everything, even the pain, the lack, the
ugly, is what builds trust. In all of my relationships, they can only be
transformed to beauty through gratitude. And it starts with simple “Thank yous”
in the little things you begin to see when you practice.
I am compelled. And I wish
I wasn’t. I am not a saint, marching on in bright colors: I am girl with her
head down in shame, feeling overwhelmed by guilt in having so much when so many
have so little. And soon this feeling will let me go, where I can forget and
sit down and watch TV like most everyone else. I don’t know what all the next
steps will be—I just know the one in front of me. I want more than band-aids.
9. Religion
“Religion is responsibility or it is nothing
at all.” –Jacques Derrida
“Yale professor Harold Bloom observed that
Karl Marx had it only partly right when he said that religion is the opiate of
the people. More broadly speaking, it is the poetry of the people, both the
good and the bad, for better and worse. According to Bloom, trying to attack or
conquer such a massive target is almost as useless as blindly celebrating it.
But religion can, and should be, objected to, questioned, and talked about.
Devastating criticism of religion is always part of religion. The religiously
faithful aren’t just permitted to critique and complain and reform; they’re
bound to do it by religion. Without it, there is no faithfulness. When religion
won’t tolerate questions…it has an unfortunate habit of producing some of the
most hateful people ever to walk the earth.” –David Dark
In
my quest to understand religion I will begin with myself, since I know none
quite so well: I grew up in a Christian home. Conjure up stereotypical ideas or
memories of “that Christian family” you knew. It may be close to my life. I
accepted the existence of God as firmly as the peas on my plate, and the Bible
as His revealed will for us was as real as my running bath water.
It
took a long time to realize that not everyone believed the same thing. That was
confusing. God and religion were a set of rules that I felt happy when I
followed and guilty when I didn’t. They
made me a moral person, but not a good person. Somewhere along the way
something changed. I met God. I found something bigger than myself to live for,
and I am in for the long haul. “In the
end, it is the reality of personal relationships that saves everything.”
–Thomas Merton
Church—denominations?
I still haven’t figured that out. Community church, Baptist church...they felt
the same, and that was what was important to me. They felt like home. There was
doctrine, but I don’t remember spending a lot of time arguing about it. You
believed it or you didn’t. You got out of it what you were ready to receive.
At
the Missionary Baptist church, to keep from politically correct or incorrect
terms, we simply referred to race as food: I was a “strawberry,” while my best
friend Deandra was “chocolate.” I was the whitest thing there, next to the
choir robes. I can still hear the music—tight harmonies, rhythm, and passion. There
was an overabundance of generosity, personal involvement, and food—no one had a
better BBQ. I wasn’t just home, I was family.
To
continue my over-simplistic generalizations of different denominations, my
uncle is a Lutheran pastor, which seems to involve a lot of tradition, but then
again, my aunt is a pastor as well which isn’t so traditional. One set of
grandparents were Methodists, and I remember services in a big, old building
that seemed stuffy, even with the high ceiling, but perfect for the bell choir.
The other set were Apostolic Christian, meaning the men sat on one side and the
women sat on the other. They sang acapella, and I found something refreshing in
the simplicity.
I
had a friend who told me he was Presbyterian. I asked him what that meant and
he said it meant that doctrine was important and that he needed to study it
more. I visited Pentecostal churches, which were very emotional. I kept looking
around, wondering if they were for real, or just faking it. I kept waiting to
see if I would “get” whatever they had. I didn’t. Church in Brazil is
charismatic and colorful, as are the Brazilians themselves. They sit for longer
sermons, often dance, and begin and end whatever hour the people are there.
Brazil is Catholic like America is Christian, but Evangelicalism is growing.
Why
Christianity? He chose me. We pattern our choice of religion after what we
admire. Many of my friends grew up Christian but then saw only hypocrites and
nothing to admire, and left. That is the power we have on one another. I
admired God himself and a personal relationship. The rest got thrown in and
like family—“love ‘em and hate ‘em and can’t get away from ‘em.”
“There’s a
whisper of revolution whenever people really speak to one another and really
listen.” –David
Dark
“Baha’i are
people who believe in God,” A friend told me, “Who
believe they have a soul that needs nourishment and care, and that other people
in the world also need that. It teaches that religion is progressive, that it
goes in a cycle, and Baha'u'llah (which means Glory of God) is the latest
messenger in the successive line of Messengers from God. We believe in all the
major prophets like Moses, Buddha, Christ, Krishna, Zoroaster, Mohammed, etc.
These messengers have brought a lot of the same teachings, and at their cores,
they all basically teach the same things, only they got more progressive as
time went on.”
I
told him I thought this was the easy way out—accepting everything. That Baha’i
was a religion of knowledge—all the religious books are sacred and have things
we need and must use in our lives. My friend pointed out that this was not
easier, but harder, in that he felt so small in the vastness of all that needed
to be learned. We agreed on many things, like seeking God, knowing God, and
walking in His presence. We disagreed about Jesus being God’s only way to
heaven. We agreed to cheer the other on in their search.
“If I am a good
listener, I don’t interrupt the other or plan my own next speech while
pretending to be listening. I am not in a hurry, for there is no pre-appointed
destination for the conversation. There is no need to get there, for we are
already here; if I am a good listener, what we have in common will be more than
what we have in conflict.” –Merold Westphal
“Aunt”
Brenda had short curly red hair, a dog named Moppet, and diabetes. She used a
scooter and let me honk the horn. Aunt Brenda was Jewish, and like everything
else about Aunt Brenda, it was very pronounced. I remember going to a Jewish
community center for Purim, my favorite celebration with poppy seed triangle
cookies, where I got to dress up like Esther. Esther was in my Bible too, so I
didn’t think we were different at all. But Aunt Brenda seemed to think so.
My
mom said it would be better for me not to talk about certain things around Aunt
Brenda.
Certain
things like Jesus. Aunt Brenda liked me just fine, so we got along. I was in
slight awe of her, being from a place talked about in the Old Testament. I
wondered if she was any closer to God, since she was one of God’s chosen
people. But Aunt Brenda didn’t seem to think she was very chosen.
My
mother enjoyed saying “Chutzpah” and using a Jewish accent now and then, but
mostly she loved Passover. We read books about the symbolism of Jesus foretold
in the Jewish traditions. We had an old record of Jewish music that I would
dance to as a little girl, but the best part was Matza, the unleavened bread.
If you want to make me happy, give me Matza. During the Passover, they would
take three Matzos, break the middle one, and hide half of it. All the children
would hunt, and the finder would receive a prize.
The
Jewish people are still waiting for their Messiah, while I believe that he has
already come. I am awed at the price paid for this difference of belief. I read
a book called “Girl Meets God” by Lauren Winner. She converted to orthodox
Jewish, but became a Christian after college. She relates changing religions to
getting a divorce and remarriage. Not easy. By the end she was able to not just
look at the differences and what she left behind, but in the similarities, and
what she brought with her.
Catholics
went to big buildings that had stain glass windows, lots of pictures of a
bleeding Jesus, and prayed to Mary. They had a pope and fish on Friday. That
was all I knew. When I was little, I went to a nursing home and talked with an
old man who told me he was Catholic. I decided to convert him. I asked if he
believed that Jesus died for his sins, and he said yes. That Jesus was God’s
Son and yet God as well? Yes, he believed that too. I went through every doctrine
my young brain could explain and he agreed with all of it. I pronounced him a
Christian and went on with my life, a little more confused about what it meant
to be Catholic.
History
was full of Catholics and Protestants killing each other. That couldn’t all be
about praying to Mary, could it? As I got to know some people who were
Catholic, I learned that they came in all different shapes and sizes. Some
seemed to be following a religion of symbols, statues, and traditions—while
others seemed to be on the same page as I was—we both loved Jesus. I find it
difficult to keep grudges with someone who really loves Jesus.
I
have been challenged by Henri Nouwen, Dorothy Day, Mother Teresa, and a
nameless girl who blogs about her life and Catholic faith. But in Brazil
Catholicism seems to be a different breed. Being 85% Catholic, each town has a
saint and they celebrate its holiday with fervor. The Brazilian Catholics I
have met feel empty. The big, old, beautiful buildings make me ache, cry, and
want to fill them with something: relationship. For so many, all of the things
meant to bring them closer to God have just become relics that stand between
them and God.
I
mix up Buddhism and Hinduism. My way of differentiating was that Buddha was the
fat god who wasn’t really a god, and the Hindus had all the gods with arms.
Hinduism was the religion of so many gods you could not remember them all, a
caste system, and Gandhi. Buddhism had no god, nothingness (nirvana), and the
Dali Lama.
If
age gets brownie points, Hinduism wins as the world’s oldest religion. It is
the uniting of a lot of thoughts over a lot of time, but most often comes
together under the Vedas, their sacred writings. They have 33 million gods, but
really it is one god, with many names, and all is god (pantheism). There are
four castes, and then there are the untouchables. You are born, live, and die
in your caste: that is your lot in life. There are four ends of life with the
main one being Dharma, the pursuit of the doctrine and duty of each caste
system. Dharma reminds me of the TV show “Lost.”
Buddhism
began when Buddha broke off from Hinduism, and decided that no god was needed—you
need to follow your own path to enlightenment. His Dharma is based on the four
noble truths: there is suffering in life, suffering always has causes, the end
to suffering is possible by ending the causes, and the Noble Eightfold Path is
the way to end suffering. You should look up the Eightfold path for yourself.
You do all this to become free from desiring anything. That is your goal. But “Having is not so pleasing a thing as
wanting. This is not logical, but it is often true.” –Spock from Star Trek
“Islam”
means “surrender.” There is one God, and Muhammad was his prophet. The five
pillars of Islam are declaration of faith, prayer, fasting (Ramadan),
almsgiving, and pilgrimage. The Qur’an is their holy book, where Jesus was a
prophet, but Muhammad was the last one, and more important. When I was young, I
learned that Muhammad had multiple wives, including one that was nine years
old. I never forgave him for it. You can’t have Islam without Muhammad, and I
don’t like him. I know there are many great men with many personal problems who
do many great things…but this is my bias, and I admit it.
Religion:
of strangers, friends, family, and myself. I have found things I agree and
disagree with. I have asked myself why I feel that way about it, and sometimes
I have answers and sometimes I don’t. I have asked what I am supposed to DO
about what I know, and sometimes I have answers and sometimes I don’t.
“God is not
made angry and insecure by an archaeological dig, a scientific discovery…or by
people with honest doubts concerning His existence. God is not counting on us
to keep ourselves stupid, closed off to the complexity of the world we’re
in…I’m not required to cut off my questions or try to uncritically place my
faith in particular doctrines. The call to worshipfulness is a call to employ
my imagination and therefore the whole of my practice—a mindfulness that
requires an engagement.” –David Dark
I
wonder if I only want to know what is right and what I believe so I can go out
and start yelling it. I can be sure of it. I can protest and do something and
dare them to say I am wrong. Instead, I find that the center of religion,
belief, and myself is relationship with God. And what flows from that
relationship is love to all people. Those with the same beliefs and those with
different beliefs. And that is what I needed to know.
10. Verse Stories
I leaned
over the sink to wash the snot off my face. I had only been in Brasil for two
weeks. I was only 16. I’d been home for three months. Why didn’t the feelings
go away? The emptiness. The “something isn’t quite right” feeling. I turned on
the water faucet and heard it. “Brasil is yours.” What? Was that you God?
Talking to me? Or was it a feeling in words. Or something…bigger than me? What
did that mean—Brasil is mine?
Five years
later I sat on the tile floor of Nazare Da Mata, Northeast Brasil, with my
Bible open to Matthew 5. I read it again. Who hasn’t read the Sermon on the
Mount. This time it stopped. Verse five took me back to the sink in the
bathroom five years ago. “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the
earth.” Inherit the earth? The earth was pretty big. My part was Brasil.
Brasil was mine. But I wasn’t sure about the meek part. A good definition of
meekness is “Strength under control.” Control. I wanted control. I didn’t want
to give it up. Even to inherit a country.
Since 2004,
my life has been more of weakness under control, than strength. There is
nothing like daily life in a third world rural town to show you that you have
no control. Over anything. And that you might as well give the illusion of
control you have left to God. He takes care of it better. Sometimes God puts us
places where meekness is not an option, to give us things bigger than we ever
imagined.
*
I don’t know
where they hide the dirt in America. Under grass and asphalt, I guess. In
Brasil I walk down the street and all the dirt finds my feet. Sweeping the
floor is a multi-daily task. It never stays clean. I thought being a missionary
was about telling people about Jesus. I am spending more time washing the
dishes and sweeping the floor. I came to help and teach and share what I know
and the I arrived. And I found that things were taken care of. That God is
already here and alive and working…and life goes on with or without me. In
fact, what I can do best, and is the biggest help is often just that: washing
the dishes and sweeping the floor.
Luke
16:10-11 “He that is faithful in that which is least is faithful also in
much…If therefore ye have not been faithful in the unrighteous mammon, who will
commit to your trust the true riches?”
Me: Please
God, can I go now? What can I do?
God: The
dishes.
Me: The
dishes? Why the dishes?
God: Because
that is where you are now.
Me: The
dishes. Forever?
God: No, not
forever. Today the dishes, tomorrow the world. Or maybe the dishes again.
Me:
Again…why dishes?
God: Because
you need the dishes.
Me: When
will I need something else?
God: When
you are fine with just the dishes.
*
I met Mika
at camp, spending her first two weeks out of the inner city. She was not born
with mental problems, but due to lack of training and care, at 14 she had
trouble reading, concentrating, and doing simple tasks. She also had a problem
wetting the bed. Every night. At one chapel service, Mika came forward to talk
to me. She asked if I could save her. I said that wasn’t possible, but I knew
Someone who would. Mika gave her life to Jesus that night.
It was a
long two weeks. She shouted before she thought, she erupted before she
understood, and she fought before she listened. To get her attention I would
hold on to her shoulders and turn her to look at me. We talked about things.
“Is this what Jesus wants for you?” I asked. “No.” she would sorrowfully reply.
“Let’s pray then,” I suggested. Silence prevailed. “I never know what to say.”
She confessed.
The only
verse I could remember…and not even a whole verse, was Psalms 12:1 “Help,
Lord…”and so that is what we prayed. “I have a verse for you Mika—a
prayer—“Help, Lord.” And He will. He will help you remember. He will help you
listen. He will help you forgive and will forgive you.”
We had a lot
of “Help, Lord” prayers those weeks. Soon after, school started and I lost
track of Mika. A year later someone mentioned that she had been in a house fire
and was in the hospital. After I visited her, we closed our eyes to pray. “Ms.
Rachel, I remember…”Help Lord!”
This verse
stayed with Mika, and with me. God is mighty, great over all—but He is also
simple enough to fit into where we are. Into two words. To come near when we
fall so short and can go no more. “Help, Lord.” And He will say the rest.
*
(As told by
my friend Aninha.) The doctor told my mom to come back in three days. Her blood
has serious problems clotting, and more tests needed to be done. “Let’s not take
the bus just yet. I want to talk to God about this.” We walked the couple
blocks to the beach and took off our sandals while Angela told God all about
it. She stopped and looked down, the waves stopping just before her toes. “You shut
up the sea with doors,” she said, “You said it could come, and go no
further,” Quoting Job 38:8,11. “If You can do that, then You can take care
of my blood.”
And that was
the end of my mother’s prayer. We took the bus home and waited for the next
series of tests. In the office, the doctor took longer than usual. I took this
to be a bad sign, but tried not to show it. She came in and said “Dona Angela,
you have a lot of faith in God, don’t you?” “Yes, I do.” Mom replied. “Because
God is doing miracles for you,” The doctor said, “You are free to go home, your
blood is as healthy as mine.”
*
(As told my
by friend Daniel) “Fret not thyself because of evildoers…” (Psalms 37:1)
It was easier said than done. My father was a spiritist, and demonically
involved. I could see it in his eyes when it wasn’t him looking back at me—when
it was something else. He would have super-human strength, and you would never
know what he would do. “Rest in the Lord, and wait patiently for Him: fret
not thyself because of him who prospers in his way, because of the man who
brings wicked devises to pass.” (Psalms 37:7) I was meditating on
Scripture, but it was hard when my father came into the room and grabbed me. I
said nothing, but looked into his eyes and thought “For the arms of the
wicked shall be broken: but the Lord upholdeth the righteous.” (Psalms
37:17) and my dad instantly let go. He grabbed a knife and started to tear up
things around the house, but wouldn’t come near me. I continued meditating on
the Psalm until the last verse “And the Lord shall help them, and deliver
them: He shall deliver them from the wicked, and save them, because they trust
in Him.” My father looked around, as if seeing things we could not
see—spiritual things. He cried out “Stop! Stop! Don’t call the angels on me!”
I hadn’t
said one word out loud. I dropped down and cried. It was as if God touched me
and said, “See? I am real! I am here with You!” That day, the Bible was no
longer a book to me, it was living and alive and NOW. Those words were mine.
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