Brazil: A Dragonfly and An Argentinian Guy

Dragonfly

Upon take off for my 9.5 hour flight to New York I noticed a delightful dragonfly lingering over the wing of the airplane that was directly outside my window.

It fluttered and hovered even as the plane was pulling out of the gate.

My older sister, Jena, had told me that dragonflies symbolize something magically significant--she told me what magical significance this was, howevre, I have forgotten such a virtuous gift. I know it was a lovely gesture though, and even such mysterious knowledge was still comforting.

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RIO AIRPORT || about a 9.5 hour layover

I spent the first portion of my layover-waiting listening to Francis Chan sermons that I had diligently search for and struggled to even have the offline video downloads. I downloaded about fifteen but only listened to two before my netbook battery showed signs of a slow death.

I looked like a cookie-crazy lady as I filled up my kitchen sized Brita filter with the drinking fountain water. I don't trust the water in Brazil as it is known to spread typhoid fever that is caused by the presence of bateria that has enetered the water system by way of feces infection. Enough said.

I like to walk around during long layovers, especially if the long layover is folled by an almost ten hour flight to Sao Palo with a connection to New York.

I walked around pushing my giant cart thinking and sitting on a vacant bench that was surrounded by three other vacant benches. Within two minutes, two guys that I had seen resting elsewhere in the airport while I was walking around had settled in the benches adjacent to me on either side. I thought about offering them an apple or pear so I wouldn't have to throw my fruit away in customs in the event that I didn't eat them myself. I convinced myself not to because I wouldn't want any fruit a stranger in Brazil offered me, and moreover, I did not want to engage in any activity with others because I am still so paranoid from being robbed at gunpoint  a few days ago.

I kept my pepper spray in my sweatshirt pocket and trusted no one.

As I sat there playing my air-drum set to Kings of Leon and Mumford and Sons I thought about how I wouldn't make a very good bum-lady.

I get too restless, anxious, and paranoid just sitting and walking with no motive other than to commit to the act of walking.

Then again, maybe those characteristics would make me a good bum-lady. The people here surely look at me like I am the crazy lady who pushes a stolen shopping cart filled with recyclables around New York City while wearing a ripped tutu. I have fulfilled this image with the exception of my cart being a rolling mountain of my suitcases and a tutu in the form of Ryan's oversized grey zip-up sweatshirt.

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I wrote about such things along with complaints and stresses and self revealations within the pages of my journal dedicated soley to my Brazilian adventure.

One experience I did not record in my journal was an interesting encounter with an Aregntinian guy named Monoel, (pronounced Manuel, so therefore I will hereafter spell it "Manuel").

I did not even learn his name until he attempted to kiss me like we were Allie and Noah in their intimate, summer love affair detailed by Nicholas Sparks' The Notebook.

Manuel was one of the boys that had collected around me on the community benches.

I had gotten up for a period of time and went to the bathroom to brush my teeth and try to stay fresh and awake. Upon exiting the womens' handicapped restroom area, he came alongside me and spoke Argentinian Spanish. I instantly stated that I only spoke English, with pleasure, thinking this would turn him away givent hat I was so paranoid of being robbed and he was standing uncomfortably close to me and my cart. 

To my surprise, he was fluent in English and glad to engage in conversation. He asked me if I wanted coffee, and I declined the offer, yet accepted the opportunity to talk to someone in hopes that this would make the time go faster, and he would be the main one I would have to be paranoid about because the chances of me getting robbed declined as I walked or sat with a 6'4" South American guy.

We sat at the coffee place, neither of us ordering anything, and I found out he was 21 years old after he forwardly asked me my age. At that point I had strong susppicions that he was interested, but I assumed we both knew it would be a simple airport conversation given we wouldn't see each other ever again, most likely.

We talked about meaningless things and I became self-aware about how much I talk about God whenever people ask even the most basic questions about me, like why I came to Brazil or what kind of music I like. The frequency of my mentioning of God became apparent in the sensed awkwardness that would crawl up in my mind after every mentioning due to the fact that he went around the topic of God without clearly avoiding it.

Anyway, he noticed my giant mountain of luggage, of course, and after I declined his offer to push my cart for me (partially in paranoia that he mioght just run off with all my possessions, and partially because I am a woman that particularly likes carrying my own bags and belongings--just ask Ryan Manning).

After I declined his offer, Manuel suggested that we work our way to the bottom floor to check what time I would be able to check my two largest suitcases and also to have a change of scenery as we walked around.

We mostly talked very small talk leading up to the elevator, but once those two fogged metal doors slid shut, Manuel went in for the kill. He put out his hand out to cup my face and locked his eyes on my lips as he leaned in.

I abruptly stepped back and put my arl out to brace his chest, keeping him arms length away. It was pure intinctual reaction, no thought necessary, for which reason, I am proud of my embedded self integrity. This is an instance where self reavelation came to confirm values of purity, class, and integrity that I simply believed myself to have prior to this event, however now I knew for sure.

He suddenly became very soft and the elevator seemed to take on the speed of slug as we went from the second to the first floor. He spoke softly and his eyes became soft, I even noticed how soft his shirt was as my hand was pressed against his chest to hold him off of me as he was still leaning in softly.

He asked me why not and explained that we'd probably never see each other again and I explained that I was the traditional-type and I the goal is to only kiss guys that I am in a relationship with.

We exited the elevator and I attempted to quickly give closure to the situation by saying "I appreciate the gesture..."--stupid thing to say but it's all that I could think of to try to give a compliment before reenforcing sternness. Unfortuneately he interrupted me before I could get to the stern part and I was still flowing with paranoid juices and did not want to tick off any foreigners that could easily run off with my belingings against my will.

The follow-through is where I need work. I can say "no" and act on the "no," but I don't always follow-through with the "no."

Following the exit of the elevator, Manuel continued to ask why I wouldn't even want to "see what it'd be like to have a completely random kiss" and I exclaimed that he didn't even know my name and I didn't even know his. He laughed and said this seemed like a movie. I couldn't help but to agree with him in my mind, but tried to maintain my opposing exterior attitude.

It was at this point that I was very glad I had not offered him that apple or pear while sitting on the bench earlier, or allowed him to buy me coffee.

I later voiced my assumption that he makes such gestures often, and he denied such a claim. He said I was the first one he tried it on and he did it because he liked me. I didn't buy it and I called him a tramp. I asked if it was a common activity for Argentianians, and he said that he notices the behavior that I described as promiscuous as being common amoung people of certain age ranges, regardless of culture. Valid point, Brazilians and Americans can be promiscuous at our age, too, which is when I told him I am set apart.

I particularly used the phrase "set apart" because I remember reading in Crazy Love by Francis Chan that the word "holy" means set apart, and we, as God's holy people, are to be set apart.

So, without forcing the issue he apparently had with God, I still spoke my Truth that is me in my Lord Jesus.

Just thoughts.

We checked with security and I couldn't check my bags until four AM, giving us about another hour. So he began speaking about other things and I didn't know how to get the conversation back to "we should seperate now"--especially given that there were only about five other groups in the entire airport, apparently waiting for the same flight as us--yes, that's right, Manuel was on my same flight to Sao Palo from Rio, and also the connecting flight to New York.

I was looking at almost twenty hours with this guy. Luckily, I noticed our assigned seats were on opposite sides of the plane and I mentally rejoiced for the assigned seating that I formerly thought lame.

Within the remaining three hours Manuel and I had before departure, we continued to walk and talk casually about school and our travels as I maintained a distant mindset and was mindful not to give many details like where I lived and whatnot.

As we walked we passed by a security hall that was lined with that security glass with mirrored tinting on one side. Manuel wanted to walk over there and I, again, declined. I didn't want to be anywhere secluded with anyone, epecially this guy that was a testosterone-driven, young man that was most likely planning on going to America to frolic with various girls as he was to be a ski instructor with Vale in Colorado.

I grew up in a mountain town; practically on the ski mountain that my dad worked on.

 I could assume his type given that he fit the handsome, young stud with an attractive accent. Yes, that's right. This was not the quasi-moto character that I usually attract. This guy was indeed Mr. tall-dark-and-handsome, with strong hands and an accent.

Too bad he also didn't practice self-control, love Jesus, or live transformed for God and traditional with the ladies.

Anyway, the point I was getting at with the security area mentioning above was that upon my decline of his wanting to go explore, he revealed that he thought it would be a good place to kiss.

I walked away with my stuff. He followed.

Again, cutting to the chase, he tried to kiss me again when we went up the elevator and again when we were on the magic carpet thing that is like a flat escaltor in a long hall.

This guy aparently had a thing for indoor public transportation moduals.

I once tried to be manipulative and just choke the conversation with Jesus-talk. It has selfishly worked in the past with others. I excessively talk about Jesus and God after I had already perceived that they get uncomfortable with my mentioning. And they eventually give up because they either realize I'm not worth the spiritaul baggage they'll have to dig up to get to me, or they don't want to face the God that I call Papa.

It's not something I'm proud of. But not even in my own defense, I do think the Truth of God--still spoken without judgement and only consisting of me talking about my own relationship with God or openly asking about theirs, past or present--will still produce good fruit or plant good seeds.

I say this because I know God's word and truth does not return to Him void.

I do not manipulate the truth, I manipulate the situation by speaking truth reguardless of how effective I believe I am communicating. Like I said, I'm not proud of it because it's not done in love.

Nonetheless, this is not the route I chose, but I do believe we had some fruitful speaking where he actually unknowingly initiated the God-talk by asking about my tattoo, and continued on to tell of his own Catholic school background and readings. It was a talk that I would identify as good.

Anyway, I feel like this is enough about this event. It was interesting and a definite first. Most people pick up on my clear hints or direct responses--but Manuel was a trooper that actually ended up sitting next to me on the duration of our long flight. Which wasn't bad. His friends were in front of me and I was watching movies while he was sleeping most of the time.

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Brazil: Baggage

I am using this space in my blog to write notes concerning certain events or information that I have collected while here in Brazil that I have yet to write about. This is my last full day in Brazil and I still have some reorganizing to do in my luggage, so please excuse the shortness; blogs are to follow with more details on certain events.
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I was robbed at gunpoint on a mountain hike on December 4th, 2011--robbed at GUNPOINT.
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Three or four of the boys at the Lar, were severely sexually and physically abused before entering the Lar and are currently being diagnosed for severe personality disorders, schizophrenia, aspergers, and being either sociopathic or psycopathic. Said boys are between the ages of 10 and 15 years old.

Unfortunately Brazil does not have a government program in place that would provide alternative care for these children, especially because they are under 18 years old and cannot be legally diagnosed with such mental disorders. This currently means that the only alternative option would be to put them out on the dangerous streets--which is not considered an option for the Lar administration team. However, these boys have proved to be a major issue in creating a healthy and safe environment for other children.

Surprisingly, more boys than girls have been severely sexually abused before coming to the Lar and show signs of such abuse in their own homes.

These young boys have serious issues with masturbation and attempts to sexually harass younger, weaker boys in their house. In fact, the doors had to be taken off all the rooms in the boys' houses with the exception of the troubled boys whom have doors that lock from the outside. Sexual harassment and sexual attempts are common  and frequent that even within the past week, one of the two new boys has almost fallen victim.
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In the past, three boys at the ages of 6, 6, and 7 years old attempted to kidnap and rape a young girl at the Lar behind one of the buildings. Since then, the Lar has been split between two primary properties to house the boys and girls separately and only come together for lunch and special events.

Some of the boys display no remorse; breaking of heads of live chickens, abusing both boys and girls, and inflicting self pain or pleasure.
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One of the sweetest little boys is ten years old and the brother of one of the aforementioned four troubled boys. He is a tiny ten year-old due to fetal alcoholism. The troubled bother was asked by a psychologist in the past to demonstrate his home life using a scooby-doo toy to represent himself and other toys to represent his other family members. In this activity the boy demonstrated that he was severely physically abused at home.
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Another boy is fairly new. He is a sweetheart to me, but very rough around the edges. He arrived at the Lar about a month after I arrived and was a trouble-maker from the start. He was brought in straight off the streets as a drug runner. His parents were drug addicts and dealers and would use him to transport the drugs to clients, putting him in very rough situations.

When I first met him I thought he was one of the house mom's sons because I had never seen him before and he was in the boys' house acting like he owned the place at only about seven years of age.

The next evening the other intern and I were in charge of watching over the 60 kids that live at the main location while the house moms were in an administration meeting. This young fire-ball of a boy was causing a scene as he was chasing kids, jumping over low walls, and walking around in a mockery, womanly manner. He would crack jokes in Portuguese and at one point was flinging his hand to continually flip-off at a young girl that has a mental handicap and cannot speak.

Upon viewing such behavior, I was quick to practice discipline in telling him no and attempting to communicate as best I could with the little Portuguese I know. He seemed stunned that I was disciplining him in defense of another child. He stopped and looked at me with wide eyes of curiosity and gratefulness that I cared enough for another child and that I may indeed care for him in a similar way.

I cannot quite explain how I knew all this from his look and attention given the language barrier, but it  is something I simply knew.

I found out that night that he was not a son of one of the house moms and began to pray for him. He has grown on my heart abundantly and more quickly than many others. I went to bed that night just wanting to get down to his level and give him a big hug.

After that, he was so curious to talk to me and be around me. That Sunday while I was teaching Sunday school, he seemed like a boy open to growth and authority. He listened and reacted to discipline in a way that showed improvement.

In only a month I have seen this young rebel begin to transform into a young boy--which is what he is supposed to be: a boy in his young childhood. He was still testing his limits, but he was learning.

In my last few days at the Lar, he gave me a kiss on the cheek and was smiling more genuinely and frequently.  Also, when he noticed that I had been FaceTiming one of my best friends, Ryan, in order to show him the kids at the Lar and give the kids someone new to make faces at, the boy flipped Ryan off, presumably due to his preconceived notions concerning men in their early twenties.
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Two of the boys got invited to go stay with their dad for Christmas, who refused to raise them after their mom got shot and killed so they were passed to their physically abusive aunt. The boys say they are afraid to go back with their dad.
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Brazil: Be Still

Be Still.

I was lying on the sand of a Brazilian beach--no towel or blanket to guard my skin of the grounds of sand. 

Brilliantly still, absorbing in the truth of the moment beyond my senses.

Lying there with my eyes closed :: Listening to the sweeping of the waves and the hushing whisper of the breeze over my ears as I felt my hair begin to dance over my face much like that of Pocahontas when John Smith encounters her in the waterfall.

There is no feeling like it. 

I lied there thinking. Thinking about how no technology or advanced simulation could ever emulate the truth of what I had in that moment. No wind-machine or sound box, no sand box or hot stones in a massage therapist's room. Not if the temperature was matched and everything down to the smell was emulated in another setting outside that of the ocean shore, the most essential element would be missing.

Knowledge.

I would know that I was not at the beach. As thriving of an imagination that I believe I have, I would not be able to convince myself to that deepest core that I was indeed on the beach.

Then it hit me. All of a sudden, it made sense. I had heard it time and time again and recognized the poetic thrill and mystic appeal that is most common with Scripture, but never had I related with it in such an elating manner.

Be still and know that I am God.

(see Psalm 46:10)

Some call it an epiphany, some a revelation. I'm not quite sure what to call it. All I know is that God was present in that moment and made known to me the Truth of his word in a marvelous way, as He has so many times before.

In the same way that God cannot be emulated--as He so often times is attempted to be recreated in experience and idolatry--one cannot fully conceive the Truth of His existence without the experience of His presence :: more than that of being with God, but being engulfed in God, swallowed up and participating in the God that is outside space and time.

It's not that we allow God to be in our presence by being still, or let the dust of the Holy Spirit settle on our hearts, it's that we are settled into His masterpiece of a presence. 

It's an experience that can only be appreciated to the full when we are submitted to being

 --still--

And when you do make that act of submission into His active presence is when you will know. You know because you experience it, and no one can convince you differently of something you have experienced. 

Brazil: Juice

This blog is a continuation of the post titled "Brazil: Histories, Observations, and Toilets."
I do not know the whole story for each child, nor do I know details on any case. Here, I will simply state what I have gathered either from the children themselves or from those who have been working with these kids for quite some time. If I do not know certain details, said details will simply be left unstated.

The girl I discuss in the first paragraph actually has a bit more to her past than I was first led on. She indeed was a fully active prostitute at the age of ten when she arrived at the Lar. Her mom was a drug addict and most likely a prostitute as well, especially given the fact that the girl and her sister look very different. Her mom is now dead and from the pictures I have seen of her, she was not in a good physical condition during her final years. She had very dark and wrinkled skin, seemingly missing teeth, and a hunched back as she sat on a low step. She looked like a drug-addict at the end of her life.

This 10-year-old girl was also addicted to crack and would dress in such a way that let her potential clients know what she was standing on the street for--not very nice clothes, in fact, not many clothes at all. 

It's surprising to me, actually, how many young girls I see walking around the streets in just their underwear--whether I be traveling through the city or on the dirt roads surrounding the Lar. Passing through the city I would see many children almost piled on the sidewalk together just sitting or standing around. Two girls were walking across the street in nothing but panties, and some would be selling things from the street divider.

Anyway, back to the girl mentioned above. This young lady confessed that she would be sold to men for their sexual pleasures and even to have "sexual relations" with another young prostitute while a group of men watched.


Upon interviewing this now 15-year-old at the Lar, she stated that her best memory was the day she came to the Lar and stopped doing drugs. Her sister was picked up off the street as well, pictured sweeping the gutter in the aforementioned blog post.


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Another sibling group are here at the Lar after spending some time of their lives with a schizophrenic parent. I do not know much about these three children, however I do know that one of the boy's shows serious signs of schizophrenia and anger issues. He has threatened to kill one of the other girls at the Lar after she denied his request to be her boyfriend and would give her the "death stare" on multiple occasions while sternly telling her of her lack of worth and beauty. He was saying such things while smacking her knee and almost snarling at her during church as she was sobbing with tears.
He also has gotten in many fights with other boys at the younger boys' location where he lives. In this past month he threatened to kill his own brother, shouting degrading comments and bringing physical abuse into the situation.
This young boy has almost been thrown out of the orphanage on multiple occasions, but because the mental hospital refuses to take him, the orphanage directors don't want to just abandon him on the streets.


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Another one of the teenage girls came from a home where witchcraft and voodoo is actively practiced. This has caused some issues when considering watching certain movies or adding certain books to the orphanage library collection. 
I must also admit that around Halloween time I questioned what some of the girls' motives were with their costumes. Many of the girls dressed in all black, some even painting every inch of visible skin to be solid black. They wore capes and spoke in weird voices while crawling around with moves that one would see in a paranormal activity movie or a demon-chimpanzee movie of sort.
One of the girls also found it entertaining to flip her eye-lids inside out as she performed such behaviors and screeched and screamed throughout the house.
I understand that much of this behavior was in good fun in the spirit of Halloween--which is not celebrated in the least down here in Brazil--but I am also mindful of their histories with such activity.


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Another sibling couple had a mom that was mentally ill as well as physically ill and hospitalized for quite some time. Apparently she had escaped a few weeks ago but was returned to the hospital she was staying at. Last night the Lar was informed that she had died and today is the day that the brother and sister will be informed.


I cannot imagine. I will not even try.




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Another one of the teen girls came over to my apartment one night and shared her and her sister's past with me. It was in Portuguese and so she asked to type it into the Google translator on my computer.
This caught me off-guard because this young lady in particular has always carried a tough-girl, I-don't-care, I-don't-need-this sort of attitude since I met her. Don't get me wrong, she is very kind and sweet, she just lets you know with her attitude that she is not someone you want to cross. She is your friend as long as she thinks you're her friend, but as soon as she begins to question the latter she makes sure that she'll be the first one to "draw her gun," so to speak.


So here she is, typing her heart and hurts into my Google browser. She types and clicks away at my keyboard while I sit patiently waiting and acting like I'm reading my e-mail off my iPod or something. Tears began rolling down her sharp cheeks as she kept clicking away with her two fingers tapping the keyboard.
She finishes.
Not every word translates because not every word is spelt correctly. Keep in mind that many of the kids are far behind in school and this one in particular has recently chosen to cease her attendance of school.
From what I gathered, and after checking what I collected with her (she understands a lot of English, she just can't speak it), I gained a great insight into her heart.
She was six and her sister was only seven.
Their uncle was a drug addict or dealer of sort and she and her sister would always want to go over to her uncles house to get drugs.
Their dad did not like this fact and would lock the girls in the house, maybe their room, and beat the seven-year-old sister. He would beat her very badly and she now has scars on her chest and back because of it.
Eventually they got taken away by social services and brought here to the Lar.


The teen girl now is very rebellious and has almost been kicked out of the Lar multiple times. She has been here ten years--the longest than any other girl besides her own sister.


She has some self-respect issues, I believe, and continually makes-out with random boys any chance she gets when she is taken outside the Lar. She looks at boys, and men, as if they are pieces of meat; looking them up and down on the street, turning her head all the way around as they pass. I witnessed this in my presence and have mentioned classy behavior with her, but she is involved with boys more than I anticipated.

We have only gone to the beach twice since I've been here and the first time she made out with some random boy, boasting of the respect he has for her because he pulled the sleeve of her swimsuit up as it drooped over her shoulder during their make-out session.


I also had to pull her away from talking to a twenty or thirty-something year old man while the other intern and I were treating the girls to some food on the beach at sunset. She is a bad example for the thirteen year old girl that only arrived here at the Lar about two months ago and is following her to talk to such men.
When I pulled them away from the man by gently leading them by the arm, she was quick to snatch her arm from my hand and gave me a look of disgust and betrayal. She yelled a bunch in Portuguese causing some of the other girls to snicker and the intern to apologize to me for what she was saying. I however, was not sorry, nor did I regret pulling the girls away from that man whom had popped up multiple times during our venture at the beach that day.


This young lady has also threatened multiple times to leave the Lar and become a prostitute.
There are some issues of the heart.
There are lies that have been fed into her.


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I have more to say about the young boy who just arrived off the streets last week and some others but I will give your eyes and my fingers a rest for now.


Thank you for reading.


If you are a believer, I ask that you please pray for these children.


Pray as the Spirit leads you.

To Each Their Own Path is Drawn

To each their own path is drawn.


I look around and I see my friends and their friends. In fact, they are not truly my friends, they are my acquaintances. They have friends, however.
friends that are like family to them, like sisters it seems.
I have never had such friends.
Not only have I not had many friends in my life that have been of the female sex, but I have not had many friends at all.


Without fully going into the subjective definition of friendship that I am describing here, I consider the term "friendship" as a stable, relational description term that should be used in reference to someone whom shares such a connection.


I am not talking about the friends-in-passing, or the friends on Facebook, but the solid friends that are engaged in and share a genuine friendship--some may refer to such people as "best friends."
I have not had many of such relationships.
In fact, I have longed for female friendships for most of my adult life.


Most of my friendships last only for a season, typically ranging from one to three years, maybe.
Most of my friendships with guys only last a matter of months to two years, ending in most part due to developed feelings that were left unreciprocated, or a simple drifting of habit.
The latter is the primary reason why most of my female-friendships end. Or at least so it seems.


I am internally urged to beg the question: why? Why is it that I am not very good at making close friends, and why is it that I am seemingly incapable of maintaining said friendships?
But this urge, I will resist.


I see my less-close friends from high school--we were close then, but now we are of the Facebook-friends sort. They are still within the same circle of friends, still enjoying each others' company on a regular basis, still growing more and more knowledgeable of one another's deep struggles and passions and seemingly facing such trials and victories side-by-side.
Sharing meals.
Planning trips.
Living together and investing in one another, personally.


I have two best friends; two people that I would currently describe as my true "friends" of the deep-rooted meaning.
One is male.
One is female.
However, even we do not share such community as I have seen with others. They do not share such a friendship as I have with each of them, which I'm sure contributes greatly to this sense of "community."
Moreover, we are each in a season of our lives where familial and local community investment has become a strong focus. Rightfully so.


I am actually currently on the opposite side of the equator as both relational partners I am considering, and they each have their own lives and schedules, as do I.


To clarify, I am not complaining nor seeking for understanding. I know my Truth. I know it is not solely my Truth, but others' as well.
I am simply noting my thoughts and observations as a way of self-processing.


To continue, I do sense a longing--at times--for such community in friendship in a quality (the value I place on quantity in this matter is inferior to that of quality).


Here at the orphanage some of the girls ask me about my friends back home, only to follow with an expression of questioning when I tell them I only have two.
Here, they lives in homes with generally twelve other girls their age, surprisingly with a strong sense of community and love among them all. I would anticipate more drama from three houses full of girls.


In fact, my Junior year of high school my peer-friend count was zero. This hit me the first week of school when I found myself hesitant on where to find myself sitting during our lunch period.
The previous summer I had spend the lunch breaks of my summer school classes in the campus library for pleasure reading.


Although I knew many people in my high school, was very involved in my classes, ASB, Track and Field, Cross Country, Choir (for a year), and school events, I had no peer to call "friend" during the difficult seasons.


My best friends during that year were my Dad and my eight year younger sister, Julieanna. Although to some this may paint me as being very much of the loser-type in high school, I wouldn't trade this time of my life for anything. My dad and I are still best friends and I consider my little sister one of my best friends despite if she reciprocates that notion.


I'm not sure why girls my age do not want to be my friend. Upon contemplation, I believe that all of my female friends in my adult life have either been younger or older than me by at least a couple years, with few exceptions, of course.
Interesting.
Without sounding overly arrogant, I believe this complex may have developed due to some womens' perception of me as being of the "snob" sort, or even a more degrading word choice that some women choose when describing their initial impressions of me after having gotten to know me better.


Because of such feedback I have learned to smile much more and not walk with my arms crossed--which in fact has given me plenty more opportunity for male friendships.


I play naive at times, but I like to think of myself as cleaver enough to detect when a guy wants to be my friend with the intentions of developing our relationship into something more romantic. When this point develops further into the friendship, it typically signals the severance of said friendship, and deeply hurt feelings on both sides.
I have mourned over lost friendships maybe more times than I should have.
Callouses built. Walls crafted. Yet I can't seem to deny that first year or two of adventure, fellowship, and sharing in pure friendship with a guy.


Although my experience in female friendships is limited, I have come to find that, in general, female friendships are orientated around much more drama, intentions-based reasoning, and beating around the bush.


On the other hand, the male friendships that I have had experience with typically have quite a high regard for being straight-forward, with some being more dramatic than others.

In contemplation of my life experiences, not limited to those represented here, I realize that my life is not about my life. My life is about the Lord. And if I can glorify Him, according to His will, as a free-spirit apart from a community of friends, then hallelujah; praise God.

To each their own path is drawn.

A while back, about five years, I prayed that the Lord would use me as a tool--around the time of my junior year of high school in fact--that I would not be on this earth with self-oriented motives or self-gratifying actions, but that I would be fully His and fully used by Him.
Human relational needs aside.

He was, and is, my desire.

Do I feel used in both quality and quantity for the Lord according to His will? Yes, yes I do. And I wouldn't have it any other way.
I believe that the seed that has been sown and the crops that have been harvested over the past five years--over the past seasons of friendships--have not been in vain or of useless matters.
I believe that the seasons I had of investment and dwelling in friendship with each person I have been involved with--over the past five years specifically --was a part of being a living sacrifice unto the Lord.

This I believe because this is what I committed; my whole life.

Brazil: Awake, Oh you sleeper.

I have been waking up lately singing worship songs before my eyes begin to open or before my mind begins to process. This confirms to me that this is a matter of the heart.
Early my heart awakens and early my heart stirs worship within me.


Jon Foreman: House of God Forever; Date: Forgotten
Jon Foreman: White as Snow (Would you create in me a clean heart, oh God); Date: 11/05/11
Hillsong United: Came to my Rescue (Be Lifted High); Date: 11/06/11


Psalm 103 (NIV)

¹ Praise the LORD, my soul;
   all my inmost being, praise his holy name. 
² Praise the LORD, my soul,
   and forget not all his benefits—
³ who forgives all your sins
   and heals all your diseases,
⁴ who redeems your life from the pit
   and crowns you with love and compassion,
⁵ who satisfies your desires with good things
   so that your youth is renewed like the eagle’s.

 ⁶ The LORD works righteousness
   and justice for all the oppressed.

 ⁷ He made known his ways to Moses,
   his deeds to the people of Israel:
⁸ The LORD is compassionate and gracious,
   slow to anger, abounding in love.
⁹ He will not always accuse,
   nor will he harbor his anger forever;
¹⁰ he does not treat us as our sins deserve
   or repay us according to our iniquities.
¹¹ For as high as the heavens are above the earth,
   so great is his love for those who fear him;
¹² as far as the east is from the west,
   so far has he removed our transgressions from us.

 ¹³ As a father has compassion on his children,
   so the LORD has compassion on those who fear him;
¹⁴ for he knows how we are formed,
   he remembers that we are dust.
¹⁵ The life of mortals is like grass,
   they flourish like a flower of the field;
¹⁶ the wind blows over it and it is gone,
   and its place remembers it no more.
¹⁷ But from everlasting to everlasting
   the LORD’s love is with those who fear him, 
   and his righteousness with their children’s children—
¹⁸ with those who keep his covenant
   and remember to obey his precepts.

 ¹⁹ The LORD has established his throne in heaven,
   and his kingdom rules over all.

 ²⁰ Praise the LORD, you his angels,
   you mighty ones who do his bidding,
   who obey his word.
²¹ Praise the LORD, all his heavenly hosts,
   you his servants who do his will.
²² Praise the LORD, all his works
   everywhere in his dominion.

   Praise the LORD, my soul.

Brazil: Histories, Observations, and Toilets

One of the girls who is currently in the teenage house used to do favors for others or use the little bit of money she had to buy crack, used to be a crack addict. Proudest moment was when she came to the Lar and quit doing drugs. She came to the Lar when she was about ten years old, meaning she had already been a practicing crack addict before this point. Her mom died from drug use and her and her sister have different dads. She is very loving and family-oriented. She has pictures and albums organized in her corner of the room. her sister, Ila, is also at the orphanage. The picture of Ila before she arrived at the Lar is similar to one right out of a compassion commercial. She is a tiny little, dark-skinned girl sweeping the gutter of a street with a small-sized Brazilian broom.



Girls sleep about six to a room, with generally three bunk bed per room. Split up into three houses, the girls are organized by age group.


The newer kids, came in about two weeks before I arrived. Their mom was a prostitute and would always be bringing men home. They are all from different dads. Somehow they ended up being passed off to the father of John-Vitor, the youngest one, about two years old, and he sexually abused the oldest and the youngest girl (adriana and maria). Social services brought them to the Lar. They are all very well adjusted. In fact, Adriana said her favorite memory in her life is the day she came to the Lar. They are all smiles while they are here, so full of joy and love. The father of John-Vitor wants custody of his two-year old son, but has no rights to the other girls, which he doesn't want anyway. John-pedro is showered with love and affection while he is here at the Lar with about thirty little-mamas that want to care for him, hold him, and love him.


Apparently, one of the girls was raped when she was three. These girls and boys have been abused sexually, physically, mentally, sold, traded, robbed, and neglected abandoned. When asked how they would change the world, many of them say they would abolish theft, violence, poverty, and hunger. It is also a common response for these kids to state their favorite memory being the day of arrival at the orphanage.


I had thought that these kids would have a sense of resentment or rebellion because they are stripped of the image of a typical family and placed in a children's home. In fact, these kids love it! It seems to be like a summer camp that never gets old to them. I have seen more bickering, rumors, arguments, and drama at a one-week church camp than I have in my entire stay here at the Lar. These kids are like family to one another. They have community, accountability, and fellowship as they live together. They help each other with chores, they give each other advice or a listening ear when needed. They tease each other and get in disagreements, but not in a relationship severing manner like friends may do. They live as family.

Some of the girls asked if I was a believer when I first arrived because I had a tattoo. A lot of girls and boys now want a tattoo from the moment of seeing mine. Paige said they have to wait until they're 18 to make that decision and one of the girls rejoiced because she would turn 18 this year. My roommate and friend, Mellissa, said that her beliefs were questioned by the girls when she first arrived because she didn't close her eyes during prayer. Bless their legalistic hearts, ahah.


Many of these kids were street kids before coming here and it shows in their mannerisms and certain behaviors. 


Some of the girls are masculine in their mannerisms and posture. Some of the girls will scratch their groins or swing their legs open while sitting, placing their elbow on one knee. One girl has short hair, and regrettably, I thought she was a boy for the first week. She also has a masculine laugh, I don't really know how to explain that claim, but I suppose it's your choice whether or not to just trust me on that one.


Some even make me a tad uncomfortable with how affectionate they are simply because I do not know their backgrounds and excessive touching, handing, kissing, leaning, etc. tends to wear on me, especially when in uncomfortable places. For example, one of the little boys (adorable little man) loves to give me a hug and a kiss every time he sees me. The first few times I was walking down the hallway outside my apartment and unexpectedly he came up to give me a kiss, not knowing his motive, I didn't lean down, and he ended up kissing my breast, also leaving a snot remnant on my shirt about an upper-lip distance above where he had kissed.


I learned to lean over or to do a side-hug from then on.


Another girl always wants to be in physical contact with me. She is always hanging on me or stroking me or playing with my hair, and I love it. To an extent. I consider myself a very touch-oriented person. I love the language of touch, I communicate very well and often with touch. However, I, too, have my limits. She would sometimes lean her butt on my knee, which I found a bit odd. I would move, and she would move over to place her butt leaning up against my knee again. This made me feel awkward and uncomfortable given that she has also done a similar action facing the other direction. I'm not going to read into anything, maybe she just has a touch complex, but I am simply describing what made me uncomfortable, due to my own predispositions. 


Some of the girls, and possibly boys, still wet the bed, even those in the teenage houses. I have also heard that some kids have tendencies to pee behind buildings, which is still a step up from the accepted behavior of those living on the streets, who would pee right at the curb of a busy street.

Also, in all of Brazil people do not put toilet paper in the toilet. Next to every toilet, whether it be in the airport, restaurant, or home, has a little trash can next to it for you to place your used toilet paper. This is quite a difficult habit for me to form. Not only am I not used to such expectations, but I don't like performing them. I also must admit that this pattern causes some public restrooms less than desirable to enter simply due to the lingering odor.


Many of the kids here are also very behind in school, or choose not to attend school after a certain age. Some of the 15-17 year olds are still in grades ranging from 3rd-7th, and school only lasts for four hours here, giving the children the option for school in the early morning or afternoon. Apparently the schools also have an option where the kids can opt to take a course that combines 6th-8th grade in order to get them out of the way. Fortunately, the Lar holds a higher standards of education than the school district and  there is a tutor that is available for the girls and boys to work with throughout the week. Most of the kids here, from what I know, are doing very well in school and seem to enjoy math and Portuguese classes.

Brazil: Screaming

I was sitting on the couch in my living room here at the Lar watching a movie with my roommate, Melissa. A moving shadow caught my eye and I realized it was actually a huge tarantula coming straight for me! Okay, so it was about four square inches, but it was huge to me.


It was seconds before it hid under the couch I was sitting on and I jumped up to turn on the light.


Informing Melissa, I quickly looked for something to smash it.


To get to the point, I did a lot of screaming, while Melissa did the killing. She sprayed it with bug-killer so it would curl up in defense and then smashed it with her sandal. It's hairy legs were still moving, even the one that was completely detached from it's body.



I'm not sure how well I'm going to sleep tonight, especially because I just smashed a mosquito that I caught sucking blood from my hand while typing this. Upon lifting my murderous hand I saw more blood than I ever imaged a little bug ever stomaching.


Yuck.

Riding the bus

On Saturday October 29th, 2011 I made a trip through the city with Mellissa and Ny. We rode the bus from Paige's house and got lost on our way to Central Market, which took us three and a half hours to reach when it only should have taken us 30 minutes. On this trek we saw some interesting sites and people. The first interesting woman we saw was not a woman at all. She was a man with a tight, mid-drift revealing red shirt, and little cut-off jean shorts. It looked like a hairy, bearded, homeless man had tried to fit into Tommy Pickles' clothes. 

I also noticed, in passing, some young kids that were in front of traffic at a stop light dressed in circus clothes. One was on stilts and they were each juggling to perform for the waiting cars. They were not just there for entertainment, however, they were street performers trying to make some money for their, presumed, mother on the side of the road.

I also saw a little boy, probably about five years old, with his boy-part fully exposed as he openly peed while standing on the busy street curb as he faced traffic. Unfortunately, I have heard that grown men make a habit of this also. It is also very common that I see little girls walking around in their underwear on the streets of Fortaleza, no matter how busy the street is. 

I have seen many homeless people while in the city, and I have yet to even go into the favellas. I don't know if I will even get the opportunity to go because I have heard they are very dangerous and are home to a lot of sexual, gang, and drug activity. Anyway, the homeless people I did see were similar to the homeless that may be seen on the streets of Riverside, CA or LA. One man was tucked into his own tee-shirt, as if pulling as beevis and butthead disguise as he was curled up in the middle of the busy sidewalk of Beita Mar, a frequenced market place in the city.

On the bus there was also a one-legged man that was selling mentos. Apparently they eat Mentos and cough drops as candy here. However, I understand the Mentos equally candy. There are no sign of Skittles or Starburst, or pretty much any candy that we may find in a candy store in the states besides Mentos, Smarties, Lollipop, and maybe a few others.

Sometimes the busses get very crowded, and I mean, very crowded. One of those crowds that you hope the bus driver will make a fast turn or something so maybe some polluted, burnt-rubber air will pour in through the cracked windows on the bus. It surely beats the smell of a hot, humid space filled with people. When a seat does open up, it makes sense to take it, rather than to continue letting all the blood drain from your hands as you tightly clasp onto the pole above your head as to avoid falling over or letting your arm touch the sweaty person next to you.

At one point Mellissa was sitting in the aisle seat and the woman next to her was getting ready to get off at the next stop. When the woman struggled to get by in Mellissa's limited leg-space, she was quick to shout at Mellissa in a clearly dissatisfied voice about how rude Mellissa is as she smacked her in the chest, leaving scratches near Mellissa's clavicles. Mellissa said okay and let the lady leave. Apparently, the people around us were commenting how nice Mellissa was because that lady was a jerk. All of this was verbally communicated in Portuguese. I had watched the whole thing, and initially I had assumed the lady was saying sorry for stumbling over Mellissa and the hit to the chest was a result of her stumbles. I was wrong.

I have been learning a lot about communication while I have been here in Brazil. My nonverbal communication skills have been sharpened more than ever before, and it's amazing how much tone, body movements, pitch, up-talking, speed, and attitude truly communicate. The patience these girls at the Lar have with me is astounding. My first full day one of the girls even brought out her notebook and started teaching me Portuguese phrases and words. What neat kids!

Well the trip to Central Market didn't work out because they closed by the time we would have arrived after our extensive bus rides. So we went to Beita Mar, a market place on the shore of Fortaleza. It was really neat and I had only been there once before but only for about thirty minutes. I was able to get a Hammock chair my first time and a Hammock, along with some other souvenirs, this time. Money exchanging is truly a hassle here. I don't even really want to talk about it at this point. Anyway, at the market places here in Brazil bartering is expected, which is actually pretty fun once you get the hang of it. I love the fact that the initial price is simply the greatest amount I will have to pay, not necessarily the price I will take it home for. In the end, I managed to buy two sets of neat wooden crayons for the kids I love back home, a sweet hammock for Amanda (which I am totally tempted to keep for myself and buy her another), and some awesome man-bracelets for some guy-friends back home. I don't really want to spend much on myself here. I am actually pretty proud at the little amount i have even spent on food while being here, in most part due to the fact that I couldn't even exchange my money for the month of October and therefore didn't have the currency or transportation to buy anything from the store.

I can't wait to go to central market though. Looking at pictures online and hearing of this massive place makes me all the more anxious to explore.

Ny, also called Nyara, grew up in the Lar and is now in the half-way home at Mark and Paige's house in the city as she goes to nursing school. She is 21 years old and a wonderful friend. When she, Mellissa, and I went to Beita Mar she was really surprised that I had done all my shopping on my own. They were moving at a slower pace than I was and I went there to get gifts for my friends. They went primarily to enjoy time out and make it possible for me to go. So I was very independent the entire time, bartering with the little Portugues-Spanish mixture I know, and moving up and down the aisles on my own. She had told me as we were walking back to the bus stop to go home that even she wouldn't feel comfortable at the market alone and that I was very brave. The way she made it sound made me question if this presumed bravery was in fact naivity on my part. I thought about how my mom wouldn't be delighted to know that I went off on my own, but deep down I felt like I had a sense of my independence back that has been lacking since being withing the gates of the Lar with no car and no raise (Brazilian currency).

Note that the pictures in this blog were not taken by me, nor are they exact representations of this outing. They serve simply to convey the idea of what I experienced and saw.

Hands and Feet

October 19, 2011

Today was day two of going out with the medical teams and the day was quite eventful. You must excuse my choppy writing style for this entry, I made a lot of brief notes while I was administrating throughout the day and I am now re-typing what was written and my creativity is as belated as the night.

Apparently this location began as Indian grounds many years ago, and now is grounds for a local school in a impoverished farming community, dirt roads and all. the kids here love bubbles, insanely, like they've never seen the things before. Which wouldn't surprise me given that even their soap doesn't have suds.

The soccer ball the kids were kicking around in the approx. 40x20 foot cement yard between the classrooms was so worn down it was an oval shaped, gray stringed knot. The kids here only have school for four hours a day and most kids that are 14 or 15 are only in 4th or 5th grade.

It rained mist, not droplets.

To get straight into the interesting stuff, there were two boys here today that had a painful amount of fleas in their hands and feet. Truly, even one flea would be painful, as demonstrated by the young girl who screamed and cried as the doctors removed a single flea from the tip of her finger. But these boys had about forty in each foot, and probably twenty in each hand. 

The first boy was a tiny figure of a kid; very malnourished indeed. Skin and bones; skinny skin and thin-thin bones. He seemed to not even have enough energy to shake his head "no" when I went up to him as he sat his body hanging on the bench and post to ask if he'd like to see the doctors.

After being picked up and carried over by one of the women working for the health department, the boy was examined by the doctors and soon drew the attention of everyone in the self-set up clinic.

They ended up giving the 3 foot child some Valium to calm him down and hopefully quiet the screams that alarmed all the students within a 20 foot radius of the building. As he was screaming from the pain of the flea removal, I selfishly just didn't want him to look me in the eye; then the connection would be drawn and I would forever be seared into his memory tagged as one of the most painful days of his life.

It caught me as a surprise that the people we helped yesterday at a clinic a couple miles down the road acted as if was the absolute best day of their year. Free medical care and medication, whew, this was more exciting than the world cup for the lot of them! Well, maybe not the world cup.

The kids yesterday had been drawing pictures and giving them to the doctors, smiling and playing as the adults laughed and waiting hours upon hours for a few short minutes with the doctors. We served 119 that day, and today we would only serve 98 (hindsight). There were people being prayed over, one man prophesied over a doctor, and another woman gifted handmade place-mats to one of the eight doctors. Laughs, chit-chats, gifts and appreciation.

Today, screams and sobs of terror and pain.

Fortunately for the boy, "no" is the same in both English and Portuguese, unfortunately that exclamation was not enough to make the procedure slow down. Who knew such a big noise could come from such a small child for so long.

The second boy with an extreme case of flea infestation in his body was actually brother to the first. When he had gotten word out on the playground-area that his brother was the source of the screams and he was to examined next, he hid. That boy ran and hid swiftly, as I believe I would have done at his age. Some guy ended up finding him and bringing him in, face swollen with fear and tears welling up in anticipation as he drug his feet on his way into the back room.

That boy was weeping a song of painful fears as his foot was raised onto the lap of the doctor for examination.

The way the doctors have to remove the fleas is by using the scalpel to slice open the skin over the parasitic flea, pulling out the little beast and then digging out the egg sack that it laid and burrowed deeper into the foot or hand of these children--leaving a deep hole and blood flowing in its place.

The older brother, also very small for his age and clearly malnourished, was mumbling sobs, abs clinched. Moaning, weeping and sobbing, the boy held still for the completion of his first foot.

The doctors gave him some Valium, too, and let it take it's course as they took a quick lunch break. The boy sat there with his feet hanging in his chair, not long enough to touch the floor. One foot done and wrapped, the other resting before it's turn on the doctor's lap.

Note that our hands and feet, espcially the tips of our fingers and toes are some of the most sensitive parts of our entire bodies apart from our lips, which has the most nerve endings in our bodies.

Well, the valume must have worn off because the second boy is no longer weeping sobs of pain and fear, rather he is shouting sobs of anguish and remorse, integrating Portuguese phrases and exclamations.

This child has been here for hours, some of which had overlapped with his brothers procedure, and he ended up screaming his way through the exhaustion. All contemplation of weeping through the pain and "taking it like man" went out the window for this round.

The boy ended up throwing his head back over the lap of the woman who was holding him down from getting away or from kicking or hitting the doctors and his vision struck my eyes. That was it. His sight targeted me and I was made. With a clinched brow and a sorry excuse for sympathy smeared across my face, I repeated all I knew to tell him: "It's going to be okay." My mom had phrased such encouragement to me as a child through my worst moments, and I was hoping a cracked smile might do him some good.

Many of the issues treated over the three days we went out to provide medical care into the Brazilian community are easily preventable with education and good hygiene. These fleas, although common in this community showed neglect  and parental abuse from the home of these two boys.

Apparently the mom came to pick her kids up with the grandma, but once she got word that the doctors had treated her children for their bodily flea infestation, she was too embarrassed to claim her children. Once the grandmother came in to fetch her grandchildren she claimed that she would be taking care of the boys instead of their mother from now on.

We can only hope they receive better care, but we know that what was done for them today is for their best interest and greater good.

Brazil: Learning

I have been learning very much about myself, and pressing in to the God I know. He has revealed Himself as faithful as He has always been. I know many people believe that mission trips give way to a grand revelation of God, but I think the revelation would only be of the misconceptions or skewed perceptions we had of God or ourselves.

God is the same. The same as the old-testament God, the same as the new testament God, the same God of America and Brazil. I am not faithful. I change, break, mold, and hide.