Introduction to Kites Over Itaquera

Thank you for checking out Kites Over Itaquera. This was the result of a short-term mission trip to Sao Paulo, Brazil in December, 2005.

I wrote this over three weeks after returning, using whatever spare time I had, and then some I didn't. As you will discover, this was the most difficult task I have ever completed. By the time I finished, I was literally ready to disconnect my computer and throw it out on the street. I let this sit for two years, unwilling to return to it until recently to make final edits.

If I have an overarching purpose with this blog, it is to show the importance of missions. Originally, I thought we should take care of business in our own back yard. I thought this until somebody innocuously announced the trip and the suddenly light came on.

I also have a newfound appreciation for full-time missionaries. We must give them the material and moral support as much as possible. Most will never understand what they go through on a daily basis.

However, we are all called to be missionaries. Anybody who does not know the Lord is an "unreached people group." That means we must be a missionary in our own backyards. But if you have the means, I strongly encourage you to involve yourself in short-term missions.

"...The harvest is plentiful but the workers are few. Ask the Lord of the harvest, therefore, to send out workers into his harvest field." Then make yourself available.

Feel free to e-mail petelenz@yahoo.com.

Pete.

PLEASE NOTE THIS PAGE CONTAINS ONLY THE FIRST SIX CHAPTERS.

Kites Over Itaquera

A boy named Clayton looks skyward. I am not even in his vision as I walk close by him. His hand is painted orange from his work and he doesn’t seem interested if I were. But there are other kids with him and I am persuaded to stop and talk with them.

Clayton looks distracted as I approach but he keeps his attention on the sky. He is flying a kite, an orange kite, but not for long as it dives to the ground in a hurry. The wind is uncertain in Itaquera, Brazil and the kites often wrap around and eventually fall victim to the power lines.

As a child, I played baseball most summer days when it didn’t rain, some when it did. I grew up the youngest of six and we always had instant teams, especially when the neighborhood kids came by. The makeshift diamond we constructed on the street was a meeting place. In Itaquera, the children fly kites.

A good pipa kite costs approximately two reais, or about one dollar. The smallest and most common kites are the peixinho, or little fish. They are plain and simple, about the size and shape of home plate and cost around 15 cents. The larger kites are called arraia, which are large enough for messages. They usually have the name of one of the three soccer clubs in Sao Paulo, a heated rivalry. Drug dealers use them to let others know they have set up shop and in certain parts of Brazil they do so with impunity.

For the less fortunate, they make up the majority and must wait to catch a kite after it hits the ground. The first person to touch it, claims it, an unwritten rule and a way of recycling. Like baseball, it usually favors the swift or the resourceful.

If there is a sport to kite flying, it is to cut the string of another kite flyer, an airborne version of king of the hill. Some use a glass-embedded string as an advantage to cut the others. Some apply a metallic coating to protect theirs. Nearly all the string is a hazard to the ubiquitous motorcyclist as many are lacerated across the neck.

Itaquera has a consistent breeze out of the jutting, densely vegetated hills making it perfect as a kite flying capital and it is most windy in June and July, their winter months. In St. Louis, Missouri, my hometown, the wind is strongest in March as it races unimpeded across the Plains. But there are no elaborate games with the kites, just elaborate designs.

I never saw the sense of kites as a child. My oldest brother tried it once when I was young and I helped him. It was cold out, a biting cold because of the wind, I remember, and I hate cold. He worked the string one way, then the other. I fed and retracted the string sometimes maniacally and the end result was the kite stayed in much the same place. Apparently, only in America does one keep the kite in one spot–no opposition, no victory–just working with the wind to keep it airborne. At least in baseball you keep score and know who won and lost when the day was done.

Clayton’s kite was an arraia and I didn’t see what happened to it, if it was a power line or it fell victim to another flyer. Regardless, he joins us afterward, smiling now. While the kite flew, he was pleasantly distracted and it offered a glimmer of hope as he was its captain. But like everything else in this world, including his smile, it was only temporary.

Kites Over Itaquera II

Traveling out of the country was a new experience for me. Going to Itaquera was a revolution.

I am used to mixed cultures, my mom from Switzerland and my dad from what is now the Czech Republic. What they gave most was a different perspective almost like looking at the American culture from the outside in. However, learning about different cultures is completely different than experiencing them.

I prepared myself for a Brazilian template, more like a generalization. I never expected the name Clayton, though. Many of the names in Brazil sound like they come from elsewhere in the world including Bruno, Igor, Emerson, and others. I learn in little time to expect the unexpected.

One thing I notice right away is they are open to strangers as well as friends, not what I know in America. It was once that way in American culture. We’ve all heard the cliches: the front door was never locked, we hitchhiked everywhere, the kids ran the neighborhood until called home for dinner. I’ve found the biggest culprit is money. Studies show the more we make, the more we owe and the more we make, the less we give to charity–the more we make, the less we care.

Itaquera is only one of countless spokes that make up Sao Paulo, one of the largest cities in the world. It is home to an internationally acclaimed Gran Prix race and also home to some of the best beaches in the world. Parasailing off Sao Paulo’s beaches is known worldwide. Amenities afforded to the luxury capitals of the world can be easily found. However, for the Itaquera we visit, many will live and die there and not really notice.

Suburbs like Itaquera consider themselves the engine that makes the Brazilian economy run, as opposed to Rio de Janeiro and the city of Sao Paulo. It is not that different from how many Germans view the French.

Continuing well beyond the horizon are high rise apartments after high rise. Second only to Bombay in population concentration is Sao Paulo. If they are lucky to have their own house in the poorer parts, they live in a home not even the size of storage sheds we know in America. Worse are the favelas, slums essentially scraped from the landscape, many times from garbage dumps.

Most of the homes have two or three small–very small–rooms giving new meaning to efficiency. They are proud of their homes, though, it is theirs, they own it and they don’t share a door or an elevator with anybody.

Two things are common in Brazilian homes. All the floors have decorative tile and some tile the walls. One had tile on the kitchen cabinets. Even in Itaquera, comfort is still relative. All have iron gates to keep out the worst elements and they are well-represented. Cars get locked up behind the gates on what might be a front porch. There is no grass to mow.

Those fortunate enough have cement walls. It covers the bare cinder block found in the others. Many spend days foraging around job sites, the dumps or wherever else to bring scraps home. Some pull it home on carts I might have seen pulled by a horse when I was a kid. If they have a front door, it is made from scraps of wood. The better houses have no front door and show off their fancier tile.

Since it never gets cold in Itaquera, there is no need to seal the house. During winter, it gets cool but not cold, although it can approach freezing on sparse occasion. When I say cold, I mean St. Louis cold. I grew up without air conditioning and sometimes without heat. The furnace broke once during the coldest winter in St. Louis history–one with snow on the ground for 100 consecutive days–and we toughed it out. I can tell you firsthand, it is far easier to survive extreme heat than extreme cold. In Sao Paulo, it helps to have the Atlantic Ocean.
To better understand Itaquera, it is necessary to go back in time a half-century–by plane since many have cars now.

The landscape in Sao Paulo would probably make Picasso envious. It is neat to view from the air. Tightly-built pastel houses form to the landscape, one that juts sharply up and down. None of the roads seem to go straight from necessity.

The airport is like in any other American city. People scurry throughout with only their flight in mind. However, once the intercom goes off, I know I am no longer in America. Portuguese is the native tongue and it sounds like Spanish spoken in a French accent. I understand nothing.

Thankfully, the missionaries and interpreters are there to meet us at the airport. They take us to where we are staying and it doesn’t take long to find traffic signals and street lines are merely suggestions. More frightening are the motorcyclists. They drive on the white lines and pass in the slimmest of margins. Some use the yellow line and they swerve in and out of traffic, cheating death. Never have I been so stressed in a car and I am not driving. However, in the time I am there, I saw only one car accident and that caused by the rain.

City planning is almost an afterthought. While easy getting out of the airport and to the suburbs, the streets must follow where the jutting terrain takes them. As we approach the suburbs, I can tell Itaquera is far different than the streets of St. Louis where the roads escape the urban squalor. There are no malls or big box stores, only small shops, usually a converted home. And like the worst parts of St. Louis, they are heavily reinforced with the iron fences.

It didn’t used to be that way in St. Louis. There is a flip side to progress that usually gets ignored.

Much like St. Louis, the seemingly never-ending retaining walls are splattered with advertisements and graffiti. It is a colorful drive to say the least. Some of the written words I can catch with similar Latin roots, especially amor. Apparently, announcing affections for your girlfriend is universal.

Somebody from the worst parts of St. Louis told me how to judge a neighborhood: look for people sitting outside on their stoops. Too many and they must be unemployed–they share their misery well with crime and drug abuse. As we approach the pastor’s house where we are staying, all I see is people, most of them sitting on their stoops.

Perhaps it is good Clayton flies his kite as much as he does. He keeps his eyes up above the squalor, if only for a little while. I look outside my window as we drive past the streams of people hanging out on the streets and I wonder why I am here.

Kites Over Itaquera III

Never in my wildest dreams did I actually consider going to Brazil. I was content where I was at, sitting in the last pew and soaking up a good message. But it happened one day, plainly, simply, without fanfare.

We all know it and experience it: the voice from no worldly source that seems to gurgle from the depths until it is set free. For me, it came during announcements. Brad East, the Associate Pastor, read the announcements after the message and one was short-term mission opportunities to Mexico and Brazil. I’m not sure it rang a bell because of the warm climates–anything to get away from the St. Louis winters.

I have a writer’s heart which means I let my mind drift to places and never come back until I am ready. However, I never follow up on my ambitions since I also have a knack of talking myself out of things. Ernest Hemingway, Jack London, and Woody Guthrie would frown on me and it is probably why you never have seen my books in print.

St. Louis is my hometown and I attended Southeast Missouri State University about 100 miles from home (about 100 miles too far, I came to realize). Before my current job, I had only flown one time. I lead a boring life by every standard–even my clothes come off the rack at Wal-Mart. Missions or mission trips were for others.

Before I could rationalize this voice away, though, I knew I was going. The hard part was battling my own contentment. It was where the battle started and the enemy was winning handily.

As the trip drew closer, doubts started surfacing again and again. It’s too far, it costs too much. What happens if the plane crashes? Hemingway lived for days in the Amazon after his plane crashed, I would probably get swallered up by an Anaconda. Each day, the doubts intensified. In addition, I struggled with something else. The enemy was trying to cripple me.

I started to look around my church on Sundays and suddenly felt isolated, disenfranchised. Everybody else was going through the motions, it seemed, and I was the only “spiritual” person there. It turned out to be the other way around.

If it hadn’t been for Lou, I would not be writing this. I would not be at church on Sunday and I would be content as ever, at least in a worldly way. I don’t know Lou’s last name but he sits next to me every Sunday. There is never a boring moment at church and he is one of the funniest and ironic people I have met.

The battle came to a head one Sunday when I just wanted to leave. My back was sore from wrenching it earlier that week and I was tired of sitting and standing. The music suddenly sounded bland and everything told me I was better off at home. I was almost ready to turn out of the pew and be through with my church. Just then, Lou leaned over and said something funny, Biblically funny, and that one quip started a small spark of rejuvenation that overcame me.

We all know what would have happened if I had gone out that door. I would have waited a couple of weeks, tried another church a few times, then try another a couple of visits before darkening the door once in yet another before never being heard from again. The money saved from my tithes would look better in my bank account. Thankfully, I perservered because God was not done with me.

However, the doubts of going to Brazil still were as strong as ever. All the reasons for not going suddenly seemed right. It was too expensive, it was too close to Christmas, I couldn’t tear myself from work. But that inaudible voice was too strong and I managed to will away the doubts. But I almost forgot the most important thing: sign up for the trip and I was barely in time.

Administrative skills are not my strong suit. They can be when I want to but I don’t hardly want them to outside of work. I’d rather be in far away places in my office chair. If it had not been for the church staff, I would not have made it to Brazil. The only work I had to do was get my passport–and signing the check.

Filling in all those zero’s was difficult, but after I ripped the check from the register, I felt a sense of ease. It reminded me of another time when I did much the same thing, getting myself somewhere I never would have imagined.

I was at home listening to Focus on the Family in 1992. Bill McCartney, founder of Promise Keepers, was the guest. He talked about Godly men gathering in a stadium in Boulder, Colorado. The only problem was Boulder is about 1000 miles from home and I really couldn’t afford it. That inaudible voice appeared again telling me I had to go. Getting there was another matter.

There was a hotline for carpooling and I had free space in my ‘79 International Scout, a vehicle with more rust than paint. I received a call from a 14 year old boy. Later, I found I was the only person with room and he was the only one needing a ride. With this coincidence, I wish I could say it was of God. It turned out to be a ride from Hades instead.

Because of a late start and losing an hour to time change, we split the drive into two days. He ate with his mouth open. We spent the night halfway in Fort Hayes, Kansas and he snored. He also acted how I did at 14 years old. How did I live to see 15?

Before the trip, though, I lent money in an emergency with a promise to have it back in my account soon. I had no credit cards at the time; cash was king by necessity. I get to Fort Hayes that night and the money is not there. Almost all of my remaining cash is spent at the motel. The next morning: no money. Later that day: no money. Now the incline leading to the Rockies pushes my gas gauge faster and faster to empty. No gas stations are open, either, on the short-cut to Colorado Springs (the boy’s sister lives in Breckenridge, a supposed quick detour) probably because there were no gas stations. We arrive there with drops of gas in the tank. My last five dollars go into the tank. I worry all over again if we will make it to Breckenridge but we do barely. At least we are there. Still no money, however.

The next day, I survey the situation: I am 1000 miles from home with no money, no gas, and a boy I have never met. Could the situation get more bleak? Well, yes.

Before we set out, I have to borrow money from the boy and I felt really low. I feel even worse because if the money is not in the account, it is a long night in the Scout. Frazzled. I will have traveled 1000 miles for something I didn’t know what to expect and everything so far has gone wrong. I am miserable, tired, and Colorado now seems another planet.

When we arrive, I enroll and get my wristband. While the boy enrolls, I asked myself once again what I got myself into, why am I here and I cannot come up with a good answer. After he joins me, I look for my wristband and I cannot find it. At this point, I am feeling Old Testament-like. I want to tear at my clothes, my hair, whatever is in reach. I am, I’m sure, a pathetic sight and all I want is to be home right now.

Thankfully, the boy finds my wristband in with the other freebies we are handed. After a deep breath, I put it on. I feel unprepared for this meeting and I don’t want to go in–I am not feeling “spiritual,” whatever that means. However, God had other plans.

I cannot explain in human terms what happened the very instant I walked into the stadium. Something knocked me back on my heels and instantly all the cares of the world went away. All the trials now are a distant memory. The peace from the Holy Spirit overcame me that instant and it was much like entering another dimension. I knew instantly I was meant to be here, with the boy. We both learned that weekend what no man should be without.

That same feeling I got in Brazil, only it took a few days.

Kites Over Itaquera IV

I never knew what a Godly man was while growing up. My dad peeled out when I was three, leaving my mom all alone in a foreign country. It nearly overwhelmed her but she perservered. She was never the same, though, from what I hear.

Few pictures of me exist. There are a handful of them that must have been shot by my dad. He is not in any of them.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

John Weaver, one of the missionaries overseeing our trip, loves to take photographs. While in Brazil, he shoots constantly. Easily, he takes more pictures of me than all my years. I can’t remember if I ever sat down for a picture in my adult life. School pictures ended in the 8th grade. The only way I remember is somebody said I wore the same clothes for my 7th grade picture.

I never stepped into a studio for a photograph nor do I want to. I don’t even own a camera.

It must be universal for children to smile for photographs. From the few that exist of me, I smile freely. The children in Brazil take it to another extreme. Everybody in Brazil is photogenic and wants to impress the little man in the camera. They like the results in the LCD.

For me, I would rather remember and hold a moment as special. I don’t want to take a picture and then file it in a drawer somewhere only to be jarred by a long-lost photograph. I would rather have the moment take hold in my permanent psyche, if it is that important.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

As I looked at my childhood photographs, I wished I could go back to the days of youth when we played whiffleball or flips with our baseball cards. I still prefer a good game of basketball to cleaning the house and I’ve played many a game of basketball. However, I wandered back in my life, unwinding the paths I have taken and thought about how things might have been, especially with a father.

Like some binary operation in the flow chart of life, I sometimes wonder if just one small turn long ago would have changed my life drastically. But I cringe. I cringe over the paths I should have taken, if I even took a path at all. I still can recall all the dumb mistakes I’ve made, no shortage there and I remember each to exact detail. I cringe over what might have been with a father I never had.

I consider myself fortunate, though, on second glance at those photographs. I made a lot of mistakes since then but it was part of a growing process. In retrospect, I don’t think I have any regrets, just good hindsight.

I came across pictures of my brother almost two years older than me and he had an easy smile, although a little more timid. He turned out a little different than me. After a second marriage faltered and his back gave out, he decided his answer came at the end of a barrel, a shotgun barrel he used to take his own life.

He had more difficulty than I did growing up, I remembered when we were young. My dad chose not to be a part of our lives and my brother was the one who needed his father’s love the most. I could see it in the pictures, now that I look back at them.

Kites Over Itaquera V

For pilots and passengers, the hard part to flying is take-off and landing. Seeing the ground shrink beneath me on take-off frightens me like nothing else. I’d rather be on the ground petting anacondas.

Sleep was a rare commodity leading up to the trip. I had plenty of unfinished business and I take some of it with me to Brazil. I started packing after midnight the night before we leave. All I do is throw stuff in the suitcase and carry-on bag and hope I got everything. I hate packing, though, since it means I am going somewhere.

Five of us from church are on the trip, about the right size, I came to find. We meet at church at 4:30 after a frenetic day of work. Fifteen hours of travel await us and I’m already bushed.

Brad East is the Associate Pastor and heads up the trip. He is good with details and has been to Brazil for advance work. He makes only one mistake on the trip: he tells us the on-board meal to Brazil is breakfast and I bring two pounds of grapes to hold me over. Only minutes later, the stewardesses wheel out dinner and I can’t resist. To me, there is no such thing as leftovers. I eat what is in front of me, no matter what. After dinner, I feel pregnant and can’t bend forward in my seat. I find I will not be hungry until we leave Brazil.

I napped for what I thought was a long time and wake up thinking surely we are close. I am rudely jolted when I look at my watch. My nap was only an hour and there is still eight more hours to go. Worse, I cannot get back to sleep and I am both tired and gorged beyond belief. The movies are no good but they do have GPS, which is both good and bad. I don’t have to ask the stewardess if we are almost there yet and I know exactly when we fly over the Amazon.

Also accompanying Brad from the staff is Tren Groat. He is the College and Career Pastor and will head up a follow-up visit in June. He barely looks old enough to even have graduated college. A John Lennon pre-hippy hairstyle makes him look years younger. His dark hair can pass for Brazilian but his skin is very pale. He stands tall and deliberate like most Brazilians; nobody slouches in Brazil.

The only woman on the trip is Jean Oye. She is a widow and has been on this type of mission trip several times since her husband died. They don’t come any sweeter than Jean and she is extremely affable. She is also tough, having been on a mission trip down the Amazon. Thank you for your obedience, Jean, better anybody but me.

Greg Bryan works in the printing office at church. He is unassuming and deceptively funny. He enjoys beating me at ping-pong but won’t say it. Let the record show I beat him once.

We left St. Louis and it was 32 degrees. We arrive in Sao Paulo and it is in the 80’s. Already in one respect I love Brazil. But I am still miserable from lack of sleep.

Immediately apparent are the loosened mores of Brazil. Advertisement after advertisement throughout the airport contain women about ready to catch cold. At least there is strategically placed clothing. I learn on the trip Brazilians are not immodest because there must be immodesty to be immodest–they just don’t care.

Missionaries John Weaver and John Johnson greet us at the airport. I was expecting tall, bookish types with reading glasses as they blended in with the kiosks. Instead, they seem like good car salesmen. I should know since I am a Product Trainer for a domestic manufacturer. Like a good policeman, they know how to passively take control of a situation.

John Weaver has a slight build and deserving of his Grasshopper nickname. He barely knows how to stay in one place long enough. He sticks out in Brazil because of his reddish-blond hair, almost as blond as mine. John Johnson, on the other hand, is unhurried. With dark hair and dark eyes, he falls in my Brazilian template and he even sounds Brazilian when he talks to the Brazilians. When he talks to me, I learn quickly he is from Texas.

We have two interpreters joining us, Natan and Dalete Sampaio de Aquino, brother and sister. They stand straight with narrow bone structures. Natan looks graceful and amiable. Dalete has sleek, elegant lines–bonita. Immediately, I see they are transparent, without guile, and I know I am no longer in America. I don’t know if it is the car business or American culture in general, but everything in America seems to have an angle. We hide behind visages or facades, rarely showing our true selves. Already at first glance, I want what the Brazilians have.

We ride in two cars to Pastor Rubens house to drop off our things. Immediately, we get to work.

Kites Over Itaquera VI

Sao Paulo is a city of 19 million people, counting the metropolitan area. Only 6% are evangelical Christians. Brazilians are an open people–open also to everything spiritual. Spiritism is growing among the middle and upper classes. For the 938 favelas among Sao Paulo, many put their faith in the instant including drugs, alcohol, and crime–not unlike many American cities, only much more of it.

Our mission is evangelismo por amizade–friendship evangelism–for Pastor Ruben’s church. After dropping our things off at his house, we get started. I travel with John Johnson and a Brazilian girl named Valeria. She is a black girl with a powerful sprinter’s form. Blacks, I find, are more assimilated into the culture than in America. I witness no outward signs of racism but they assure me it is here.

However, Valeria speaks no English and I speak no Portuguese so I cannot find anything about her. Later I find she is 32 years old but looks ten years younger. Many, I also find, think there is no reason to speak English since they will never visit the English world or consign themselves to working class jobs. The English world, however, comes to visit them and to most it is a delight.

They scarcely come more Aryan than myself. I have blond hair with a hint of red, blue eyes and stand around 6′2″, far above most everybody else if I don’t slouch. As we get started, I sense everybody senses I am American. Some call me Alemao–German.

John Johnson’s Portuguese is very good, almost native. He can mimic the intonation perfectly, which is very difficult. He has been in Brazil for eight years, five in the Amazon. To me, that means he is entitled to demigod status. He fills me in on the status of the area we visit. It is the poorest area we visit the entire time. He warns me not to touch the wire baskets in front of the houses–that is for trash. Worse, the plumbing cannot handle toilet paper and it is thrown out with the trash. It is my first real culture shock and it nearly makes me ill.

Nobody has a doorbell in this neighborhood–this is for affluence. Instead, we clap our hands at the gate and shout “oh, da casa!” or “to the house.” The second culture shock was finding out what constitutes a house. I see inside some of them and it seems little better than the dirt-floored shacks of the deep South, only stacked one on top of the other and squeezed tightly.

I know why I am here, or at least what I told myself, and I tell nobody. In America, I do not do well approaching strangers. However, I seem to be a magnet for total strangers, including every Amway salesman in St. Louis. I know I have to jump this hurdle of fear if I am going to be an effective witness and what better way to learn than practice 6000 miles from home.

Nothing could prepare me for our first stop. I’m kind of hoping nobody is home but a woman answers the door. My heart starts to pound out of my shirt as she lets us inside her home. She offers us to her couch which I am happy to sit on. Her couch, though, is a thinly padded rock, I find after sitting too fast, jarring every bone. She tells us her son is in the music business. I get the feeling he is wayward from how she talks. I also feel now, and many more times later, that parents in Brazil expect intense loyalty to themselves and let the kids go about their own devices.

I have no idea what will come out of my mouth until I start talking. I don’t use the tracts supplied because I am not happy with some of the English words used, the writer in me. I still can’t remember what I said to her, though. I can’t remember what I say to anybody the first day, only it never comes out the same way twice. Thankfully, they are all receptive, they listen, and then turn me down–or God.

I know good salesmen when I see them. I see them work first-hand as part of my job as a trainer and I was in sales for many years. I also see the reasons why salesmen fail, three of them. Either they:

1) don’t ask for the sale
2) cannot perform a cohesive, quality sales presentation
3) are out of their element when working one-on-one with a customer

I also have seen salesmen slaughter a presentation but still ask for the sale–and get it–probably because nobody else has. I don’t understand my customer in Brazil, at least not yet, but I still ask for the sale. No responses, but I still ask.

We are almost done for the day when we decide to make one last stop. An elderly man lets us in. He is receptive to the Gospel and we lead him to Christ–more like John does. I let him take over because I think tranlsating would take too much time and distraction; surely we would lose him–I still think we are in America. In sales, never give your customer the chance to say no.

It is a split deal in the car business. I closed and John did all the paperwork. He opens his Portuguese Blble to what looks like Romans and then flips through as he talks. Maybe he takes the Roman Road but I never ask because I never learned it, although I can recognize the verses. I am embarrassed sitting next to John as he talks. I am more embarrassed when I realize I don’t know how to use the Bible to lead somebody to the Lord. I fly 6000 miles to overcome a fear when the problem turns out to be a lack of a quality presentation.

A good presentation to selling a car starts at the front. For those of you who have a good salesman, please follow along. It continues to the passenger side, the rear and then the driver’s side. A salesman must highlight five points on each side and adapt for each customer. Afterwards, the salesman seamlessly opens the door for a test drive–halfway home to making a sale. Since faith comes by hearing, the salesman must ask for the sale but has to earn the right to ask it. The customer has to make a decision then on eternal life.

At least we had some success the first day, but the day is not done yet. We go to a mission church for services and are greeted warmly. It is a small, narrow building with no glass in the windows. We are privy to everything happening outside although we can’t understand. Natan translates for Brad.

While everybody leaves after services, we hang out as a group by the front window. Power lines are easily within arm’s reach. One wrong move and my marshmellows are toasted. Either they are haphazard with electricity or they greatly respect it.

Wrapped around the power lines are strings, countless strings as I scan the neighborhood. Sometimes the string has a stretch of gray garland. The lines are the final resting spot for the kites until rescued by an enterprising child. I start to see Itaquera in a different light.
We go to Pastor Ruben’s house for the night and not a moment too soon. I am exhausted but I still need to get my work done on the web. His computer is dreadfully slow, making dial-up seem instantaneous. It is normal, he says, for Brazil. However, the site comes up as unavailable.

I need to access the site by Monday and there is nobody to call. Though I am dog-tired, it worries me the rest of the night and I don’t understand what just happened today.

Kites Over Itaquera VII

For the less spiritual among us, Pastor Rubens reminds me of Magua in the movie The Last of the Mohicans. In the movie, Magua cuts out the heart of Colonel Monroe. Pastor Rubens is the exact opposite.

I don’t know if it is Pastor Rubens and his wife Elizabeth or the Brazilian culture, but they like to eat. We eat three meals a day and then two lanches, which apparently is Portuguese for “another meal.” My gizzard is gorged the entire trip and when the trip is over, I wonder if the baby I am carrying is a boy or a girl.

The next morning I wake up and go directly to the kitchen. I eat a banana before heading for the shower, thinking breakfast was informal. Pastor Ruben’s wife says something in Portuguese and I know by her tone it is not good. I find I was last to awake and everybody was waiting for me. This is one time I’m glad I can’t speak Portuguese.

The Rubens live above a video store and it has three bedrooms with hardwood floors. By the end of the week, I don’t know if hardwood floors are good or bad. The shower has one temperature: hot. Water runs over a heating element and I wonder if this is how I meet my demise, fried to a crisp in the shower and not on the hardened streets of Itaquera. I can’t ask how to adjust the water temperature but it is not such a bad thing since I love long, hot showers. I was 15 years old before I took my first hot shower.

The only thing keeping us from catching cold is the bathroom door, there is no shower curtain. We stand on tile floor recessed about a quarter-inch from the rest of the bathroom floor and it is flat. After we are done, we have to squeegee the water to the drain.

The Ruben’s are more than accomodating to us. If we aren’t eating, they are preparing food. They have help there from church and we can’t understand them, either, but they are happy to serve. I do exchange a Brazilian greeting I learned: tudo bem–it’s all good.

Much of the second day is hazy, especially in the morning. I am still consumed with the worries of work. All I can remember of the morning is eating and then sleeping when we got back. I remember I dozed off in midsentence with Greg. Two hours later, I wake refreshed.

We return to the streets with the same teams except this time John and I are joined by Florival. He introduces himself as an evangelist from his church; no wonder, since he likes to talk. I guess the first requirement for Evangelist is a joy of sharing, especially the Good News. I wouldn’t make a good evangelist since I am frugal with the spoken word.

I recall that morning we didn’t have much success finding people at home. We backtrack trying to hit some of the same homes. Since Sao Paulo has monumental traffic problems, most of their own making, they must alter driving patterns as a matter of law.

We return to one house we tried in the morning. I remembered this house in particular because I saw somebody stir but nobody came out, the only time we are ignored in Brazil. By the roof alone, it is one of the worst houses we see. “Oh, da casa,” John yells again while clapping his hands. This time I can see a silhouette of a young boy stand, move toward the door, then head back in the shadows. A moment later, an older lady approaches the door and motions for the boy to let us in the gate.

The front door is plywood and only comes up to the waist. It nearly tips forward as we enter and I notice there is no tile on the floor, just cement. In the shadows, I can barely see a bed to the right of the door. It looks like a piece of wood or a door propped up from the floor on both ends–no mattress.

My aren’t acclimated to the dark yet but I see an older woman standing in the center of the room. I smell something cooking and nearly compliment her. A step further, though, and the three of us are nearly incapacitated by the smell. I have smelled rotting carcasses and it is a horrid stench, this nearly as bad.

When my eyes adjust, it is a pitiful sight. She is unkempt and her arms are palsied, unable to bring her withered, clasped hands up without swinging them first. Eventually John introduces us and nobody extends a hand, not knowing how in this case.

John speaks to her and then turns to me to say something. I sense she is a nominal Catholic and I take that approach. However, I don’t think I did a good job, too stiff and rigid. At least I throw out a trial close and she turns me down, or at least turns God down. I am amazed at how many in Brazil understand sin and the need of a Savior but still say no. I make sure later I am not alone on this. Florival introduces himself and he and John talk at length with her. I whisper to John and he says he will fill me in later. The longer it goes, the more worried I get. I am inoculated only against hepatitis and I worry about other unnamed diseases.

They strike a nerve with her and she starts to weep. She feels stronger, though, through her tears. John and Florival wrap up the conversation and she says obrigado, thank you, over and over again. She tries to give John a hug but can’t swing her arms high enough. John catches one of her forearms as if in a handshake and I can see the transfer of warmth to her. I do the same although I think I have failed her. Florival gives her a familial hug across the shoulders and we leave.

John tells me of a woman fraught with setback after setback, including no running water. Florival steps forward and says we must help this woman, this is the essence of the Church. Immediately, I am drawn back in time. I am already familiar with this woman, a woman so far over her head she does not know where to turn. In a way, she reminds me of my mother.

I wear the difficult times of my youth sometimes as a badge of honor. Like many others, we scraped ourselves out of poverty to be respectable, honorable citizens. Up until now, however, I never stepped inside my mother’s shoes. I never understood or sympathized with her plight entirely.

I was only three years old when my dad left and quickly remarried. Though he cheated at cards and ate my birthday donuts when I turned five, my brother was the closest thing to a dad. He liked to be called man of the house and as hard as it is to confess this about your brother, he was. The only thing I remember about my dad was his token efforts that quickly fizzled.

Now, standing 6000 miles from home, from the comforts and securities, I remember my mom in a new light. She raised six kids in a foreign land with no money and a house left in nearly total disrepair. Many of the basic necessities we now consider common were golden to her. I will forego the details in deference to my siblings. However, neighbors castigated her, telling her to go on welfare and move to the projects where we belong. The neighbors called the police on my sister because she did a handstand with one hand on their property. Still others tried to have her children removed from a loving home.

That night, John and I approach the members of the team and we collect 170 reais. A new bed costs about 100 reais and a food basket 25 reais. The women in the church volunteer early the next week to clean the house. I see the results before we return home and for this alone feel the trip was an unequivocal success.

I wonder again how my mom made it. Unfortunately, she passed away two years ago and I can never ask her–or thank her now that I understand. Like many in Itaquera, she made it and I don’t know how. I am familiar already with Itaquera. I was once here.

Kites Over Itaquera VIII

I feel sorry for Jean Oye. Brad and Tren insist some of the elderly gentlemen are hot on her trail. I thought they were joking but find later it is true. They threaten to call the church announcing she has found the man of her dreams.

Saturday is devoted entirely to having fun–not so much for me since my work has bogged me down. We go to the beach although I have never seen sand outside of a sand box. Sand in large amounts is found far from home, usually by oceans. Oceans are far away. Worse, as a boy I had constant dreams of sharks swimming up the Mississippi River and they terrified me. They assure me it is safe, but I have heard the stories of sharks in never dreamed of places.

The beach is well over an hour away on a Saturday and only God knows how long during the week. We leave early before the rest of the crowd and getting there is half the fun. Brazil is fond of vibrant colors and it helps lighten up the drive. Unfortunately, I also see much of the same gang symbols in Brazil as I do in the US. Only once do I find graffiti for nefarious activities and it takes no reading or imagination.

I ride with John Johnson, Tren, and John’s young son, Aaron, five years old. I get stuck with Aaron in the backseat. He keeps invading my space with his foot almost the entire drive. It bothers me and I make the mistake of letting him know and it gets worse. Threatening him with puling off his toes doesn’t help, either. When I manage to grab his foot, I pull his toe until the knuckle pops. He nearly cries at first, then takes a liking to it and wants me to do it again–if I can catch his foot. I wonder what John thinks but he says nothing. Please tell me I wasn’t like this, either, growing up, that I was born with Tolstoy in one hand and reading glasses in the other.

The subtropical climate also makes for great viewing as we trek further toward the beach. Long waterfalls drop from the jutting hillsides. Bridges traverse the dense forests, appearing and disappearing into the vegetation like a Dali painting. I wish now I had a camera but I’m sure John Weaver is shooting away in the car in front of us.

Itaquera must lie well above sea level. My ears pop on a seemingly endless decline to the beach. Even toward the beach the high rises and favelas never seem to end, just not as many. It seems the Sao Paulo city planners set about to cramming too many people into too little space.

Immediately I fall in love with the view at the beach–better than all the pictures. The sand continues in both directions, wraps forward and then disappears around the corner, giving the appearance of a long, private beach. When we get there it feels private but the crowd eventually pours in. A small forested island sets before us and the camera I now wish I had needs to be equipped with a wide-angle lens.

Looking at the immaculate view is one thing, but getting in is another. If I had my druthers, I’d rather meet my Maker doing something for the Kingdom than being somebody’s lunch. Even Jean goes in the ocean. I have shorts on, anyway, not swim trunks. Instead, I catch up on my reading, then some unsatisfying sleep. My body clock is way off desperately needing back the four times zones I lost coming here. Before we leave, Greg convinces me to at least stand in the water. I wade in until it touches the hem of my shorts. Greg goes out in the deeper water assuring me it is safe and the sacrifice is not lost on me. You never know, Greg.

I need some gum on the way back, the sleep not doing wonders for my breath. We stop at a gas station and I buy a brand of gum I recognize. I open my wallet and remember they take reais and not dollars. I give the man five reais and he gives me two reais back and four coins. Hopefully it is correct change and I leave trying not to look like a tourist although it is written above me in neon. Obrigado, I say. De nada: you’re welcome or it’s nothing, he returns. I ask John discreetly if I have the right change.

We return to Sao Paulo and afterwards go to the mall. It is not really fair to call it a mall. There are a lot of stores but many are the same store twice. There is only two things for sale here, it seems: overpriced electronics and loud clothing. I’ve been looking to replace a certain newsboy hat my dog chewed through, but all they have are bike and baseball hats. Like America, the mall is a place to hang out and it is crowded.

Tren and myself are the tallest people there by far. Everybody at least glances at me because of my blond hair, again the neon tourist sign goes on. I am the only blond there and I find later Paulistas (from Sao Paulo) have an affinity toward natural blonds. In southern Brazil, blonds are plentiful in the German-settled areas. Sometimes I catch them staring.

Another missionary joins us because the Weaver and Johnson kids have school functions. All I know is her name is Mary and she has been in the country for two months. I can tell because she is not used to the kill-or-be-killed driving. Cars are small in Brazil–about the size of a Mini Cooper–partly because they are cheaper, partly because they can fit two to every lane. Brakes are optional in Brazil.

Thankfully, she gets us to the Weaver’s in one piece just in time for dinner. We have pizza for dinner, Brazilian pizza from a place called Vitoria’s. I don’t know what to expect. Our pastor told of a trip to India and they had a Dominoe’s pizza there. Just from the recollective expression on his face, I knew it was not good. However, Brazilian pizza is good–exotic, but good.

I am not a good guest here, also. My web work is not done and this is my last night to get it done before groveling Monday morning. I am thinking if I should use one knee or two when begging for my job.

After dinner, we play ping-pong. At least I’m able to work out some of my frustrations. I play to win and dive for a few, sometimes into the wall. I was a soccer goalie in high school and clanged my head off a few goal posts in my time. Diving here is nothing, maybe because none of the brain cells still go together.

Finally at last, just before the evening is over, I find a co-worker’s name and number on the web. He straightens me out: the web address changed. I complete the work that night and for the first time on the trip I am truly able to relax. Not a moment too soon, either, as my world changed the next day.

Kites Over Itaquera IX

Mother church. I can’t get used to the name since it sounds like it was planted by aliens. But it truly is a mother church reaching out to build other mission churches throughout Sao Paulo.

Our mission trip is devoted entirely to church building, in this case one of Pastor Ruben’s mission churches. After eight years as a missionary on the Amazon River, Pastor Ruben is called to preach. His car is a converted ambulance, only he leaves the ambulance insignias on the car and below it the name of the church, a nice touch.

I can tell by watching him he is a good steward, making do and very thankful with what he has. The ambulance is probably over 20 years old but it never bothers him. The rear windows are painted over and the inside rearview mirror is gone. The only way he can see behind him is the small driver door-mounted mirror. As long as it goes forward, we are fine, and it barely goes forward.

John Johnson preaches at the mission church and Jean and I join him. We are to give a short blurb about our trip and our testimony. Jean goes first and she is direct. I can tell she has done this before. It is my turn and I don’t know where to start. I remember a joke I thought a couple of days before and try it. I will not repeat the joke–ever–because it bombed, badly bombed.

All comedians tell stories about bombing and now I can relate. Then I can tell them about the pained–diarrhea pained–blank stares in the pews and it would trump any of their stories. Worse, I had to wait for John to translate it and I could hear a few grunts.

I can’t regain my composure, instead stammering endlessly about something I cannot recall. I even ask John “help me out,” hoping the audience can’t understand me. Maybe John has a gun.

After listening to John’s message, I find the tricks to Portuguese are the nasal sounds applied and the intonation. He speaks slower than the average Brazilian but he nails the accent. While I am noting this, he suddenly turns to Jean and myself and asks us a question in English, taking me by surprise. My brain is still switched over to Portuguese and I ask him to repeat the question. I’m doing a good job of humiliating myself and I hate to say I couldn’t wait to get out of there.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

The first day in Brazil I asked John Weaver if I could pick up a game of soccer. He does one better: we all go as a group to one of the local fields after church. There are three small cement fields, one with a roof overhead. It also has basketball hoops but the rims are gone. With the uneven surfaces and exposed metal, it is a personaly injury lawyer’s dream.

None of the fields are open when we arrive. Thankfully, John Weaver brings his American football. It only takes a couple of throws to attract the attention of the Brazilian kids. They also want to catch it. Very quickly, we find they can neither catch or throw well. They catch like they are using trash can lids. Touching a soccer ball with their hands is prohibited so they never even bother.

Every kid in America learns how to perform the basic tricks with a football: throwing the ball behind the back, letting it roll from the finger tips while throwing and having it fall into the other hand behind the back, and the hidden ball trick under the shirt for the little kids. Here, it is magic. I give them the ball and they try the same tricks with no success. I get brave and toss it to some of the grumpy-looking adults that walk by and they, too, smile broadly, thankful I did. No better ice breacker, I realize, and I try to take it with me the rest of the week.

A court opens and we eventually get started. Some from Pastor Ruben’s church join us and we draft some of the locals. The better Brazilians play like they drive: they seem careless with the ball but they are fully in control, keeping the ball on a very long string. Not only are the ball control skills remarkable, but so is the passwork. One player toys with me and passes it every time just out of my reach, frustrating. Not everybody is world-class there. I manage to get a goal and an assist.

On the next court I see Tren throwing long passes to some of the kids with the football. That he can throw that far excites them. Catching it is another matter. I think they leave having the most fun with me a close second.

After the game, the kids gravitate to me for reasons explained later and I like the stage. It is not hard to become engrossed with my legions of newfound fans. However, my own glory almost wins out–I almost forget the reason I am here. Just before leaving, that inaudible voice reminds me.

I start to tell them about somebody more important than myself, that being Jesus Christ. I also invite them to church that night. Many smile and tell me something in Portuguese that I cannot understand, except for one word: Jay-soos.

When I spoke, I paid close attention to the words coming out of my mouth as I say them and they sound strange to me. I realize for the first time I am confessing with my mouth that Jesus Christ is Lord. The moment is cathartic to me but I strain not to show it. If anything, it feels as though my life went from a feeling of chaos to order, the results of which would show later that night.

Lanche awaits us at the mission church when we wrap up: mostaciolli, beans and rice, and all sorts of fruit. They put rice on the beans in Brazil but I am a rebel and do things backwards. Brazil is fast becoming the breadbasket to the world as a major importer of beef and fruits and vegetables. For the first time ever, I have fresh mango and papaya. I don’t know if the pasta is a friendly gesture or widely eaten here.

Coke and Pepsi are bottled here but with a different formula, not nearly as sweet. They have another soft drink, Guarana, which is preferred, a Ginger Ale-type soda. In little time I prefer it, also.

Before evening services, we clean up at Pastor Ruben’s house. I have a blue, short-sleeved, oxford shirt I wear with khaki pants. I was lucky even to bring these in my haste to pack. I hear the two John’s talking about preaching. I know I am not preaching material since I am far too deliberate. If I start now, my sermon on Jesus’ return in 2009 wouldn’t be finished until 2020.

Mother church looks just like many country churches in America. Capacity seems to be around 150. Large wooden, ornate doors open fully flanked by stained glass windows but without design. Pale green curtains run from ceiling to floor. Behind the ordinary podium are four chairs and audio equipment and above that a baptismal pool. The only difference is the tile floor–piso–not the carpeting I would have expected in America.

John Weaver demonstrates clearly why he is called Grasshopper, even when he preaches. He moves around on the platform, both in person and in volume. His inflection isn’t as pronounced as John Johnson’s probably because John Johnson has been in Brazil for several more years. But he is still very good, at least it is to me. His jokes are funny, I can tell from the crowd, something I can’t say.

John’s sermon is on fish stories and Dalete interprets for Jean and myself. I wonder if we are imposing on the rest of us. I marvel at Dalete’s translation skills. It is almost word in–word out. Her brain must go a thousand times faster than mine. Most do.

I can’t help but being impressed with Dalete. She is cordial and funny with everybody as well as being transparently genuine. I long for it again. We seem lost in our world of entitlement, what is ours and what should be ours and we forget who we are.

During the sermon, my mind drifts back (don’t tell John Weaver) to the soccer game earlier that day. I can’t help but think they thought an American came to visit them, to minister, but I realize it is the other way around. I remember the Chinese expression, the teacher learns more than the student and I will leave a far richer man than when I arrived.

Sleep is a rare commodity that night. Since four share a room, it is hard to sleep. Some of the conversation is priceless, uninhibited in an innocent manner. The day is special, the events uncontrived.

Kites Over Itaquera X

To many in Sao Paulo, I am famous, not for what I did but for how my name translates into Portuguese. Peter is Pedro and similar derivatives in every Romance language. Lenz in German is a poetic name for spring, as autumn is for fall and in Portuguese, Primavera. Together, I am Pedro Primavera–such a ring to it.

Unfortunately, Brad East finds out. He might seem like all business at church, but he is all cutup in Brazil. Brad knows how to keep a group loose. He also knows how to go overboard. When I am playing soccer, I hear my name being called, more like chanted. He has a group of kids around him, many of whom I was throwing the football with earlier and they chant “Pedro, Pedro, Pedro…” He also holds up a testimony sheet with my picture. I’m struggling not to embarrass myself with some of the Brazilian players and now I have Brad calling me to a higher level. I dare not disappoint. Later, he devises a theme song and now all the kids are watching.

Then it happens: I get a return pass and I am one-on-one with the goalie. I put the ball in the net inside the near post. The crowd literally erupts and now I hear PEEEEEEEEDROOOO PRIIIIIIMAAAVAAARA! Taking my cue from international soccer, I play it up for all its worth. I run a flamboyant victory lap and gladhand as many as I can.

Some ask me to play in Brazil and a handful ask for my autograph. Unfortunately (or fortunately), I do not have a pen. Nobody other than creditors have asked me for an autograph. Outside of my own mind, I am not famous. They think I am a star and for a moment I think so, too.

Later in the game, I had the ball and John Johnson open on the far post. Unfortunately, I got selfish and chose to shoot. Both missionaries have the same fire I have and John Johnson hates for an instant. Pedro does not share his glory well.

Dozens of kids went home that day with a story to tell about Pedro Primavera, whoever he was. Little did I know that Brad also told them I was in movies, failing to mention they were home movies.

But it doesn’t stop there. Every chance Brad has, he touts the personage of Pedro Primavera. Even on the streets, he announces me in his booming voice. With a football in my hand, the attraction to me grows, especially among the kids. It was a little embarrassing at first, but I see the kids love it and I get used to it–the high cost of fame.

I must confess it was fun. It’s a long way from Pete Lenz who sits next to Lou on the back pew to Pedro Primavera of Itaquera fame.

I wish I could say it stopped there but it didn’t. On the last day, we go to the mall, a different mall more upscale. I am the only blond there again and again they look. This time, the whole group starts touting the name of Pedro Primavera and this time I play the flamboyance to excess. Benito Mussolini looked more like Wally Cox next to me.

At one of the shoe stores, a salesman goes to see what the fuss is all about. The others tell him about Pedro Primavera and he approaches me. He excitedly shakes hands with me and gives me his card. I tell him to keep it down since I’m trying to relax while I’m here–not too much attention. He agrees and shakes my hand.

Two more salesmen join him and the introduce themselves. One struggles with his English to say he saw me in “War…of the Stars.” I didn’t say it was me in the movie, but I also didn’t say it wasn’t, just rolling my eyes. I have no idea what I have gotten myself into, but whatever it is, I like it.

When I come back to Sao Paulo, Pedro will make his triumphal return. Please, if you happen to run into me, call me Pedro. And don’t forget to genuflect when you do.

Kites Over Itaquera XI

John Weaver’s wife Pam and Valeria join me on Monday morning. Our territory is a long alley and we start from the end and work our way out.

Three men are working on the last house in the alley and we start with them. They are doing cement repair and have some in a makeshift bucket. Pam already has mentioned that, although industrious, they like to be interrupted and will listen to what I say. If the boss is there, he will listen also. Just as Pam said, they put down their tools even though the cement is starting to set and they gather around me.

I’m not sure how I started but I get to a trial close. All three decline the offer. Two are reincarnationists and one makes up his religion as he goes. I can tell by his demeanor he has accountability problems, God being his largest. He becomes combative and gives me curt answers. The other two let him ramble and sometimes giggle at his responses. It’s a lost cause, at least to us, and we move on.

The next house belongs to a woman who attends an Assembly of God church. Members there typically dress well to church, a uniform of sorts. She has a son in trouble with the law. Thankfully Pam serves as the interpreter and not one of the guys as the woman breaks down in tears. I’m not good when people start blubbering. Pam and Valeria exchange words of comfort, no interpretation needed, and then a warm embrace, not much different than American women. Something in the Y-chromosome, I think.

Afterwards, I look back at the insolent man now standing at the top of a ladder. I am reminded by the James Baldwin line: not everybody dies lying down. Pam interprets and his cheeks turn red, probably because he doesn’t like being one-upped. He tries to ignore me and continues with his work, but at least I made him feel uncomfortable. Pain is good–it tells us something is wrong. Perhaps with time he will recognize the need for a Savior.

Not much is accomplished that morning, partly because of a late start, partly because lanche is waiting on us.

Messias (sp?) joins us in the afternoon. He teaches English at the local university at night. My Portuguese stinks and my English aint so hot. Hopefully, he can make heads or tails out of what I say.

We have problems finding people at home again. Finally, a teenage boy answers the door. He’s in his late teens and very cordial. I don’t know why, but I still expect some cold shoulders even though most have been warm and open. By now, I am starting to hone my presentation and it works as he gives his life to Christ. Then we reach a teenage girl and she also gives her life to Christ. I am two-for-two now. As a coach, I know to bring a team back to level when things are going well and raise spirits when things go bad. Only when my teams get complacent do I yell. If only I had somebody do the same for me.

Nearby, a retaining wall has a goal spray-painted on it. One shoots and the other plays goalie. His hands are terrible even with the gloves. I noticed while we talked with the girl that the boys slowed down and watched us. I don’t know if it is the blond hair or the football I am carrying. When we approach, I throw it to one of them and I find instantly it is the football. I start with my tricks and they are easily marveled. Although there is no such thing as a bad game of catch, I probably take too long to get started on my witness.

The younger of the two gives his life to Christ. The taller one, Bruno, he looks like trouble. I can tell he is worldly but shy, make that sly. I lose him and he heads down the street. A moment later, I see he meets the boy we witnessed to only minutes ago and I am not encouraged.

While we talked to the boys, I noticed a helicopter circling high above the next block. With time, it starts to circle lower and lower until just above the treetops. I notice, also, there are several police cars driving by. Motorcycles are the preferred mode of getaway and when the police pull one over, they point their guns at them as a means of getting their attention. The police always get their man, one way or the other. Later, Natan tells us somebody has robbed a nearby bank.
Let’s see: I have been in Brazil only a handful of days and I am nearly electrocuted, sharks lick their chops but only from afar, and I am nearly gunned down by a hail of bullets. I come partly for the excitement but it looks like it is all in my head.

Just as the helicopter flies away, a mist starts to fall. Sao Paulo is known as Terra da Garoa–City of Mist. Almost the entire trip, the sky is clear but the air seems dense. Now it decides to let down a gentle rain and it is a good time to break for the afternoon.

Lunch is at a churrascaria–barbeque–about as close to purely American cuisine and sit-down dining. Some of the food I recognize, some I don’t and I stay away from it. Every few minutes, servers in black vest and tie bring out great cuts of meat of all kinds. I find it difficult to say no. Here, I also find the first fat Brazilian. He has the same difficulty I have pushing myself from the table.

Next to the restaurant is a fish aquarium. I don’t get the idea of fish as pets. To me, they are worse than cats. At least cats are interactive when they want to be. Mom once had a fish and cats at the same time. We found the fish at the bottom with a perfect cat-sized bite mark in it. Not learning from this mistake, she later got a bird. Despite her precautions, all we found of it once was a scattering of feathers on the floor beneath the cage.

Unfortunately, I need to use the bathroom and I go back to the restaurant. John teaches me the word banheiro and I ask the greeter. She says something and quickly realizes I understood nothing. Then she smiles and points. When I get out, John is throwing the football with the owner. He throws and catches well, surprising me.

As if I had room for more food, we go to Habib’s, an ice cream/fast food joint across the street. The closest I come to losing my life in Brazil is crossing the street. I worry about terrorism now. Habib? Blond hair? I don’t want to be martyred in an ice cream store. Maybe Habib takes the day off.

Soon the mist ends and the sky clears. Some head back to Pastor Ruben’s for a quick nap. My body is telling me to do the same but I fight it. I don’t want to throw off my sleep schedule even further.

John Weaver, Massias, and I join for the afternoon. I bring the football and it again gains the attention of several kids. There are seven of them. Massias translates and John takes pictures, then goes to witness to two young girls, one of them mentally handicapped. If there is one thing I love about John, he is obedient and loves to share the Gospel, even to the “least” of these. He closes everybody.

One of the boys is a tough sell. He asks me challenging questions and some of the other boys follow suit. But they are genuinely interested. I meet their challenge and all seven give their lives to the Lord.

Pastor Ruben joins us and Massias goes to work. On the way back to Pastor Ruben’s, John and I throw the football to the delight of the many kids passing by. I wish we could stop to talk with all of them but we are pressed for time. However, on one throw, I wrench my back, causing my throw to go wayward. It lands a few feet away from a woman who wasn’t watching and it startles her–she is angry. She says she is going to get her son. We didn’t know him now but we would when he comes back. Pastor Ruben bears the brunt of her fury as he tries to calm her down. Later that night, Brad tells me he got a text message from her son.

Just around the corner from Pastor Ruben’s, I notice another group of kids. I can tell they are intrigued by the football. Though short on time, I still throw it to one of them, anyway. I can’t speak the language but I give them my testimony sheet. John, who was well up the street, is now standing next to me, surprising me. He takes time out to talk to them and then he introduces me. Then he encourages them to have a seat–in the middle of the road. Cars pass by and neither the kids or the drivers don’t seem to think anything of it. On a whim, we end up leading them to Christ, although I think the youngest is along for the ride.

Tonight, the Cross and the Switchblade is showing at the mission church. Some of the dubbing is dead-on, like it was filmed in Portuguese. Some is not easily done, too many syllables. None of the sound effects are dubbed in and at times it seems like a bad Kung Fu movie.

The night concludes with another lanche. I earned my sleep that night but the company is good. Sleep waits, I will catch up back in St. Louis. After this, only one more night–it is too soon.

Kites Over Itaquera XII

Why? Like splitting an atom, it is a little question that can unleash vast amounts of energy.

Kids ask why. They usually aren’t interested in the answer, though. Parents are driven stark raving mad because the why’s start early in the morning and then up until bedtime if not beyond. Sure, they might be trying to expand their universe but I don’t think they are interested in three-dimensional answers. They don’t have the right words yet for the questions they would rather ask: why am I here, why is the world around me like it is. Their simple questions are not for curiosity’s sake but something more meaningful. Only one answer will satisfy them: God.

We are born with a God-shaped void in our lives and children understand it best. Then puberty hits and the hormones flush through our bodies, making us individuals before God rather than our parents’ children. If there is a time of accountability, it is now.

As adults, the why’s we ask are meant to define God, to make His presence and will known to us. However, this doesn’t usually happen until the wheels come off our wagon. Now older, I’ve endured some tough times I couldn’t wish on anybody. I do not live an immoral lifestyle, I try to help out as needed, I do not know what the inside of a casino looks like, aspirin is my drug of choice and sparingly at that. Why, God?

Answers are sometimes as painful as the questions. Hardest is realizing I haven’t been living to God’s plan, seeking my plan first: to live is gain, to die is Christ. After the fact, I can say the lumps have been good medicine.

Each day we have a morning sing and devotion. We don’t sound that bad, thanks to John Johnson. He has college credits in music and can do a dead-on impersonation of Aaron Neville. I can’t keep a melody so I sing bass. At least it sounds like bass to me.

John and Massias—Portuguese for Messiah—join me. I like Massias’ voice, rich and smooth. Our day begins where we left off Monday before the bank robbery.

A bunch of kids are gathering around the makeshift, spray-painted goal again. They see the football and I gain their attention. Bruno, I notice, is in with the group. He disappears quickly and I never see him again. Sitting at the top of the retaining wall is a young man sitting by himself. He is tall and lanky and he looks socially unsure. I wave for him to come down and he does, surprising me.

Thankfully, this is a dead-end street because we sit down on the pavement, at least me and two other kids. If my mom were alive, knowing my luck, somebody would have called from Brazil saying I was sitting down in the street. It goes well with the kids; they ask challenging questions and all give their lives to Christ.

Down the street, two others do, too. I’m on a roll, I’m thinking to myself, and can’t stop here. However, it’s time for lunch, an early lunch. Elizabeth has chicken waiting for us. I worry about bird flu now.

Valeria joins us for the afternoon. Initially, we don’t have success finding people at home and we get started at a house with four teenage girls sitting in front. We ask for the man or woman of the house and they get a young lady with an infant child in her hands. She’s happy to meet us and listens intently to what I have to say. However, I can see a gradual change in her countenance as I speak. She looks mad and then starts to cry. I am thankful Valeria is with us now. John is standing behind me and translates as Valeria and Massias comfort her. She is a single mother, not by choice or cruel fate, but her husband has just left her. She wants answers—why. I can relate, thankfully, that sometimes we see God more clearly after the storm. When we are weak, then we are strong. The words comfort her and eventually we lead the family to Christ, less the infant.

John joins up with another group and soon Massias has to go to work. That leaves me and Valeria and we can’t understand each other though we try. We end up joining Tren and Dalete. Thankfully they were close by; Itaquera is one steep hill after another and all look alike. I would have been lost probably for the ages. Even John Johnson gets lost driving more than once.

All the stores in Itaquera are well-tended. They are small, usually the size of an average living room. We stop in a small shop and Tren speaks to who looks like the shop owner, an older lady who is a believer. However, she wants us to talk to her son. He is next door talking on his cell phone.

If ever I saw somebody that looked like a drug dealer since I was here, it was this man. He was in his early 20’s, sharply dressed—too sharp—and he was constantly calling people on his cell phone.

Behind us we notice kids are climbing a tree. Dalete tells us the fence the tree overhangs is electrified and it can shock them severely. At the top of the tree, well over the other side of the fence is a kite. This one is fair game to the kids but if they touch the fence and fall, it means serious injury if not death. Tren and I go over and help them out. He grabs a long pole and we shake it out, but it falls on the other side of the fence—they cannot get to it now. We think we are doing them a favor but we learn by their dejected looks we have not. A grounded kite is worth that much here in Itaquera—or a life thought of as so little.

The young man wraps up with his phone calls and we go speak with him. I am used to being introduced but Dalete wants me to speak first. It is a brief though difficult impasse and I start talking. I feel uncomfortable and I revert back to the first two days when I felt like I was disjointed. Plus, I think the man is not interested one bit in what I have to say, considering how he looks. I am jolted when he tells me he wants this forgiveness and eternal life I talk about. He even looks relieved. How many of these did I pass in St. Louis thinking they weren’t interested.

However, I have Dalete go through the tract with him because again I feel I will lose him through translation. I am embarrassed, kind of like having your girlfriend pump the gas while you wait in the car. It will not happen again.

He is the last person we talk to for the day. Pastor Raymundo, a mission pastor, will have dinner for us. We head back and find we are right around the corner from Pastor Ruben’s house. It could have been a thousand miles away from what I can tell.

Pastor Raymundo’s house is an hour’s drive away. Some Amazonian missionaries are there, also. One shows us pictures of a recent trip. They caught an anaconda with a large bulge about half-way down. The next picture, they slice open the snake’s stomach, revealing the body of a man swallered whole by the snake. That settles it: if God calls me to missions, it has to be within a two-mile radius of a McDonald’s. I hope there isn’t a McDonald’s on the Amazon.

We are not there long since we have another service at the mission church. John Weaver and John Johnson give the paint talk, or Mensagem Ilustrada. John Weaver reveals the message on paper as John Johnson preaches. The woman with the teenage girls is there. She is glad to see me and we exchange a hug. That wasn’t so bad.

Afterwards, Pastor Ruben passes out gifts for everybody in the group. Suddenly, I am reminded again this is our last night. The day was so hectic and fruitful I had forgotten. I look around the room and I am grateful for everybody there, grateful for this trip. The riches keep piling.

I could never have dreamed this. Somehow, beyond my human reasoning, I was meant to be here. Boundaries mean little now, the boundaries around nations—and the boundaries around my comfort zone. When we first arrived in Itaquera, I asked why am I here. Now, the day before we fly back, I am asking why again, why must I return.

Kites Over Itaquera XIII

The morning of the last day arrives and we stayed just long enough to be missed. Everybody goes about their business but you can tell it is bittersweet.

There is work to do, though, one last morning to go out canvassing the neighborhood. For the first time, I get teamed up with Jean Oye and Dalete. I like the combination because the two girls are sweet as can be and they have a selfless, enviable dedication.

Our first encounter is with three men in the street. They stand in front of what constitutes a bar, which is next to a Jehovah’s Witness church, both converted homes. Again, Dalete wants me to speak first. This time I am ready.

“I want to tell you about something most important to me,” I start in. They look at me confused until Dalete translates. Like the rest of the people we meet on the trip, they are all interested in what I have to say. I don’t say anything fancy or mince words. My posture is proper but not formal. One breaks away, he is the bartender.

I follow through on the plan of salvation using most of my own words. Then I ask them to extend a hand and then if they would take nails through them for me. “Americano louco,” I say and they laugh. I go on to tell them about a Savior who did and why. For lack of a better word, it is a magical moment for them as well as for me. They accept Jesus as their Lord and Savior and follow in the sinner’s prayer. This is easy, too easy, and I feel I left something important out. Jean would have let me known if I did. As we leave, Dalete notices the men walk away from the bar.

Our next stop is a woman in her 70’s. Padre Marcelo Rossi plays on the radio at a devoted volume and we know she is Catholic. Most can hear him from the streets. She is happy to see us, though. Jean is a pro and gets right to the point. “Do you want Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior?” The woman assures Jean she does already but Jean kindly presses on, making sure. After several angles, I cannot really determine if she does, but Jean is satisfied. Jean should be in the car business.

We run into many Catholics that week. They are persuaded we are trying to get them to change churches, but that could not be further from the truth.

Up ahead are a group of boys. I don’t know whether to approach them because they are distracted upwards. One of them is flying a kite, an orange kite and he looks like he’s doing all he can to steer it away from impending danger. At first I want to go on but Dalete convinces me otherwise. I have the football and throw it to one of the kids. Their attention turns to this oblong ball. The kite flyer loses the battle and it is left for the other kids in the neighborhood. He joins us, also.

We get comfortable on the sidewalk. At first there are eight kids ranging in age from 8-13. Two are quickly distracted. The rest are eager to speak with me except I cannot get them to collectively be on the same page. I can see them glancing at my blond hair and they like my name, my Brazilian name I let roll off my tongue, Pedro Primavera—I cannot leave the name alone. Do I play soccer, they ask. Yes I did, I reply not telling them it was for my high school team. Why don’t you play here in Brazil? Well, there is something more important. I feel badly for leaving out the details.

One shows off his English; he sits on the end and says good day. Bom dia, I reply back in Portuguese. He smiles, impressed that I know some of the language. How long are you going to be in Brazil? The question stings. I go back soon, I say, not wanting to tell them it is only hours. Actually, I don’t want to go back. I’ve been drawn to the kids in Brazil and I feel I am letting them down.

Another kid asks me a silly question but it leads to other distracting questions. Are we a family, Jean, Dalete, and myself? They see I’m having fun barely keeping control and even more silly questions come in rapid fire. Kindly, I ask them to hold the questions until I am done. I’m able to start in on something that is free, something somebody else paid the price for. I am comfortable with my audience, I make a clear presentation, and then I close the deal. All six follow in the sinner’s prayer and understand why.

I ran out of testimony sheets long ago as Pedro Primavera, but Jean has salvation bracelets, a nice touch. Now they have something tangible to remind them of this moment and their decision.

Getting up now is difficult. Just as I start, the kid on the end, Clayton, asks me a question. “What do I do with the subjects I don’t like in school?” I’m glad he asks and I tell him what my math teacher told me in high school: you can’t use what you don’t know. Unfortunately, it took a few lumps in life to understand this. Then he floors me.

“What should I do with the crime and drugs around me?” It is not a question as much as a plea. I feel like he’s grabbing onto my leg, begging for a mentor, somebody to help him make sense of it all. I remember I was his age when I was saved and just like him I had nobody to disciple me, either. It tears at me and I can only tell him about Pele. When he has the ball, he wants nobody to take it. Some will try to steal his joy, just like they do in America. I tell him to protect it, that God has a plan for them and they need to ask Him for it. I bring the boys together like I do in Upward Soccer and we pile hands as a unit. I lead them in prayer, asking God to make plain the plan He has for their lives.

It’s time to go now, not to leave Brazil, but to move on. I can’t keep them together any longer and I feel more time now is counter-effective. I wrap up by saying I’ll return in June. Their smiles surprise me, though it is a thin salve, at least for me. Dalete tells me later the kids will never forget this and she relates the story of a mission trip from North Carolina that visited her when she was nine. Each of them, she assures me, will remember the day the Americans made a mark on their lives.

On this last day, we came to celebrate the lives of Clayton and his friends. They recognize it, too, that we travel 6000 miles to be here at this very place and time. However, few will help celebrate their lives as they return to the poverty and drugs that infest much of Itaquera. The kites will return to the sky hoping something else comes about than having a glass-beaded string cut it down or fall victim to the high wires. I notice the high wires as we walk and the endless string wrapped around them. I feel I understand the kites now. Perhaps they fly them hoping we will see them.

However, we left Clayton with a legacy: hope. He knows now of a risen Savior. For God so loved Clayton… Right now all I can do is pray for him. It turns out I will never forget this day, the day a Brazilian child made a mark on me.

A man in a wheel chair is our last stop. He owns a corner grocery store and guards the door. Before we get started, a woman interrupts for Guarana. They make the exchange through the iron bars, reminding me of conditions. He interrupts me halfway–calling me pastor–saying he is a believer and attends the Assembly of God church. He is our last stop before heading back to Pastor Ruben’s and then the mall.

Kites Over Itaquera XIV

We must go–we must all go–to Itaquera and other parts of the world, as well as down the street and around the corner. Here the ground is fertile—gumbo soil. But the workers truly are few and the countless boys like Clayton continue longing for something they cannot see from people they do not know. Faith comes by hearing and most will probably never hear the true Gospel.

Security has a premium in Sao Paolo. The mall charges to park there, unlike the one we visited earlier that week. This one looks like any upscale mall in America with nice shops and restaurants. Again, I stick out in the crowd although they do not stare as much here, probably with a greater influx of foreigners. We travel as a group, but soon get split into two. I travel with Jean and Dalete again like in the morning and it is a great time. Today, Jean is Mama Primavera to everybody in the mall.

The girls conspire to buy Pastor Ruben and his wife a gift. Thankfully, I wasn’t involved or it would have been a hammer. I do indulge myself once and buy a miniature Brazilian license plate that says “Pedro,” a reminder that somewhere in the world I am famous, but for no particular reason.

Ultimately, we have to go. We present the gifts and John Weaver takes plenty of pictures. I’m not sure what they will look like other than a collective façade of forced smiles. Through the week I’ve learned enough Portuguese to express my gratitude, the first time all week. They greeted us warmly, now they send us off warmly.

How the ambulance gets to the airport, I don’t know—it runs on miracle gas. Its last leg was gone years ago. I ride with John Weaver and we both notice the ambulance struggles up the hills. If something happened, though, John does not have enough room.

The first sign we are leaving—no turning back—is the airport terminal. Again it reminds me of the American terminals, but the Portuguese reminds us we have not left. Brad hustles us up to the ticket office for our boarding passes. He is a veteran and knows how we feel, the faster the less painful. He got to know me this week and he makes doubly sure I have everything in order.

At first, only John Weaver, Pastor Rubens, and the interpreters were our send-off party. Suddenly, some of the church members join them. They make it hard to leave again but we must board.

In the little time we have left, we exchange e-mail addresses, phone numbers and mailing addresses. I take the longest—too long—and Brad gets impatient and rightfully so. I push the margin for error way too close to takeoff. On the very last sightline to security, the sendoff party starts to break into “Pedro, Pedro, Pedro…” I jokingly acknowledge my pseudo-fans and accidentally start walking in the wrong direction, almost into a wall. In those short few seconds, several behind me in line take my place. Because of this little theatre, I almost miss my flight.

Brad is about 20 spaces ahead of me in line. He keeps looking back and can’t help but giving me the hairy eyeball. I can’t help but laugh. Since junior high school, I always heard the line: there’s always one in every crowd. Without fail, I have always been that one.

The line goes a little slower than we like. Now, everybody in the group is giving me the hairy eyeball. I’m typically not given to worry but I am starting to worry now. I’m in Brazil and can’t speak the language, plus the send-off party is long gone.

As the line through security loops around, Tren is standing one aisle ahead. The man behind him looks kindly and I ask him if I can cut in front. If he hadn’t, I would not have made the flight, it was that close. We literally run to catch our flight. I feel badly for Jean because she has to hotfoot it because of me. Then again, she has been down the Amazon and could probably teach me a thing or two.

At last we reach the gate and it looks safe. However, I get stopped before I can board—a random search. They pull me aside and take my bag, ask me to take off my shoes and then run the wand all around me. The plane is almost ready to leave and I wonder if they can see the fireworks shooting out of my head. If I complain, they will probably spite me and take their time. Instead I comply. Literally, I board with one minute to spare.

Brad is not so shy about the evil eye once I’m on board. I’m all smiles, though, Pedro has perfect timing, I tell him. I can tell it burns holes through him but he says nothing.

Another eleven hour flight awaits us, retracing our steps through Chicago. Training my mind back on St. Louis is hard. Much has happened, more than I ever dreamed, a catharsis of sorts. My own words ring out again: I leave here a much richer man than when I arrived.

I find I am unable to sleep and I replay the events of the last week, as well as those in the airport. I cannot shake them. This was supposed to be a sweet memory but it has become much more. Putting Itaquera behind me is difficult so I remind myself I have work to do when I get home. As we approach the equator, I turn my watch back to St. Louis time hoping it will help, but it does not.

Finally I am able to catch a little sleep. I wake up in time to see the city lights of Havana. It does not seem like a major city as the lights are not strong, but then I remember it is Havana. To try and keep my mind from Brazil, I follow the plane’s route on GPS. We fly up the east coast of Florida before cutting through Georgia. The movies again are bad and there is only so many times I can listen to John Prine on the audio loop. Finally the tentacles of dawn reach over the horizon, a new day, a new beginning.

Freezing temperatures greet us in Chicago and I quickly long again for Itaquera. I am the last one off the plane and I never mind being last. Brad chants “Pedro…” again as I enter the terminal. We have three hours between flights so we compare notes as well as have some fun. People around us are too serious, some watch us stoically, one moves away. I wish I were back in Brazil.

The flight home boards and lands in St. Louis without a hitch. Again I am last off and the same “Pedro…” chant starts again, my triumphal return and I play it up. Hopefully nobody recognizes me. We are met there by Ron Lowry, another staff member from church. He packs our stuff in the van and says get in, no fanfare. Does he not know he is speaking to Pedro Primavera? My fame only gets me a ride back to church.

The ride is all highway. Already the differences between St. Louis and San Paolo could not be more plain. Everybody keeps to their own lane, their space, and I feel they don’t want it invaded no matter what. Some of the new subdivisions crowd the highway and all the houses look pretty much the same. Suddenly I don’t understand the uniformity. People slave for that large house and car as well as escape the inner-city uniformity and then they look the same, the same but bigger. So, too, seems the American church in general. Abortion, illegitimacy, and divorce are at the same rates within the Church as without. I look around and wonder if we are becoming like Brazil with a large nominal church in pursuit of what is ours. In America, however, they don’t want to be bothered.

I have never, ever in my lifetime taken such a lonely ride home. Every cell in my body wants to return. At night, I wake up now thinking I’m at Pastor Ruben’s. Sometimes he speaks to me in my dreams—in English—though I can’t understand him. Even in the mornings, I hear the children go off to school and I expect to hear them speak in Portuguese.

I am a hapless Romantic, perhaps a lazy one, some necessitated by circumstances, some my arch-nemesis contentedness. I see the world sometimes how it should be, darn the realities, but rarely act on them. Now that I’ve gone, though, I will now and forevermore see the children of Itaquera and hope for better.

There is only so much I can do, though, and it will be up to others like you to fill the void. In the limited time we have left, you have to make a difference somewhere in the world. We must make a difference in a life like Clayton’s.