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.