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.