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.