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 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.