NOT A GROWN-UP
I was proud. Not only had I seemed to conquer the so-called "language barrier," but I had become an only child (spoiled at that) and independent all in one move to another country. My brothers had stayed in the states to finish college. And all I had to do was pretend to do school work (correspondence/home school - but that's another story) and act as though I always knew what I was talking about. I mean, I was the American girl in this Amazon city - everyone already knew who I was - I might as well seem to know something about something.
Before I knew it - I was finding my outlets - music in church, youth groups and translating. Actually, that was what I most enjoyed doing. Going on mission trips on different boats on the Amazon and translating for teams. I really had no idea what I was getting myself into when I started. There was one specific boat I would work with and all the translators slept downstairs. I was the only "employee" under the age of 18. Everyone else worked hard for this and here I was - a "grown up."
All the guys would stay up at night talking about girls, the girls would be talking about guys - inevitably, someone would always start dating someone else on the boat. We all took showers in the same little stalls right beside our hammocks. I remember being excited and scared simultaneously almost all the time. I was having a blast being in charge of children's programs, being right there on the "surgical" table with the doctors and patients, and "preaching" for whoever the American preacher was. I was proud.
It didn't take long in this grown-up world to realize that I might not belong. When I had to tell 50, 60 and 70-year-old ladies what to do with the kids, when I had to lead all the music for a "spiritually-inviting environment," when I had to translate sermons about subjects I didn't even understand, and especially when I had to talk to male doctors and their adolescent male patients and their mothers about personal matters all in the same room at the same time. I was 13, 14, 15 and 16 - but as I grew, I knew inside I was still 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7...I was NOT a grown-up.
Sidenote: I didn't HAVE to work - it's not like my parents were forcing me to do this, but it was such a good idea at the time - a good social outlet, a good skill-building environment. And I loved the importance I felt from having the responsibilities.
I felt inside I wasn't exactly supposed to be here - doing this. But I was hooked - I can even say addicted. I wanted that freedom, I wanted to be important and good at something. Even the veteran translators would come to me for advice. Everything seemed to be coming up roses for me. In my small eyes, everything seemed almost glamorous. I was becoming famous in my own right. And the perks weren't bad either - I loved being around all these young, beautiful and talented single people - none of whom were my age. And when anyone my age did show up, I wasn't interested. I was too "grown-up," too "mature," besides too "famous" for them.
I was solely responsible for my choice of independence. My drug of choice would be my dependence and ultimately my demise.
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2Ch 25:4 But he slew not their children, but did as it is written in the law in the book of Moses, where the L-RD commanded, saying, The fathers shall not die for the children, neither shall the children die for the fathers, but every man shall die for his own sin.
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
THANKSGIVING SADNESS
Growing up in the US, Thanksgiving was directly connected with Christmas which was directly connected with family, food and fun. It was the season of all seasons - the joy of the year. The holidays were times to push away any sadness you might have known all year and be thankful and glad.
After moving to Brazil, the meaning of Thanksgiving has changed somewhat for me.
Although I can't say I remember every Thanksgiving in detail, I can remember some very vivid days. Back in the early 90's, it was all we could do to hunt down some tiny turkey somewhere for dinner. And I felt so bad for my poor mother who would slave in the hot kitchen for hours no matter what country we were in, but the Amazon? It was ridiculously hot in that house. However, since Thanksgiving is an American holiday, we would invite all kinds of people over to share with them the joy of this season.
One day, already afternoon time, when we were getting close to that blessed 4:00 or so mealtime, the phone rang. It was a pastor in our town.
~I think I owe my readers a side-note here. My parents have a ministry where they use an enclosed boat to visit the poor and needy up and down the Amazon river and it's tributaries.~
As I was saying - the phone rang and it was Pastor X. He wanted to speak with my dad. I passed him the phone. Dad's expression did not take long to change from happy and peaceful to saddened and somber. A baby had died. A young couple from one of the villages we have frequently visited had a newborn who was very sick. They spent all their money on a boat ride into the city to take the baby to a hospital - but to no avail. Their baby had died - on Thanksgiving day. They had no money, no home, no food and now, carrying it in a shoe box, their little corpse. They wanted to take it home to bury it. They needed a boat ride.
Needless to say, we postponed Thanksgiving. Dad and Pastor X took the family and the shoebox up the river. They made it back that evening - not in the mood for giving thanks.
A few years later, my first semester in college, the week of Thanksgiving - I was packed to go to a retreat with other MKs since our families were all overseas. We would be spending Thanksgiving together. The phone rang. It was my mom. My grandmother - my dad's mom - had just passed away. She had a heart attack and fell on the floor banging her head on the way down and knocking herself unconscious.
What is with this???? Why are we the ones who always have to be sad on Thanksgiving??? I was not a fun person to be around at the retreat and from there I flew on to South Florida for the funeral. My parents had come back from Brazil as well - Only to find out that my dad was sick with some sort of Amazon bacteria in his system that would threaten him the rest of his life.
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Almost 10 years later, I think I've learned something about giving thanks. At this time of year, it is good to give thanks for what we have - the blessings that have fallen on us. But it is also good to recognize and be thankful for the things the L-rd has NOT asked us to go through. The trials that would defeat us completely - His protection from the worst case scenario. I remember the story of the desecration of the temple in Jerusalem. The fight that the Maccabean family would put up to be able to maintain their blessings. We should be thankful for what we have - and what we don't have to go through to obtain our blessings.
Ezra 3:11 And they sang together by course in praising and giving thanks unto the LORD; because [he is] good, for his mercy [endureth] for ever toward Israel. And all the people shouted with a great shout, when they praised the LORD, because the foundation of the house of the LORD was laid.
Growing up in the US, Thanksgiving was directly connected with Christmas which was directly connected with family, food and fun. It was the season of all seasons - the joy of the year. The holidays were times to push away any sadness you might have known all year and be thankful and glad.
After moving to Brazil, the meaning of Thanksgiving has changed somewhat for me.
Although I can't say I remember every Thanksgiving in detail, I can remember some very vivid days. Back in the early 90's, it was all we could do to hunt down some tiny turkey somewhere for dinner. And I felt so bad for my poor mother who would slave in the hot kitchen for hours no matter what country we were in, but the Amazon? It was ridiculously hot in that house. However, since Thanksgiving is an American holiday, we would invite all kinds of people over to share with them the joy of this season.
One day, already afternoon time, when we were getting close to that blessed 4:00 or so mealtime, the phone rang. It was a pastor in our town.
~I think I owe my readers a side-note here. My parents have a ministry where they use an enclosed boat to visit the poor and needy up and down the Amazon river and it's tributaries.~
As I was saying - the phone rang and it was Pastor X. He wanted to speak with my dad. I passed him the phone. Dad's expression did not take long to change from happy and peaceful to saddened and somber. A baby had died. A young couple from one of the villages we have frequently visited had a newborn who was very sick. They spent all their money on a boat ride into the city to take the baby to a hospital - but to no avail. Their baby had died - on Thanksgiving day. They had no money, no home, no food and now, carrying it in a shoe box, their little corpse. They wanted to take it home to bury it. They needed a boat ride.
Needless to say, we postponed Thanksgiving. Dad and Pastor X took the family and the shoebox up the river. They made it back that evening - not in the mood for giving thanks.
A few years later, my first semester in college, the week of Thanksgiving - I was packed to go to a retreat with other MKs since our families were all overseas. We would be spending Thanksgiving together. The phone rang. It was my mom. My grandmother - my dad's mom - had just passed away. She had a heart attack and fell on the floor banging her head on the way down and knocking herself unconscious.
What is with this???? Why are we the ones who always have to be sad on Thanksgiving??? I was not a fun person to be around at the retreat and from there I flew on to South Florida for the funeral. My parents had come back from Brazil as well - Only to find out that my dad was sick with some sort of Amazon bacteria in his system that would threaten him the rest of his life.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Almost 10 years later, I think I've learned something about giving thanks. At this time of year, it is good to give thanks for what we have - the blessings that have fallen on us. But it is also good to recognize and be thankful for the things the L-rd has NOT asked us to go through. The trials that would defeat us completely - His protection from the worst case scenario. I remember the story of the desecration of the temple in Jerusalem. The fight that the Maccabean family would put up to be able to maintain their blessings. We should be thankful for what we have - and what we don't have to go through to obtain our blessings.
Ezra 3:11 And they sang together by course in praising and giving thanks unto the LORD; because [he is] good, for his mercy [endureth] for ever toward Israel. And all the people shouted with a great shout, when they praised the LORD, because the foundation of the house of the LORD was laid.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
MKs, Mission Meetings, and MK Camps
Rachel's Dictionary Defines MK as: missionary kid, third-culture child, bi-national, a child who never feels 100% complete in any given country.
In 1990-91, I was in 7th grade in Vian, Oklahoma. We were preparing to go to Richmond, Virginia for training for missions and I was so siked. I couldn't believe I was going to be a part of the amazing group of people called "MKs." I had met some of them before - they were stationed in Africa, South America and Asia, to name a few. They seemed so cool with their American hair color, but foreign appearance - and they could all speak some really cool language. I was going to be one of them. So, I had to do something with my name - I started signing all my homework:
Rachel MK'90
Rachel's Dictionary Defines Mission Meeting as: a week-long gathering, usually at a hotel in a tourist-driven town, of adults whose jobs are religious ministry/missions-related ...and their children.
My first Mission Meeting in Brazil is still a little hazy to me - it was with the people that lived near where we were learning the language. Even though this was the first time I saw someone talking in Portuguese to avoid my understanding them, this was also my first encounter with my group - the MKs. The greatest, even though scariest, thing about this week together is that we were pretty much on our own since our parents were in meetings all week - EVERY ADOLESCENTS DREAM COME TRUE - true independence.
This is where we stayed up in the dark to play hide and go seek in an entire building - where we ate the richest food (in our minds) and just charged it to "The Mission" - where we sang funny songs together, had a few bible studies, rode horses through town and just plain hung out. All the boys seemed cuter than any boy I had ever seen, all the girls seemed smarter and prettier than any girl I had ever met - this place was amazing.
My next Mission Meeting (1992) was even "cooler" still. Now I was with the people I would see regularly - every year, since our parents would be stationed in similar areas along the most northern part of Brazil. We were on the beach, every night looking out at the stars from the roof of the hotel, shooting water balloons out windows, running up and down the halls and in and out of the elevators, pushing fully-dressed people in the pool - eating and having fun.
I couldn't believe my independence, the blessing to be who I wanted to be. I wasn't the only preacher's kid in the class anymore - I was one of the MKs like everyone else - nothing strange about me - nothing noone else couldn't accept. I was home and it was nice.
Rachel's Dictionary Defines MK Camps as: a gathering of MKs once a year at a retreat-like center for a miniature camp setting.
My first year in Brazil, I missed MK Camp - but really, I didn't know what I was missing - so it was ok with me. When the next one came around, I was excited, but nowhere near as pumped as everyone else who had ever been. I thought Mission Meeting was the climax of a cool week - I was wrong.
If Mission Meeting gave us independence, then MK Camp was like being on a deserted island with everything you could want - friends, food, pools, beaches, late nights and NO PARENTS AT ALL. (Well, we had Aunts and Uncles who were "chaperones," but come on now, that was pretty irrelevant.) I have more pictures of MK Camps than I do of any other event in my life (including my wedding!).
MK Camp was where the magic happened - this was the ultimate hook-up week. All MKs from the country came together. Sure, we had to have "meetings" and bible studies, but we could deal with that because we were together. Sometimes doing nothing but talking. But the best times were the late nights - just being goofy and knowing we were ok - we were in the safest place in the world - we had each other, and as far as I was concerned, that is all we needed.
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Sometimes we are so blessed - that we become overwhelmed. We take the blessing and turn it into an overdose. I wish I had known what independence really meant. I wish I had been prepared for the responsibility I was being handed. I just thought young+independence=free living. This was one of my life's biggest mistakes. I was being allowed mature experiences, without being mature myself.
Luke 12:48 But he that knew not, and did commit things worthy of stripes, shall be beaten with few [stripes]. For unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required: and to whom men have committed much, of him they will ask the more.
Rachel's Dictionary Defines MK as: missionary kid, third-culture child, bi-national, a child who never feels 100% complete in any given country.
In 1990-91, I was in 7th grade in Vian, Oklahoma. We were preparing to go to Richmond, Virginia for training for missions and I was so siked. I couldn't believe I was going to be a part of the amazing group of people called "MKs." I had met some of them before - they were stationed in Africa, South America and Asia, to name a few. They seemed so cool with their American hair color, but foreign appearance - and they could all speak some really cool language. I was going to be one of them. So, I had to do something with my name - I started signing all my homework:
Rachel MK'90
Rachel's Dictionary Defines Mission Meeting as: a week-long gathering, usually at a hotel in a tourist-driven town, of adults whose jobs are religious ministry/missions-related ...and their children.
My first Mission Meeting in Brazil is still a little hazy to me - it was with the people that lived near where we were learning the language. Even though this was the first time I saw someone talking in Portuguese to avoid my understanding them, this was also my first encounter with my group - the MKs. The greatest, even though scariest, thing about this week together is that we were pretty much on our own since our parents were in meetings all week - EVERY ADOLESCENTS DREAM COME TRUE - true independence.
This is where we stayed up in the dark to play hide and go seek in an entire building - where we ate the richest food (in our minds) and just charged it to "The Mission" - where we sang funny songs together, had a few bible studies, rode horses through town and just plain hung out. All the boys seemed cuter than any boy I had ever seen, all the girls seemed smarter and prettier than any girl I had ever met - this place was amazing.
My next Mission Meeting (1992) was even "cooler" still. Now I was with the people I would see regularly - every year, since our parents would be stationed in similar areas along the most northern part of Brazil. We were on the beach, every night looking out at the stars from the roof of the hotel, shooting water balloons out windows, running up and down the halls and in and out of the elevators, pushing fully-dressed people in the pool - eating and having fun.
I couldn't believe my independence, the blessing to be who I wanted to be. I wasn't the only preacher's kid in the class anymore - I was one of the MKs like everyone else - nothing strange about me - nothing noone else couldn't accept. I was home and it was nice.
Rachel's Dictionary Defines MK Camps as: a gathering of MKs once a year at a retreat-like center for a miniature camp setting.
My first year in Brazil, I missed MK Camp - but really, I didn't know what I was missing - so it was ok with me. When the next one came around, I was excited, but nowhere near as pumped as everyone else who had ever been. I thought Mission Meeting was the climax of a cool week - I was wrong.
If Mission Meeting gave us independence, then MK Camp was like being on a deserted island with everything you could want - friends, food, pools, beaches, late nights and NO PARENTS AT ALL. (Well, we had Aunts and Uncles who were "chaperones," but come on now, that was pretty irrelevant.) I have more pictures of MK Camps than I do of any other event in my life (including my wedding!).
MK Camp was where the magic happened - this was the ultimate hook-up week. All MKs from the country came together. Sure, we had to have "meetings" and bible studies, but we could deal with that because we were together. Sometimes doing nothing but talking. But the best times were the late nights - just being goofy and knowing we were ok - we were in the safest place in the world - we had each other, and as far as I was concerned, that is all we needed.
--------------------------------------------------------
Sometimes we are so blessed - that we become overwhelmed. We take the blessing and turn it into an overdose. I wish I had known what independence really meant. I wish I had been prepared for the responsibility I was being handed. I just thought young+independence=free living. This was one of my life's biggest mistakes. I was being allowed mature experiences, without being mature myself.
Luke 12:48 But he that knew not, and did commit things worthy of stripes, shall be beaten with few [stripes]. For unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required: and to whom men have committed much, of him they will ask the more.
Sunday, November 06, 2005
THE CRATES
I remember that cold winter in eastern Oklahoma. We were snowed in for about 2 weeks. Soon after we were packing - but I had never seen crates that would travel internationally before - so this was no packing I was used to. My 6'5 father could easily walk right into these huge wooden boxes. Mom was insistent that we pack every "nook and cranny" so that nothing would budge.
It took us a few months to retrieve the crates once we were in Brazil. But it was like that snowy, freezing Christmas all over again - except without the snow or cold. Finally having "our" stuff was like taking in a deep breath. It was a nice feeling. It took us a while to unpack those silly monstrosities, but we put them in the front yard and took everything in one thing at a time. The boxes stayed out in the yard for a few days. I was sure everyone was curious what they were.
I rode the bus to and from school every day. Mom and Dad had to go to language school in the afternoons, so I would usually get home before them. I had a key to the house - a strange house at that. It was only to serve the purpose of us having a safe place to stay for one year. So the front door was like a sliding glass door. The living room was first - going through the door, you would see the small dining room. Off the left side of the dining room was another door that led to the ultra-white kitchen with those crazy horizontally-slatted windows way up at the top. There was a back door in the kitchen. The hallway was directly after the dining room - it was a loooooooong hallway with 3 bedrooms and a bathroom. I thought it was so cool because it had a wooden floor. I would put my socks on a just play sliding down the hallway. After this day, the hallway was not my friend anymore.
Coming home from school, I walked into the living room -
"What a mess! Were Mom and Dad late to school today and looking for something in here? Wait a minute - where's the TV and vcr? Did they have some kind of project at school where they had to take them? That's weird."
I walked through to the dining room -
"What is my bike doing in front of the hallway door? I know I had brake problems with it - maybe Uncle Bruce came to fix it today." (We always refer to the other missionaries as "Uncle" and "Aunt.")
I walked in to the kitchen, my heart pumping...
Muddy footprints all over our white kitchen - those stupid windows are broken with one of our towels thrown through them -
THE BACK DOOR!!!! It's swinging - like someone just went through it!
I didn't know much Portuguese, so I ran back to the living room where the phone was -the whole time calling for my Dad in Portuguese - "Pai? Papai? PAI!"
I called the only number I knew - the other missionary family who was our host family - my best friend, their son who was my same age answered:
"Donnie! Help! It's Rachel! I just got home and I think someone might still be in the house - we have been robbed!!! I'm leaving!" Click.
I went across the street and tried to communicate with our neighbor's housekeeper - she could not understand me. Then I heard the cars coming - missionaries - "THANK YOU JESUS!" One came to pick me up - the others who were quite massive in stature ran into our house. The police were not far behind with Donnie leading the way.
I went to Donnie's house. All I remember was being with him and Aunt Billie. I didn't see Mom and Dad for a while.
Years later I realized something. My parents didn't forget about me or not want to see me. My parents were livid. How could G-d dare to send them to a country to be missionaries where their baby would be in danger within the first few months? How could He possibly think that this was ok? Why do we have to learn this stupid language, live in this dumb culture, endanger ourselves to help people who want our demise?!!!
I didn't see my parents because they couldn't see me. They did not want me to see them furious with the L-rd. They did not want to endanger my spiritual well-being. They wanted me to think everything was ok...these things happen, and you just live with them.
-----------------------------------------------------
Well, these things and many, many others DO happen. We DO have to live with them. But we must also LEARN from them. Otherwise, the entire master plan is useless. It wouldn't be the last time we would be robbed - but it would be the last time we would act so innocently about material possessions. It's just stuff - we must keep our eyes on the prize.
2Cr 4:18 While we look not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen: for the things which are seen [are] temporal; but the things which are not seen [are] eternal.
I remember that cold winter in eastern Oklahoma. We were snowed in for about 2 weeks. Soon after we were packing - but I had never seen crates that would travel internationally before - so this was no packing I was used to. My 6'5 father could easily walk right into these huge wooden boxes. Mom was insistent that we pack every "nook and cranny" so that nothing would budge.
It took us a few months to retrieve the crates once we were in Brazil. But it was like that snowy, freezing Christmas all over again - except without the snow or cold. Finally having "our" stuff was like taking in a deep breath. It was a nice feeling. It took us a while to unpack those silly monstrosities, but we put them in the front yard and took everything in one thing at a time. The boxes stayed out in the yard for a few days. I was sure everyone was curious what they were.
I rode the bus to and from school every day. Mom and Dad had to go to language school in the afternoons, so I would usually get home before them. I had a key to the house - a strange house at that. It was only to serve the purpose of us having a safe place to stay for one year. So the front door was like a sliding glass door. The living room was first - going through the door, you would see the small dining room. Off the left side of the dining room was another door that led to the ultra-white kitchen with those crazy horizontally-slatted windows way up at the top. There was a back door in the kitchen. The hallway was directly after the dining room - it was a loooooooong hallway with 3 bedrooms and a bathroom. I thought it was so cool because it had a wooden floor. I would put my socks on a just play sliding down the hallway. After this day, the hallway was not my friend anymore.
Coming home from school, I walked into the living room -
"What a mess! Were Mom and Dad late to school today and looking for something in here? Wait a minute - where's the TV and vcr? Did they have some kind of project at school where they had to take them? That's weird."
I walked through to the dining room -
"What is my bike doing in front of the hallway door? I know I had brake problems with it - maybe Uncle Bruce came to fix it today." (We always refer to the other missionaries as "Uncle" and "Aunt.")
I walked in to the kitchen, my heart pumping...
Muddy footprints all over our white kitchen - those stupid windows are broken with one of our towels thrown through them -
THE BACK DOOR!!!! It's swinging - like someone just went through it!
I didn't know much Portuguese, so I ran back to the living room where the phone was -the whole time calling for my Dad in Portuguese - "Pai? Papai? PAI!"
I called the only number I knew - the other missionary family who was our host family - my best friend, their son who was my same age answered:
"Donnie! Help! It's Rachel! I just got home and I think someone might still be in the house - we have been robbed!!! I'm leaving!" Click.
I went across the street and tried to communicate with our neighbor's housekeeper - she could not understand me. Then I heard the cars coming - missionaries - "THANK YOU JESUS!" One came to pick me up - the others who were quite massive in stature ran into our house. The police were not far behind with Donnie leading the way.
I went to Donnie's house. All I remember was being with him and Aunt Billie. I didn't see Mom and Dad for a while.
Years later I realized something. My parents didn't forget about me or not want to see me. My parents were livid. How could G-d dare to send them to a country to be missionaries where their baby would be in danger within the first few months? How could He possibly think that this was ok? Why do we have to learn this stupid language, live in this dumb culture, endanger ourselves to help people who want our demise?!!!
I didn't see my parents because they couldn't see me. They did not want me to see them furious with the L-rd. They did not want to endanger my spiritual well-being. They wanted me to think everything was ok...these things happen, and you just live with them.
-----------------------------------------------------
Well, these things and many, many others DO happen. We DO have to live with them. But we must also LEARN from them. Otherwise, the entire master plan is useless. It wouldn't be the last time we would be robbed - but it would be the last time we would act so innocently about material possessions. It's just stuff - we must keep our eyes on the prize.
2Cr 4:18 While we look not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen: for the things which are seen [are] temporal; but the things which are not seen [are] eternal.
Friday, November 04, 2005
CHALLENGED BEYOND ALL ODDS
I used to think that how I grew up completely defined me - then I realized, I grew up. Let me get you up to speed...
I was almost literally born into the church - Mom might as well have just had me right there on the organ bench. But I was definitely Daddy's little girl. For the longest time, the Bible and Jesus made more sense to me than 2+2. I knew how to "do" church. I was humming and singing church music before I could speak correctly or read. And when I was 11 and my parents talked to me about moving to Brazil to do mission work - I wasn't surprised or even worried, I knew we would go and that was normal to me. I didn't mind having to learn another language or a new culture - in fact, I was so used to being in my own culture anyway - moving from one church to the next and one state to the next my whole life - this shouldn't be all that different.
Of course I found out real quick that I was a little mistaken - Portuguese wasn't all that easy for someone already in the 8th grade. And adolescence set in quickly. I had a separate Portuguese class from the rest of the kids at the American school who already spoke Portuguese. I was with the kids who had lived there anywhere from 5 months to 2 years - the beginners. During those first few weeks in Brazil, I felt a strong need to learn the language - not just for fun, but for survival - not just for me, but for my family.
I asked the L-rd for help: "I cannot do this unless YOU do it for me." I made a promise to myself and to G-d: I would learn this stinkin language if it was the only class I would pass in 8th grade.
I approached my Brazilian teacher and in my very broken Portuguese said: "I have to learn Portuguese."
She replied with a patronizing smile and pat on the back, "Yes, I know."
I looked at her sternly and said again "I HAVE to learn Portuguese."
She said again, "I know."
After my 3rd attempt to share my conviction, she got the sentiment. She bent down slightly and said, "We will try."
It's not that the teacher didn't believe in me, but she had 5 other students who hadn't gotten out of her beginner's Portuguese class since they had arrived in the country and here I was, 2 weeks in, begging to be fluent.
A little while later, during lunch when everyone would go out to the park benches, I was sitting waiting to make some friend. I knew everyone at that school spoke English - all of our classes were in English, except Portuguese. Then, they came, one at a time, and started sitting near me. Some girls, some boys - everything went silent when one of the girls looked at me - then she turned the other way and started speaking in Portuguese with the rest of the students. They laughed and participated in the prejudice. It had happened to me once before - at a meeting with the other missionary families. I knew this feeling. I felt the deepest hole in the pit of my stomach. I ran away to cry - but pulled myself together. I proceeded unwaveringly to the pay phone to call mom and dad at the language center where they studied. I talked to dad and told him I was getting very sick and could not stay at school. He had to come pick me up. (Let me insert here an important side-note: I had never lied with such determination to my parents, much less asking them to come pick me up from school.)
When Dad drove up, he face immediately changed from concerned to confused: "You're not sick!" I hadn't said a thing, but got in the car. He then said: "I'll take you home." I cried....the next day, I went back to school.
I don't know exactly when or how, but I know that I learned Portuguese - fast and fluently. People started commenting on the velocity I had in understanding and imitating accents and slang. Within a year, I was considered a native Brazilian to other Brazilians until they found out I was not.
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The L-rd does spectacular things at spectacular times. I hated what I had to go through to learn the language, but as you will soon read, I really HAD to learn it. Only Adonai could know the impact of such a simple lunch in the 8th grade. Only He could have given me the incentive to fight against the odds. He made me a conqueror. And this is not the only example. I hope to share with you here, how a not-so-special girl, came to be a girl of hope and dreams fufilled...challenged beyond all odds.
I used to think that how I grew up completely defined me - then I realized, I grew up. Let me get you up to speed...
I was almost literally born into the church - Mom might as well have just had me right there on the organ bench. But I was definitely Daddy's little girl. For the longest time, the Bible and Jesus made more sense to me than 2+2. I knew how to "do" church. I was humming and singing church music before I could speak correctly or read. And when I was 11 and my parents talked to me about moving to Brazil to do mission work - I wasn't surprised or even worried, I knew we would go and that was normal to me. I didn't mind having to learn another language or a new culture - in fact, I was so used to being in my own culture anyway - moving from one church to the next and one state to the next my whole life - this shouldn't be all that different.
Of course I found out real quick that I was a little mistaken - Portuguese wasn't all that easy for someone already in the 8th grade. And adolescence set in quickly. I had a separate Portuguese class from the rest of the kids at the American school who already spoke Portuguese. I was with the kids who had lived there anywhere from 5 months to 2 years - the beginners. During those first few weeks in Brazil, I felt a strong need to learn the language - not just for fun, but for survival - not just for me, but for my family.
I asked the L-rd for help: "I cannot do this unless YOU do it for me." I made a promise to myself and to G-d: I would learn this stinkin language if it was the only class I would pass in 8th grade.
I approached my Brazilian teacher and in my very broken Portuguese said: "I have to learn Portuguese."
She replied with a patronizing smile and pat on the back, "Yes, I know."
I looked at her sternly and said again "I HAVE to learn Portuguese."
She said again, "I know."
After my 3rd attempt to share my conviction, she got the sentiment. She bent down slightly and said, "We will try."
It's not that the teacher didn't believe in me, but she had 5 other students who hadn't gotten out of her beginner's Portuguese class since they had arrived in the country and here I was, 2 weeks in, begging to be fluent.
A little while later, during lunch when everyone would go out to the park benches, I was sitting waiting to make some friend. I knew everyone at that school spoke English - all of our classes were in English, except Portuguese. Then, they came, one at a time, and started sitting near me. Some girls, some boys - everything went silent when one of the girls looked at me - then she turned the other way and started speaking in Portuguese with the rest of the students. They laughed and participated in the prejudice. It had happened to me once before - at a meeting with the other missionary families. I knew this feeling. I felt the deepest hole in the pit of my stomach. I ran away to cry - but pulled myself together. I proceeded unwaveringly to the pay phone to call mom and dad at the language center where they studied. I talked to dad and told him I was getting very sick and could not stay at school. He had to come pick me up. (Let me insert here an important side-note: I had never lied with such determination to my parents, much less asking them to come pick me up from school.)
When Dad drove up, he face immediately changed from concerned to confused: "You're not sick!" I hadn't said a thing, but got in the car. He then said: "I'll take you home." I cried....the next day, I went back to school.
I don't know exactly when or how, but I know that I learned Portuguese - fast and fluently. People started commenting on the velocity I had in understanding and imitating accents and slang. Within a year, I was considered a native Brazilian to other Brazilians until they found out I was not.
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The L-rd does spectacular things at spectacular times. I hated what I had to go through to learn the language, but as you will soon read, I really HAD to learn it. Only Adonai could know the impact of such a simple lunch in the 8th grade. Only He could have given me the incentive to fight against the odds. He made me a conqueror. And this is not the only example. I hope to share with you here, how a not-so-special girl, came to be a girl of hope and dreams fufilled...challenged beyond all odds.
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