GRADES, GRADES and MORE GRADES

I wasn't smart. I never have been. I was the little girl in the classroom who was sent to the corner for talking too much. But I never really misbehaved. I never really did anything to be noticed, but just enough to be annoying.

I was defiant, not necessarily by action, but definitely by words. By 14, I thought I knew it all, so I would share the depth of my knowledge with the masses. So, I was too good to be given the answers - I thought I had them all.

I had never cheated in my life - but one day, in the sweltering heat, I had to take a math test. My self-teaching books were right beside me. I didn't know the answer, and the only classes I was passing with flying colors were music classes. I needed to pass this test, so mom would get off my back. The instant I started to look up the answer was the instant she came around the corner. I was caught - but I wasn't caught cheating, I was caught not knowing the answer. To me, that was worse than anything else.

I watched myself after that. I had to make sure that I either had enough answers to pass the classes or enough justifications why I wasn't passing. I needed an out so that I would never be wrong.

As we prepared to move back stateside for what was to be my last year of High School, I was asked to take a test to enroll in a private school. My mom was worried I wouldn't pass. I hadn't been an A student since middle school.

It took me a few hours to complete the exam. To everyone's amazement (including my own) I received high scores. I was immediately accepted.

In college, again, I did just enough to get by. I spent most of my time with friends and boyfriends, eating, going to the mall or movies, etc. - The college life. To me, classes and grades were a joke - just life's punchline for our ridicule - so I wasn't going to let it get the best of me - I would go just far enough - I was the epitome of mediocre - and I was ok with that. I was sure it didn't matter to anyone else, so why should it matter to me?
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Colossians 3:23-25 And whatsoever ye do, do it heartily, as to the L-rd, and not unto men; Knowing that of the L-rd ye shall receive the reward of the inheritance: for you serve the L-rd Messiah. But he that doeth wrong shall receive for the wrong which he hath done: and there is no respect of persons.
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THE BUBBLE VS. THE REAL WORLD

I was so happy to be away from S. FL. In my 18-year-old mind, I was on the top of the world - I was in the "real world" - where I could be myself and noone would judge me by any other standard.

The university that I attended had a commonly used name for its environment - "The Bubble." I heard about the name as soon as I started to become familiar with my surroundings. At first, it didn't seem applicable to me - I mean, what was a "bubble" about this place that wouldn't be the same anywhere else? But, as time progressed, I adapted to the bubble. I realized it was a safe environment, but maybe it wasn't "real life."

The bubble was comfortable and safe. A single patrol car was always somewhere nearby and there was always food to eat. It was common to see people out late at night talking, walking , playing, dating, or just goofing off. I loved the freedom this place granted.

And then there were classes, but that was actually the side factor. I was always waking up right before it was time to go to class - just listening to the professors, but never really taking notes. And homework was just something we seemed to laugh off. Yeah, we would get a little more serious around test time, but just enough to get the job done. And even then, it was all night study parties with movies, pizza and laughter - lots and lots of laughter.

The bubble was our real world.

GOING TO COLLEGE

Oh the joys of the college years - the time to get away from the "slavery" of household chores, parents and siblings. The time to study - or at least pretend like your studying - while in the meantime becoming an expert on you. The time to stay up as late as you want - who knows, maybe not even get to your bed before class the next morning, to eat what and when you want, to make friends, create relationships that have nothing to do with where you were from, who your parents or siblings are, but just focuses on you. The time to speak your mind - whether you really believe what you are saying or not. The time to be free.

How glorious - to bask in self-indulgence and revel in egocentricity.

Getting to college was my first hurdle. Since I had been studing via correspondence in Brazil, I was exactly on the same track as everyone else. During what was supposed to be my junior year of High School, I took an entrance exam to a private High School in S. FL. To my parent's absolute amazement (since I had not been the epitome of excellence during my High School years), I passed with flying colors. So, in everyone's understanding, I should be fine. I flew back to S. FL, spent the first few months between my 2 grandmother's houses, and started my senior year. It was so strange, to have to walk to classes, sit in a desk all day, wear a uniform - I was not used to this. In fact, I had to go to the doctor and get a back brace to wear for a few months because I couldn't stand being in a seat all day.

The rich kids didn't help anything. Later, I came to find out - it's not just that they were rich, they were just being Americans. I thought it was so weird that they would take food to school, maybe take one bite or sip and chunk it in the garbage can. Then they preceded to buy junk food for the rest of the day. Once, I stood up at my lunch table and screamed at all of them - "YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW SELFISH YOU ARE!!! AT MY HOUSE IN BRAZIL, PEOPLE COME BY TO ASK FOR OUR EMPTY 2-LITER BOTTLES AND THEN ASK US TO FILL THEM UP WITH OUR CLEAN WELL WATER FOR THEM TO TAKE HOME TO DRINK. AND YOU IDIOTS WASTE MONEY BUYING CRAP YOU DON'T EVEN EAT!!!" And then I stormed off. That was a breaking point for me - the point where I realized - I am not American, I am not Brazilian - I need to find myself. On the bright side, at least I was standing up for myself (different than my first year in school in Brazil when I was humiliated for not speaking Portuguese).

Now, don't get me wrong, there were a few people who were genuine and made me their friends, but they were few. The band became my home away from home since the choir wouldn't even take me because I hadn't been there the year before. The rest of the students resented me for getting into this private club of theirs - how dare I try to graduate with them when I hadn't paid the price of being there for at least the last 4 years. And guess what? I didn't graduate with them. Near the end of the year, we discovered that I didn't have enough credits by their standards to graduate. So, I wouldn't go to Europe on the Senior trip, I wouldn't walk down the aisle with them, I wouldn't receive a diploma.

Instead, I went to a 2-week music school in Nashville with my mom. It introduced me to the world of performance, songwriting and recording - what I wanted to do - what I WOULD DO.

There was still the college situation to look at. My parents would be going back to the amazon. I had to make a decision. We contacted a school in the heart of AR. We went to visit and I auditioned for the Dean of Music. To this day, I don't know why - but they accepted me. I had gotten a high enough score on the ACT that they would give me a scholarship, as well as the scholarship for being the child of a minister and missionary. There were a few strings - since I technically hadn't graduated from High School yet. I would have to finish 2 credit of my correspondence work during my first semester in order to get a diploma from that correspondence school and be fully accepted to college. I did it.

We packed up what would be my little Saturn, Floresta, and unpacked at the freshman dorms. Saying good-bye to mom and dad, grandma and grandpa - it's wasn't the first time and wouldn't be the last...that didn't make it any easier. But I was excited. I was a college student.

My graduation from High School was in January of my second semester of college. I came home from class and my roommate met me at the door with a bath robe. She forced me to put it on, got out her High School graduation cap and let me inside - our suitemates were there with chocolate chip cookies and la-da-da-ing Pomp and Circumstance. They put the cap on me and handed me a rolled up piece of copy paper that they had made into a diploma with markers.

By the way, my roommate and suitemates? - all MKs (missionary kids).
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1 Peter (Keifa) 5:7 Casting all your care upon Him; for He careth for you.

THE PROCESS OF SICKNESS - Part I

One day you feel fine and the next - BANG BOOM - you're down for the count. It really stinks - you've made all these plans for things that need to get done, or you want to get done, but when you're sick - that's it. You're out of the game.

It seems that way, but in reality, many sicknesses come on slowly - they begin to build without our even knowing or paying attention. About a year and a half ago, I was feeling fine and then I started to feel hot every day. I felt like I had a fever, but nothing else. One day, two days, five days, a week, two weeks - now I was feeling puny. And to make matters worse, this would be the year of the 4 - count them, 4 hurricanes in South Florida. I felt weak. So, now that noone could work anyway, I would just rest.

I started out in the full horizontal position, but as the days went on, I melted into the fetal position. My stomach was bulging in obscure form. I was sick - very sick. The doctor didn't even give me a choice - "get up right now and go to the emergency room." Well, one thing led to the next and I was in sugery for my gall bladder. I was full of infection and stayed medicated in the hospital bed for 5 days. It was awful, but I got better.

I had been so busy and life had been so hectic, maybe this was the L-rd telling me to calm down, take a breather...you definitely don't want to go back to those college years....

(continued on post: THE PROCESS OF SICKNESS - Part II)
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Matthew 8:17 That it might be fulfilled which was spoken by Esaias the prophet, saying, Himself took our infirmities, and bare our sicknesses.

DISHONOR, SHAME and HIDING

I love my parents - always have, always will. If there has been any stability in my life, it has come from them. I am truly blessed to have their love, care, concern and affection - even though sometimes it comes in forms I did not expect.

But I didn't always understand this love...especially in my teenage years. I CAN honestly say that I never blamed them for tough times in Brazil - as much as I wanted to sometimes, I always knew that this was a calling - for them and for me, so I could not put a weight on them that they were not responsible for carrying - that was the L-rd's job. However, I had NO PROBLEM in treating them according to the way I was feeling. Since I had started to live a life of lies and secrets (especially kept from them), my next step in weaving my web was to dishonor those who might find me out.

Now, when I say dishonor, I was not thinking that specifically, but I knew that if I showed any love or neediness to them, they would figure me out when I was hiding something. So - fight or flight. I either ignored them completely or fought back - in better terms, smarted off. After all, I was a hot shot now - everyone knew me, all the boys seemed to ask about me, I was the American girl - I could do whatever I wanted. And so I proceeded.

Instead of opening my mind and feelings to the people who knew me best and loved me most, I cut them off. I was closed for business. And since I believed myself to be so knowledgeable, I would just figure out my business on my own. If I had trouble with a guy, or with school, or with life in general, I would be the one to figure it out. And I had "logi-fied" it too - my parents were busy, they were important, I was smart - momma didn't raise no dummy. It was logical for me to "solve my own problems." I forgot one small logical detail - I had never been this age, a teenager, before. I had no prior experience. I was a newbie. And, I had no resources.

My dishonor towards my parents quickly spiraled towards any person who tried to tell me anything. And in this process, besides G-d, the person I most dishonored was myself. I didn't allow myself to have resources to deal with these issues...and my web became more complex.

It didn't take long - my conscious, my spirit, the L-rd's spirit within me, kicked in. This was not right. I was not right. I could not treat people with such disrespect, but I couldn't turn back now. If I did that it was show that I was weak. It would say that I was wrong. I would confirm that I did NOT know everything, that I did NOT have the answers, and that I was NOT the hot shot I thought I was. I was ashamed. I felt the guilt pile on me with every word that proceeded from my mouth and with every action. This was the worst feeling every. Worse than not being wanted by a boy. Worse than living by myself in another country. Worse than studying by myself. Worse than having no real friends. Worse than being an MK. Worse than being a PK. Worse than having a bad relationship with my family. This was worse - how could I ever show my face again if people were to find out who I really was.....

....so I just wouldn't tell them. As painful as it was, I would keep this newfound knowledge inside, under lock and key. It was mine, I would deal with it. And when fighting it fails, just run. "Run, Rachel, run!!! Hide your faults, your lies, your secrets. Hide them from everyone. And if you are to survive, hide them from yourself. Don't try to deal with fact. Leave it. Let it be. You aren't strong enough, smart enough, quick-witted enough, talented enough, spiritual enough...you just aren't. Don't you know you're a liar? Don't you know you're a deceiver? Don't you know you are rude? Don't you know you are disrespectful? Don't you know you are the biggest sinner who ever walked the face of the earth? You're only option now is to fall into the consequences of the web you have spun."

That is what I convinced myself of. And so I conceded. I would give in. And I would hide it from everyone - including me - including G-d.
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Ephesians 5:12 For it is a shame even to speak of those things which are done of them in secret.

SECRETS

If I had only known.......

...that there is someone who exists to tempt...
...that temptation leads to secrets...
...that secrets lead to lies...
...that lies lead to dishonor...
...that dishonor leads to shame...
...that shame leads to hiding...
...that hiding leads to sickness...
...that sickness leads to death...

.......I would not have decided to keep my drug; my independence.

I was happy where I was, living as a well-known translator. People all over the city and even in other states were now seeking me out. I was becoming popular - even through my dress. The churches were coming to know me and I started to realize that girls were changing the way they dressed at church according to what I was wearing. I was becoming a trend, and I loved it.

But my head swelled to quickly for my noticing. Before I knew it, I was not transmitting anything of importance or value - I was just showing off. And I was becoming more and more interested in boys - as would anyone my age. But the outlets I had were ones that supported my new addiction; secrets.

He was beautiful, talented and 10 years my senior. He was attractive, smart and a college graduate. He as business-like, but witty. He was my new fondness. I put my hope in knowing him, and he me. We spent so many hours together at work. And afterwards, long nights talking. We would come back home and spend hours on the phone. But, dating was not permissible at work. So, this would be our little secret.

In retrospect, I think he knew he was wrong to involve himself with a girl so young and naive - which is probably the reason he slowly backed away. But this kind of secret attraction had me hooked. I wanted a boy - not necessarily a boyfriend. I wanted someone who wanted me - I wanted to be wanted. And if you seek after something hard enough, you might just get what you asked for. And I was willing to seek, even in secret.

I had moved on from Mr. Translator. Although he still lived in the back of my mind, I knew there were more out there. So I went after them. I remember one Christmas, I found one - in secret - behind the curtains of the Christmas play at church. He was dating a friend of mine - but that didn't seem to bother me.

I was "helping" direct the play and singing the main solos for effect from behind the curtains. He was helping with extras. We hid out back there and found a fondness - in secret. Long story short - we dated, while he dated the other girl - which didn't bother me. We broke up after he became a father - with the other girl.

But during all this - my real secret was my secret boyfriend. Here's the kicker: he was someone who just happened to sleep in the same house, eat at the same table, and be a part of our missionary family. My deepest, darkest secret was what I kept closest to me - the hired help...

I was wrestling with something I didn't realize had so much power over me - darkness. Darkness seemed to want to pull me in to it's deadly grip more and more every day. I was giving in - to temptation, to secrets, to lies....
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Matthew 26:41 Watch and pray, that ye enter not into temptation: the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.

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.

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.

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.

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.
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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.

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.