After years of ignoring my doctors’ suggestions to get regular exercise…

Moving to this area of town has finally prompted me to do something that’s been on my to-do list for longer than I can remember. Last week, I joined a gym. I was waiting, you see, for something that was within walking distance and had air-conditioning. Imagine aerobics in 104 degree heat. I don’t need to pay for that…I can just sit in my front room in the summer and get the same effects…

I am the sort of undisciplined person who cannot start slowly and work my way up. If I’m going to do something, it’s got to be both feet first and no turning back. So last week, I plopped down six months of membership fees at the only gym around that is both air-conditioned and five minutes from my front door.

Brazilian gyms are great because there are so many personal trainers hanging around – lazy people like me can’t get into trouble because there’s always someone to say, “Hey, stand up straight! Lift with your legs…don’t bend your wrists…do it right or I’ll make you do 20 more!” When I went in for my evaluation, the guy took all my measurements, squeezed me with the fat calipers (cold, evil mental and physical torture devices) and then asked me what my goals were.

“I dunno. Get in shape?” Which prompted him to be more specific. “Aesthetic goals????”

Gee. I can HAVE those?

I told him I wanted to look like a Brazilian woman.

We are now working heavily on the lower half of the body…who knew there were so many exercises for the gluteus maximus!

The trainers laughed at me when I told them it had been something like five years since I'd had regular, consistent exercise.

"Take it easy..you're going to want to curse in the mornings for a couple of days..."

Gentlemen, I'm prepared for cursing. I fully expect this month to be the most painful one of my life, as I adjust to waking up at six am...feeling like I've been run over by a subway train.

I’m in the weight room Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday…and currently testing out a spinning class Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Spinning is like an out-of-body experience. They play this pumped up mix of classics (Eye of the Tiger, among others) and shout at us to go faster…and somehow, the body obeys…

It's a very contemplative experience, actually.

My favorite, today, when I was starting to wonder if I would ever be able to walk again, was this instrumental electronica that suddenly spliced into a man’s voice saying, in English, “Whoever believes in me will not perish but have everlasting life…”

Amen.

Like I said, contemplative. I'm having fun. Who knew?!

Pink House

At last, a photo.



This place makes me smile.

p.s. Ali, I swear I'm not copying you!!! (my pink house is like, four whole shades lighter!)

Ah, sun!

Having eaten the entire contents of a “caixa” of strawberries (what IS the word for that in English? Are they boxes of strawberries? Trays? I can’t remember the word for those little green baskets anymore…) and woken up much too early for a Saturday morning, I’m headed off to the beach for a few hours of sun and reading…

My eyes hurt and I feel like people are watching me from all sides.

Classic symptoms of having watched too many episodes of "24" in less than 48 hours. Extremely addicting. It is because of things like this that I do not have a television. I would have to be surgically removed from the couch!

This intense DVD watching could also be interpreted as a sign of withdrawal from other people. It would be correct. I've been feeling drained lately, so much so that being in groups of people is physically exhausting. My introvert side has apparently come out of hiding and is frustrated that I am not tending to her with the same care I lavish on little miss extrovert.

My schedule hasn't really helped. I feel like I run around a lot, like the proverbial chicken with it's head cut off (which, incidentally, I've never seen, even though I lived on a farm most of my life and have personally hacked off several...my mother wouldn't permit it. Something about damaging the meat...)...

Besides my ministry commitments during the week, I have evening classes Monday, Wednesday and Friday from 7pm until 10. But because I'm a perfectionist and have a bit of difficulty with numbers, I show up at 6pm to get homework help. For some reason, I seem to think that I can and should make excellent grades in post-graduate level classes IN A FOREIGN LANGUAGE.

From class, I race to the subway with a few other fellow students, so we can stand on the packed trains for another half-hour or so (all the universities seem to let out at 10, and so there are hardly ever seats...). I arrive home around 11pm. And of course, by this time, even if I'm still wiped out, I can't sleep. It's time for dinner! My body's all mixed up because of schedules like this. I'm the kind of person who needs to either be able to sleep late and stay up until 3 am -OR- go to bed at 10pm and wake up at 5. Instead, I'm trying to be both at the same time...

Perhaps it is time for me to learn that I am not superhuman?

On what if feels like to have fourteen children

When you don't have to live with them 24/7? It's nothing short of amazing.

---On Names---

The youngest girl, about 2, has recently been referring to everyone as "mother." She's also learned my name, and alternates between "Aunt Jenna" and "Mommy Jenna." It's entirely too precious!

---On Education---

I am helping A- with homework again today. Whoever thought the music major would someday be a math tutor for a 5th grader?

He gives me a sly look and asks, cool as can be, “Jenna, what’s the name of this subject again?”

Matematica.

He gives another all-knowing grin and goes back to his calculations…

What a punk! This is one smart, sassy twelve-year old! Yesterday, he spent several minutes correcting my pronunciation of the word…and makes sure to sneak in pop quizzes today to see if I’ve learned it correctly.

He’ll make a great Portuguese teacher someday!

---On Art---

The children at the home have given me several hand-drawn portraits. Two details stand out:

blond hair (I am a brunette to Western eyes)
high heels (I guess I use them more than I thought!)

---On Discipline---

Tickling works wonders on five-year old girls who think they're teenagers already. It is not so recommended for hyperactive seven year old boys. Just so you know.

---On Dog Biscuits---

If your child has been eating dog biscuits since he was a baby, this is not an indication that you should continue to allow him to do so now that he is able to distinguish the difference between a hard bacon chew toy and a chocolate chip cookie. Mothers who don't understand this also do not understand why they have difficulties with discipline. Imagine.

---On Jealousy---

"Tia Jenna! The baby can't sit on your lap! Dona D- doesn't want him to be held by anybody..."
"Yeah. He's too big to sit with anyone anymore. And he might poop."

-Comments made by the seven and six year old, respectively, as they threw very unhappy glances at the fact that the child in question was taking up every available inch of lap space...and were, perhaps, afraid that the said lap would soon be contaminated with poop...

---On Attention Spans---

When trying to instill the love of literature into children, it is recommended that you not begin with a book that has ever been made into a movie. They will not be captivated by your voice. They will attempt, valiantly, to suppress their great desire to inform you of all the ways that this story got the details wrong. They will humor you for about three minutes. And you should be thankful for those 180 seconds...

We are averaging four paragraphs of "Matilda" each reading. At this rate, we'll finish the second chapter before Christmas. Even so, they clamor for it every time I show up at the door. Is it really Dahl's phenomenally caustic style that they're falling for, or just a chance to cram around the couch and cuddle?

Stepping over pigs

"Careful, don't get your flip-flops dirty...and watch out for the pig!"

Not the sort of words you normally expect to say when you're leading a bunch of children by the hand to head to church. I'm sure the pastor behind me, with his shiny shoes and button down shirt (we made him take the suit jacket off-he was already out of place enough!) was feeling somewhat overwhelmed. I was in my element!

Yesterday, the after-school program that we volunteer at held its first church service. There aren't a lot of churches in this favela that don't preach a prosperity gospel, offering cures and promises of security in return for faith offerings. There aren't a lot of churches that don't preach this and still open their doors for people that aren't dressed like "Christians." Apparently, that means men who don't wear shorts or flip flops and women who wear long skirts and shirts with sleeves.

That happens to exclude a lot of people. And the families who live in the shacks, most of whom are headed by single women or families with at least one male member in the grunt work of the drug trade, usually get excluded by the church, except as "evangelism opportunities." But they'd feel hopelessly out of place, BE hopelessly out of place, in most of the churches. And they would rarely be welcomed. "Come as you are" is a really untrue phrase. Most of us don't really want to see someone come shirtless or showerless to our services, in a crowded room without air conditioning.

Anyhow, I digress.

So this service is different. It's not in a church, for starters. It's kind of interdenominational, for seconds. The target group is children from the after-school program and their families. And they come just like they'd come for classes: in their flip-flops, in their best, itsy-bitsy clothes, or shirtless and barefoot. It doesn't matter. I showed up a few minutes early and was sent out to show one of the pastors around and to see if the kids and/or their families were ready. Doors are opened all down this "street"; kids are washing hands and getting braids done and shouting, "Tia Jenna, smell my hands! I'm clean! How do you like my flipflops! They're clean! I took a shower! Do you like my shirt?" And so on....it was a bit of work keeping them all in line and avoiding the mudpuddles, pee puddles and all the other bits of wetness that conspired against all those clean feet but we managed...Feeling a bit like the Pied Piper with a band of children trailing behind and three or four attached to my arms and hands, we tramped into the room.

There was lots of loud singing on the part of the children, and silent giggling on mine as I watched the pastors try to remember how to speak to children...at least, ones that were outspoken and sassy. The lesson of the day was David and Goliath. Kind of. Here's a modified transcript of the service:

Pastor: Who knows the story of David and Goliath?

Child 1: Ohh...I do. David went to visit his brothers at war and saw that this big giant was cursing the Israelites and he said, who's going to fight him. But everyone else was scared so he said okay, God is with me and picked up five stones from the river and then he ran towards the giant and hit him with a stone from his slingshot in the forehead...and he died. And then David cut off his head with his sword and paraded it around the town.

Child 2: Yeah...cut his head off with a sword...paraded it around town on a platter... (Repeat throughout story at two-minute intervals)

Pastor: (Surprised that this can all be said in one breath) Wow. Yes, that's right. Well, does anyone know what David did before he killed Goliath?

Child 1: He was a shepherd. Of sheep.

Pastor: That's right. Now David wasn't a very big guy. (Pointing to one of the boys) Why don't you come up here and stand next to me. David was probably kind of like this little dude here.

Unison of girls: Haha! He's NOTHING like David! There's no giant here!!!

Pastor: (realizing this group isn't ready for play-acting and letting the poor kid go back to his seat) Why do you think David thought he could fight Goliath?

Child 2: Because he was courageous.

Child 3: God was with him!

Pastor: Why was he courageous? (Silence) When David was a shepherd, he killed a bear that was attacking his sheep. And a lion...

Child 2: That's wrong!!! DAVID didn't kill the lion, SAMSON did! Ripped it open with his bare hands and then later honey came out and he ate it...

Child 3: Yeah...and then he married that nasty lady who tricked him and cut off all his hair...

Child 1: God gave Samson GOOD hair!

Child 3: (continuing)...and then she called out "Samson, the Philistines are upon you!" and they tied him up and...

Pastor: (trying to regain his composure) Can't there be more than one lion in the Bible???

Unison of children: NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And so forth. It was mirthsome. I loved it! They've invited me back to help with the worship next week. You can bet I'll be there!

You know how when you're in a hurry,

you revert to habitual modes of thinking? Like when I was running around trying to do a million things on Thursday, and ended up buying a 20 meter phone cord instead of a 20 foot one.

I was looking at the numbers and didn't think to make the metric switch.

The idea for having a "super-long telephone cord" was for me to be able to check my email in the bedroom. Now, if I'm so inclined, I can take my laptop down the street and to the corner bar without having the slightest bit of telephone cord length interference.

Of course, at home, it's a bit too long.

the difference fireworks make

Last Sunday at A-'s church was a baptism Sunday: Festa das Aguas. And a party it was, with people waving flags and banners and fireworks going off for each new baptism. There must have been eight or so people making a public confession of their faith…and I was struck by the difference between the use of fireworks here and in the poor communities near where I live. In the favelas, fireworks so often are used as warning devices, as signals that the drugs are coming or going, that the cops are entering, and as such, are announcers of death. But while these fireworks yesterday were also announcing death, it was of a different kind, a joyful death. It was death of the old self, of desires that only brought isolation, of separation from God, from ourselves, from each other. It was the death of one era and the beginning of another. It was the celebration of a new life, rising from the waters. A new life that would face those same temptations but would not be enslaved to them. A new life with new options, because even in the face of impossible situations, there would now be the ever-present reality of God as friend, as companion, as father, helper and guide.

After the evening service at a church A- refers to as a “refrigerator” due to the formal, stiff order of service and the inability of the congregation to imagine that hands were made for clapping (!), we came to my home and watched a film that tore into my heart. It was a film produced in Brazil but made for export. All the titles were in English. It told the story of two friends who entered the police force in Rio de Janeiro and then through a series of circumstances, joined a special unit. The special unit whose symbol is a skull with crossed knives. Who are as well trained as the Israeli military, if we believe what they tell us. And who enter this elite group for one reason: to kill.

It was hard for me to watch not because I didn’t know many of these things already. How many times did I utter a shuddered prayer at the smell of smoke in the air, fearful that it meant a human body was being unceremoniously cremated? The nights of “pipoca,” the popcorn explosions of grenades and machine guns littering the air with tracer lines of bullets? The pillars of tires, the revenge assassinations, the rich playboys from the Zona Sul perpetuating with their callous drug use a civil war in which they will never have to be soldiers, never have to face justice, and will be lauded for their occasional volunteer service to help the “less-fortunate” who are kept that way by poverty initiated by social exclusion and the violence enacted by the marijuana/heroin/cocaine trade.

I knew all these things already. But seeing the two sides lined up, lado ao lado, I was struck by how demonic it all was. Suffocating people with plastic bags until they confess or betray isn't justice, no matter how hard you bend the rules. A clean, sniper murder isn't justice, not according to the laws of this or most other countries. The authorities play just as dirty as the bad guys. But how much justice can you expect from men and women whose symbol is a skull and crossed weapons? They're advertising what they're about...

And on the other hand, we have the dealers, whose multi-million dollar business is built on the backs of the poor, on the children and teens and grandmothers who die as casualties in police raids, on the disposable lives of the faceless young men who are here today and dead tomorrow but who never lack replacements to hold their plastic sacks full of cocaine or marijuana. On the lookouts who are the first to die when the police come in...or when they were not astute enough to notice the raids but not lucky enough to arrested. No one gives second chances in the trade. A business built on violence, fear, and thousands of rich people who prefer to close their eyes to the favelas and pretend that their casual weekend drug use doesn't hurt anybody.

As I am processing this film, remembering the fireworks of the morning, I'm thinking about the evil that underlies both the drug trade and the corruption of the system that is supposed to combat it. There's really nothing humanly speaking that we can do about these problems. Both are so deeply rooted that nothing short of a revolutionary social and moral earthquake is going to enact long-lasting change. And the only revolutionary social and moral earthquake that I know of doesn't use violence. It doesn't rely on anything particularly Nobel peace prize-worthy. It's not academically correct. The only earthshaking experience I know of that brings about change, real change, is an encounter with God. It's what those baptisms Sunday morning testified to: lives forever changed by a personal encounter and subsequent relationship with God. Revolutionizing forever how they will think about and engage life and others. When they hear fireworks tomorrow morning, and every time after that, I hope they remember their experience under the water. I hope they remember what those joyful explosions were signifying, celebrating. And I hope that that knowledge does something with the way they go out into the day, does something to forever change the fabric of the society they live in, until one day, the fireworks cease in our favelas and the only farinha sold in the street is flour for birthday cakes, biscuits and bread.

Foot rubs, intelligence and "tudo muito!"

Streets last night:

We've been walking in a big circle trying to find our friends and end up in our usual spot. I sit on the blanket beside G-, who is hugely pregnant and swears she's only six months along. We are talking...and then she grabs my leg and swings it over her lap and begins to take off my sneaker...D- is making fun of the size of my feet...and G- begins to give me a foot massage, for no apparent reason, right there in the middle of the street! And dang! was it ever wonderful! Pure bliss...even if I was a little uncomfortable...

At the children's home this week:

I'm reading "Matilda" to some of the younger kids. The boys are 6, 8, and 9. The youngest,C-, is 3, but he keeps popping in and out of our reading circle. I am explaining something about the book, how it's very this and very that...and C- pipes up in his tiny little voice, shivering with excitement: It's "tudo muito!!!!" Which is hard to translate, but comes out something like: It's EVERYTHING A LOT!!!!!!!!!

N-, the six year old, has a serious speech impediment. I think it's mostly because no one spoke to him when he was younger and he never learned correct ways to say things. He was also extremely malnourished when he came to us. I had always assumed that he was a little bit behind developmentally as a result, especially since no one could really understand what he said! N- is sitting on my left side and the older boys to my right. The sentence I have finished reading said that Matilda was devouring the library books. Pausing, I asked them what this meant. The older boys give me a look of consternation and offer the idea that she is literally eating the books. N- pops up out of his seat, wiggling with excitement and in his garbled high pitched voice, shrieks: NOOOO!!! She's not EATING the books, she's reading them AS IF she was eating them!!!!!!


Dear Lord. He's intelligent. Now I need to redouble ancient efforts to find a speech therapist, because this kid will fall through all the cracks in the Brazilian public education system if we don't....