Of Christmas Trees…

I was born in Oregon, where pine trees grow on trees.  Oh wait, that doesn’t quite work.  Well, anyway, pine trees are common there.

It made me quite spoiled. At Christmas, we went to a u-pick tree farm and were instantly surrounded by gorgeous trees and the unforgettable smell of pine hanging crisply in the air.

In Brazil, pine trees were almost as rare as white Christmases.

Eventually, I decided that we needed a tree of some kind.  Using a piece of Styrofoam I managed to cut a semblance of a pine tree that would slide into another half creating a lopsided white Christmas tree that didn’t fulfill our Oregonian expectations of what a Christmas tree should either look—or smell—like.

The next year I decided to try to create the same effect out of plywood.  I was making plans when my parents came home from the store with a fake pine tree causing a great deal of excitement.

It is, after all, hard to hang ornaments on a Styrofoam tree.

We took it out of the box and stacked the pipes before laying out the branches and sorting them according to size.  We put the metal ends of the branches into the holes on the green pipes and stood back to admire our work.

After years of not really having a tree at all there was something thrilling about seeing something that resembled a real tree.  It might lack the smell and be merely a collection of pipes, wire, and whatever it is they use to make the phony needles, but we were happy.

Thinking about real versus phony trees got me thinking about real versus phony Christmases.  In Brazil, Christmas didn’t feel real at first because we had none of the trappings with which we associated the holiday.  But the truth is that a real Christmas isn’t about fireplaces, snow, sleighs, or even real pine trees. 

It’s about celebrating our Lord’s birth.  He is the real Christmas.  The greatest gift.

I wish you a very blessed and merry Christmas, celebrating the real reason for the season.

Even if your tree is a lopsided one made of Styrofoam.

What is the weirdest Christmas you ever spent?

Did you find it made you more grateful for the true meaning of Christmas?

 

Of Ants…

Rules ants should observe. 

1.       Stay outside. 

2.       Be small.

3.       Stay outside. 

4.       Be shiny. 

5.       Work hard.

6.       Did I mention stay outside?

7.       Never bite.

8.       I mean, never, ever, ever bite.

The ants in Brazil do not conform to these rules.  I suppose the ants elsewhere might not either, but up until moving to Brazil I had spent all my meager ant-observing time in Oregon. 

Although Brazil is full of ants, three made the biggest impact.

Ant number one (pictured above) conformed to a few of the ant rules.  It was shiny, never bit me, and, I’m assuming, worked hard.  Unfortunately, it failed to observe rule number two.  I don’t suppose I can really blame the ant for being at least two inches long.  To be honest, I found the ants to be kind of sweet.  I could observe them and contemplate the verses in the Bible about ants, without regretting standing still long enough to do so.

And without straining my eyes since they were large enough to be seen from a helicopter.

The second ant, which made a biting impression, was the fire ant.  These nasty little things were small, shiny and did for the most part stay outside.  They broke rules number seven and eight.  Yes, I do realize rules number seven and eight are basically the same, but eight rules are far more impressive than seven.

If you accidentally stepped into the midst of a swarm of fire ants, you very quickly became aware of your mistake.  This happened quite often since fire ants were everywhere, doing who knows what while they waited for unsuspecting humans to fall into their trap.   I often imagined the little ant general insanely yelling for his troops to attack and bring down the giant.  They followed his lead with gusto and the ensuing pain sent us running for the nearest water faucet to wash them off and cool the burning bites. 

I have never been the type to kill a bug with my finger, but in the absence of a faucet I would grab the nasty insects off me and roll them into tiny squished balls.  Take that you nasty ant general!

The last ant to make my top three is the invader ant.

 Invader ants did not conform to the most basic of the rules laid down for ants.  So basic, it made my list of rules three times.  Three times, ants, and you still didn’t follow it.  In other words, they did not stay outside.

For reasons known only to their tiny insectoid minds, these ants would take it upon themselves to invade our porch, or a corner of our house, or our whole house.  Friends told us to welcome the invasion because the ants would carry away any other unwanted guests with them such as spiders, or centipedes. 

We weren’t too keen on having our house invaded, even if their tiny antish brains thought they were doing us a favor.  I’m sorry, but there is something about the thought of ants cutting a swath through my bed while I’m in it that cures me of seeing anything altruistic in their invasion.

No, I prefer my ants, biteless and outside.

Definitely, outside.

Of Cashews…

Cashews are one of my favorite nuts.  Like most people I knew they grew on trees but had no clue about the work that went into harvesting them, until the year my family decided to send them out as Christmas gifts.

Cashews grow as part of the Caju fruit.  The fruit can be used to make the juice, and although I like the nuts, I hate the juice.   

The nuts are covered with a thick, impenetrable shell.  The first step is to set the nuts on fire.  I do mean that literally.  Using a jury rigged metal pan, we placed the nuts over the fire and allowed them to catch on fire to burn off some of the acidic oil contained in the skins. 

We removed the now blackened nuts from the fire and set about breaking through the shells.  Since the shells have the impenetrability of a Kevlar vest lined with crocodile skin, this step was miserable.  Adding to the fun was the fact that the shells were full of an acid that would eat through your skin.

We pulled on gloves to protect our hands but found that the acid wasn’t picky and soon the gloves had holes eaten in them.  Hunched over make shift tables made of bricks, around a fire entirely too warm in the afternoon heat, we used hammers and brute strength to get the nuts out.  More often than not the nuts came out in pieces, and a whole nut was cause for celebration.

We had intended to make the nuts into Christmas present but there is nothing very festive about crumbs of nuts in a pretty bag tied with ribbon.

We improvised by deciding to make the nuts into brittle.  Other than the acid-burned hands, making cashews the old-fashioned way was an experience not to be looked down on.  It gave us a better appreciation of the work that goes into the things we take for granted.

And gratitude is worth the price of acid-burned fingers.

Of Pizza…

My family loves pizza.  At one time my parents owned several pizza restaurants and we had pizza for dinner at least once a week.   

We generally like Barbequed Chicken or black olive pizza. 

In Brazil, those two flavors weren’t on the menu.  Instead they had pizza with chicken, a thick creamy cheese sort of like cream cheese, and quail eggs.  Hard boiled quail eggs.  On a pizza.

As you can probably tell, I thought hard boiled eggs on my pizza was a little odd, but I did eventually get used to them and didn’t even mind them.

Brazilian pizza also has very little sauce.  And by little I mean it barely colors the crust.  They make up for the lack of sauce by serving it with ketchup and mayonnaise.  Yes, you did read that right.  Mayo on pizza. 

I did not become accustomed to mayo, although I did put ketchup on my pizza.  It really isn’t bad.

During trips to Belem we would have a choice between two American restaurants.  McDonald’s or Pizza Hut.  One time we chose Pizza Hut and got the all-you-can-eat lunch where waiter continually brought pizzas around to the tables.

We loaded up on the pepperoni pizza, barely sparing a glace for any of the other flavors.  The waiter told us that we had eaten more pepperoni pizza in one meal than they usually sold.  So apparently, Brazilians think as little of America’s number one flavor of pizza as we thought of mayonnaise on our pizza.

In the end, pizza is a universal food, and almost no matter what the toppings, my family enjoys it.

All except the mayo, that is. 

In July, several of the people to whom we ministered were driving home late at night.  It was too dark to see the hole in the bridge, and the sticks the locals had put in to warn people of the danger had fallen.  The van flipped and the mother of two of the little girls I taught as well as one of the children I taught were killed.  Others to whom we ministered were seriously injured, including one lady left in a coma.  I have found it difficult to write my blog since then since I have always tried to write with humor.
Today, I would like to share an excerpt from a devotional I am writing.  I hope it encourages you to remember the providence of God, and hope you will bear with me in both my delay in writing and not having a humorous article this week.

Romans 8:28

A fallen tree was nothing to be thankful for. 

While living in Brazil, it was a forty-five minute trip to the nearest town over bumpy roads, interspersed with gates that had to be open and shut.  If it had rained, the trip took a lot longer and each gate added additional weight of mud to the bottom of my shoes.

And then there was the frustration of finding fallen trees across the road.  Although, we carried a machete in the car, sometimes the tree was big enough around that it required a chainsaw.  Oftentimes, the tree was covered in thorns, vines, and or fire ants.  I can honestly say I never came across a fallen tree and shouted praises to the Lord.

Until the day it saved a life.

We had gotten up early and needed to take a trip to town in spite of the fact that the roads were still muddy from the night before.  After a long trip slogging through the mud we came to a tree that had fallen across the road.  Too thick to get through with a machete it meant a long trip back to the house to get the chainsaw we’d forgotten.

By the time we got home it was close to twelve and we decided to eat lunch before we set out again.  While we were eating two boys from one of our meetings showed up and asked for a ride to the doctor.  Their sister had a bad pain in her side.  They, like most of the people to whom we ministered, had no car and we were their only ride.

Concerned we rushed out and with their help managed to clear the road and pick up their sister.  She’d been carried between two family members to the top of a hill too dangerous to descend while wet. 

We rushed into town and took her to the hospital where she was taken immediately in for an emergency appendectomy.  We were told that she was within minutes of it bursting and taking her life.

If that tree hadn’t been in the road and delayed our departure into town in our only vehicle, Raine would have died.

It’s always easier to see the hand of God in the big changes in life.  It’s harder when it’s lost keys, a bad cold, or a flat tire.

I try to remember the lesson of the fallen tree and wonder if my lost keys might mean I avoid a wreck, or that bad cold might mean a worse health problem is discovered in time.

The Providence of God is not only in the big things, but the insignificant, the mundane.

Things as small as fallen trees.

 

Of Futebol…

I’m not a big fan of soccer (or Futebol as Brazilians call it, or really any country other than America).  I mean is it really enjoyable to watch men in helmets dribbling a ball around bases?

 Okay, so I’m not that bad at soccer.  There are no helmets or bases involved. I do understand the rudimentary rules.  Spend an hour and a half running around trying to kick a ball into a goal.   

Shortly after we arrived in Brazil, the World Cup rolled around.  We were invited over to a pastor’s house to watch the game with a group of people from the church.  Pretty much my only memory of the games was the way that the announcers were able carry out, “GOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLL A BRASIL.”

I was pretty sure they carried out the word longer for a Brazilian goal as opposed to goals scored by the opposing team. 

A win was celebrated with fireworks.  I mean a lot of fireworks shot off all over the city.  People would walk down the street dressed in full Brazilian colors, and draped in flags.

After one loss a group in full regalia marched down the street and stomped on their national flag in disgust.  I was horrified.

Watching it was nothing to trying to play it.  After my family went over to some friends’ house for lunch we were informed that nobody left without playing them in soccer.  The weather was blistering hot, and they divided us into teams of us against them, which was a bit like the Dodgers playing a local softball team. 

Completely overmatched, we came very close to almost scoring a goal—once. 

In spite of years in Brazil, I never did grow to love soccer.  During this World Cup, I’ve paid attention to very little, although I did feel horrible when Brazil suffered its 7-1 loss. 

I can only hope nobody stomped on the flag.

Of Ma Bell…

In a world of telephones, we often take for granted the ability to pick up a phone and get ahold of someone anytime and anywhere. 

In the Southern part of Brazil we were able to have a phone in our house, but after our move north, that was no longer an option.  Telephone wires, you see, did not generally run through the middle of the jungle.

We were able to drive into town to access the internet and communicate that way.  At one time we got a GlobalStar which was supposed to be able to use satellites and make it possible to call from anywhere in the world.  Except, apparently, the exact spot where we lived.  Add on the astronomical price per minute and it would be cheaper to send word via courier.

After a while with no phone at all, we got a regular cell phone and an antenna.  We put the antenna at the top of a pole on a hill near our house.  Making a phone call wasn’t to be taken lightly.

After hiking for five minutes or more, you reached the pole.  Since there were cows around and they thought the cable that ran down from the antenna was good for snacking, we had to hide the cable in a bag and hang it out of reach.  We had a stick at the bottom with a fork and would reach up with it to hook the bag and bring down the cable.

Even after the cable was hooked into the side of the phone, there was no guarantee that you would get a signal.  If you did, no matter what odd position your neck might be in, you didn’t move.  To move was to risk losing the signal and having the call fall.

There was no comfortable place to sit either.  My sister during conversations with her fiancé would perch on top of a fence pole.  Other times, we stood in the back of a pickup.  At all times there was the heat and the bugs to add some spice to an already interesting situation.

In the end, though, the ability to talk to loved ones made it more than worthwhile.

I remember jaca...

Of all the fruits I tried in Brazil, there is a special place reserved for jaca or jackfruit.  Covered with spikes, you dig your fingers into the skin to break it open, and reveal the slime covered seeds.  I wish I could say it was worth the effort, but, unfortunately, I cannot.

I like to describe jaca as rotten-banana-flavored-slime-covered-seeds.  If that makes you anxious to try the fruit, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

We had a deacon and a pastor come down to visit, and had been given a jaca as a gift.  We opened it up so our guests could try it.  The deacon was adventurous and tried a bite, although, admittedly, the sight of the fruit on the plate was almost enough to make him lose his courage.

The pastor refused to let the smallest particle cross his lips.

I had made a special chocolate cookie torte I reserved for special occasions, since it required hours of work.  It was then my sisters and I hit upon a fun idea.  Everyone else would be served chocolate cookie torte, but for the pastor we carefully arranged some rotten-banana-flavored-slime-covered-seeds on his plate.

I carried out the plates and set his before him.  After a promised bribe of torte if he managed to try some jaca, he did manage to force what could only be described as the essence of jaca past his lips, since I don’t believe there was any really substance to the “bite” he took.

In a book, it might be expected, he jumped to his feet an ardent convert to the love of jaca.  Real life wasn’t nearly so dramatic since he remained an ardent opponent of all things jaca.

Not, of course, that I blamed him. 

 The River near Our House

Of Laundry…

 It seems every year washing machines get bigger.  And fancier. 

Our Brazilian washing machine was small and white.  Our dryer was our patio where we would hang out our clothes to dry in the sun.  It worked well, except for the days when humidity was so thick even the clean clothes were sweating.

After moving to the northern part of Brazil, we were often faced with no electricity.  No power meant no washing machine, and wearing clothes more than once without washing, might just result in asphyxiation.

We were left to do it the old-fashioned way.

And I mean the very old-fashioned way, since when the power was out, we couldn’t afford to use water to wash laundry.

Instead, we headed for the river that ran about fifty yards from our house.

There were several things to keep in mind while washing in the river.  The piranhas and who knew what else lurking beneath the surface.  The strong current that threatened to carry your clothes away if you should lose your grip.  And then there were the pinkish-orange cast left on all the clothes from the mud in the river, and the funky smell that weaseled its way out of the scent of the laundry soap.

On the plus side, our clothes no longer reeked.  We had gotten a bit of a workout.  Cooled off.  Had a little fun.

And developed a deep and abiding appreciation for washing machines.

 

Over the speed bump, and down the pothole, on Brazilian roads we drive…

My dad likes to say that in America you know someone is drunk if they’re swerving all over the road.

In Brazil, you know they’re drunk if they’re NOT swerving all over the road.

This is due to the potholes (and by potholes I mean, canyons deep enough to swallow a semi and still have room for a car).   A quick flick of the wheel might allow you to avoid the pothole or send you into a deeper one in the opposite lane of the two-lane highway.

Driving at night is not for the faint of heart or really anyone who values their life or car.  Missionary friends were once driving at night when they hit a pothole-that-was-really-a-car-swallowing-monster.  The top of the car kept going, but the chassis had decided that the pothole was a nice place to stay.  No one was injured in the accident—except the bisected car that is.

To make up for the huge potholes, or perhaps to add more fun to the already obstacle-course-like roads, speed bumps also rose out of the ground—often unexpectedly— like veritable mountains.  And what they might lack in road building skills was more than made up for in their speed bump building skills. They bore little resemblance to the speed bumps that dot parking lots across America.  These things were the grandfathers of those picayune little bumps.  Or maybe even the great-great-grandfathers.

And then there were the trucks.  Big trucks loaded with goods that were also trying to avoid the potholes.  More often than not you shared a lane—going opposite directions.

A friend once took a video while driving with my dad who was swerving in and out of the opposite lane with a truck coming towards the car.  Absolutely horrified by the danger he’d been in, he insisted on showing it to the rest of my family.  We shrugged our shoulders wondering what they big deal was.

After all, you’re only really in danger if you drive straight.   

 

 

Of Juice…

Juice is a wonderful beverage that you can justify to yourself far more easily than other sweet beverages like, say, soda pop, which apparently rots out your teeth, dissolves pennies, and make you fat.

In Brazil, there are myriad of juices from which to choose.  Many of them unfamiliar to the American palate.

One popular juice is sugar cane juice.  It is primarily sold on street corners.  The sugar cane stands have juicers with gears and gizmos that press the juice out of the sugar cane while you wait.  The juice is a mildly sweet, grass-flavored beverage.

Another is Coconut water, although this is making the journey north as a health food beverage as has Açaí berries.  On a side note, açaí berries also make beautiful jewelry. 

However, a vast majority of Brazilian fruits have about the same make up.  Slime-covered seeds.  To make the juice, the idea was to remove the slime from the seeds and make it drinkable.

                                                                               Passionfruit

 

My personal favorite was maracuja or passionfruit.  It takes some effort to make, but the results are worthwhile.  Passionfruit is generally a smooth, shiny orb which when cut open reveals yellow-slime-covered black seeds.  After being ground in a blender, strained and having water and sugar added, the juice is well worth the effort it takes to make.

One of my not so favorites is cupuaçu.  The shell is hard to crack and not worth the effort.  I would describe the taste as sour dirty laundry.  My mother tried to make it palatable by turning it into ice cream.  Although, I have a hard time turning down ice cream, I had no trouble sticking to my diet with that bowl in front of me.

I much preferred to watch it melt while sipping a tall, cold glass of maracuja juice.

Of Plaid Sofas...

Brazil is known for soccer, Carnaval, and uncomfortable sofas.

Okay, so maybe the whole implied worldwide knowledge of the discomfort of Brazilian sofas is a bit of an exaggeration. 

Unknown or not, the sad fact is that Brazilian sofas offer very little in the way of comfort, at least at our price point.  During our time in Brazil, we had three sets.

Our first set we bought shortly after moving into our house.  It was black and white plaid with touches of green and red.  I imagine the story of the creation of said sofa went something like this.

“Let’s make a sofa,” says first sofa maker.

“But, senhor, we only have enough foam to add a quarter of an inch over the wooden underpinnings.”

“It doesn’t matter.  Make it anyway.”

Thus came into being the sofas that inhabited our living room for a year and a half.  Lest you doubt my story, I can show you the myriad of chiropractor bills that can be traced directly back to that sofa.  Okay, I admit, that too may be a slight exaggeration.

Our second set of sofas we bought after moving to northern Brazil.  It too lacked in comfort but made up for it in quality.  We hadn’t had the sofa long before the material began to wear out eventually sprouting holes.  The foam smashed down even quicker and the wooden frame stuck out of its upholstered cover like bony ribs through a shirt four sizes too small.

Shortly before my sister’s wedding we decided to splurge and buy new sofas.   They were brown and almost—gasp—comfortable. 

We were delighted.  The wedding guests arrived and we had one very tall guest with a proportioned weight.  He decided to sit on the arm of our brand new sofa. 

The poor sofa was angry at being so used and decided to break its arm.

So, although, the eyes of the world are upon Brazil with the upcoming World Cup and Olympics, I don’t think much broadcast time will be spent belittling the country’s sofa making abilities.

But then, those reporters probably won’t be delivering their stories from the all-too-uncomfortable embrace of a Brazilian sofa.

Convenience food barely exists in Brasil.  If it does it cost an arm and a leg to buy, so it’s just all around easier to make your own food since you at least have all your limbs to do so.

One of my family’s favorite foods is Mexican.  Although one might expect that Mexican food would be very similar to Brasil, it is not even remotely similar.  In fact, you can’t find most of the things we use to make Mexican food, including tortillas.

To make a Mexican meal required a lot of work. 

First you needed to sort the beans.  They came dry and often contained other additives like rocks, stones or if you were really lucky occasionally an egg sack or weevil.  Once sorted the beans had to be washed, brought to a boil, and then allowed to soak for an hour or so.  Then they were pressure cooked.  Pressure cookers are a necessity of life in Brasil.

Once your beans were cooking you started on the tortillas.  First the dough was made and then allowed to rest before rolling each piece into a circle.  Humidity made the kitchen moist and hot and the dough was as likely to melt into the counter as to roll into a nice circle.  If you did succeed in completing a haphazardly-shaped, semi-thin, tortilla-like-ish creation you then got the pleasure of frying it over a hot stove.

Once the beans and tortillas were complete—and providing you had not passed out from exhaustion and the blistering temperatures in the kitchen, made worse by all the tortilla frying— you then needed to shred the cheese.  It sometimes turned out to be rancid or festooned with mold.  After whacking away with a knife you were able to shred it.

If you were feeling particularly adventurous you might then make salsa, but in a pinch ketchup mixed with hot sauce provided a decent sauce.

As long as it wasn’t wine ketchup, my family’s name for the off brand ketchups that were a bizarre purple color and did indeed taste like wine mixed with ketchup.  Only a blistering amount of picante sauce would make it semi-palatable.

Once the beans were mashed and flavored and we added some fresh avocado, our meal was complete and delicious enough to make us forget the hours in the sweltering kitchen.

At least until the next time we had a hankering for some Mexican food.

 

Rub-a-dub-dub Spider in my tub...

It is surprising how many varieties of showers there are.  High end showers come complete with marble walls and a hundred or so faucets shooting water at you from every angle.  I imagine the resultant experience might be something akin to getting caught in a monsoon.

On the lower end of the spectrum are the fiberglass showers with only one faucet shooting water at you from one boring angle.

While most Americans might be depressed to have the latter, I still find myself thanking God for my simple, one-faceted shower.

I find my gratitude after experiencing the unforgettable quandary of a Brazilian shower.  Most Brazilian showers are tiled and attached to the shower nozzle is an electrical box that looks like it shouldn’t be anywhere near a shower—let alone in it.

This is the heating element which heats the shower water as it passes through the box, since most Brazilian homes don’t have water heaters.  The higher the water pressure the cooler the water, thus thrusting upon you the quandary of either high water pressure, or hot water, because you sure can’t have both.

I generally ended up settling for something akin to a light-ish warm rain, which wasn’t particularly good for getting the shampoo out of my waist-length hair.  I might have complained then, but soon looked back with fondness as things only got worse when we moved to the jungle in the northern part of Brazil.

We had to build our house and moved in long before it was ready because we had no place else to stay.  This meant we had one bathroom with a toilet and nothing else in it.  The shower was a black plastic 3x3 foot enclosure on the back porch.  This faucet didn’t even have a heating element of any kind.

Even if we had been tempted to linger in the plastic shower, the cold water hastily reminded us to get in and get out with supersonic speed.  The other added benefit was that black plastic attracts spiders.  Very large ones.  There is nothing quite as unpleasant as reaching for the shampoo with icy water pouring down your back and finding an eight-legged voyeur looking up at you.  One was never quite certain if the screams coming from the plastic enclosure were because of the cold water, or the addition of an unwelcome guest.

Things got worse when the power went out and we were left with a limited water supply.  If the power outage was going to last for a long time, we couldn’t afford to waste much of our water on bathing.  A problem in a tropical climate.

We had a choice of either bathing in the river in bathing suits—where our bath water might hide such critters as piranhas or crocodiles.  Or if we got a hard rain we would wash in the overflow from the gutters which was far more refreshing than it sounds.

So while most people may long for the complete spa experience or a fancier shower, for me it’s enough to have four solid walls, hot water, and no spiders playing amongst my shampoo bottles.