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.