Proverbs 31 Woman (Interpretation)

A woman of noble character, who can find?

    She is worth far more than rubies (or diamond rings).
Those who love her have full confidence in her,

(Even when she lacks confidence in herself-

which is far too often)
    And she is (more than) enough.

She does her best to bring good, not harm,
    all the days of her life (and when she messes up, 

she doesn’t let it define her forever).

 She works hard to show up for those she loves, 

providing them with whatever they might need- 

    a hand to hold, 

    a truth to be spoken, 

    a laugh to lighten the soul, 

    a holy space held 

    for grace to show up.

She sets about her work vigorously 

(because she often has no choice), 

     her arms are strong for her tasks, 

But when she is tired, she allows herself to rest.
She opens her arms to the poor
     and extends her hands to the needy 

(and is brave enough to allow herself to have needs too).

When winter comes, she (tries to) not fear, 

     for she knows that things must die to be reborn, 

and there is always new life waiting to be found in barren land

     if you can just wait and hope a little while longer. 

She is clothed with strength and dignity; 

    she can laugh at the days to come 

(because she knows they will be so much different 

    than what she expected or planned- 

and she can laugh at the absurdity of it all).

She speaks with wisdom 

that comes from the many times 

she has decided to rise up 

and brush herself off after falling down

and she is faithful to be vulnerable and honest and imperfect

with the women in her life 

so that they know they aren’t alone.

Children who aren’t her own call her all sorts of things- 

Auntie, Godmother, Momma, Pastor, Friend.

And she cherishes them as if they belonged to her, 

Because in a way, they do.

Many women do noble things, brave things, hard things, 

and I am grateful to walk beside you and be inspired by you. 

Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting,

but a woman who knows who she is 

in all of her beautiful messiness,

marvels at the person God has created her to be,

and doesn’t apologize for it…

She is a woman to be praised.

(International Women's Day, 2020)

On the Border

I am here at the Venezuelan border in Brazil visiting one of our Shade and Fresh Water Projects that is working with the hundreds of Venezuelans that cross the border every day. The border is officially closed but this hasn’t stopped them from taking illegal (and much more dangerous) routes to get in the country. The city on the border town has no ability to meet their needs and their only option is to make it to Boa Vista, which is about 130 miles away.

If they don’t have money for the one bus a day that goes between the cities or to pay for a car (about $12 a person) they walk on foot. As we saw families arriving in the city with suitcases and backpacks, carrying whatever their hands could hold, the pastor said, “they will soon leave that all behind because it is too heavy to carry or because they will try to sell it for a ride. By the time they get to Boa Vista, they will usually have just a backpack.” And indeed we saw several families with small children walking this long stretch of desert highway yesterday trying to make it to Boa Vista in search of jobs. Unfortunately the situation isn’t much better there. There are about 7,000 people in shelters and 15,000-20,000 living on the streets. These numbers are estimated to grow to 15,000 in shelters (with the same number on the streets) by next year. Local infrastructure is doing its best in terms of registering, vaccinating, etc but they just can’t keep up. The Brazilian army and the UN Division of Refugees are running the shelters. They are constantly looking for organizations, churches or even individuals living in other states that can receive people and get them resettled and on their feet, but it is a slow process. 

It’s absolutely devastating to listen to the stories and cry with the women as they talk about leaving their families. One woman wept as she said she left her kids and came to Brazil pregnant to try to get herself established here. When she heard the border might close, she risked going back at 7 months pregnant to get her children before it was too late. She went into labor on the way back and gave birth to her son who lived only 24 hours and died of hypothermia. She said, “I had to chose between my baby and my other two children. But now they are here with me and for that I am grateful.”

It’s unimaginable the pain you hear, and you have nothing to offer but your tears of solidarity. And then you turn around and you see the smiles on the kids faces, trying to be kids in the midst of this total chaos- playing, smiling, running, and it reminds you of resiliency, that hope rises and is persistent amidst the most unimaginable of circumstances. 

The local Methodist Church here has been one of the leaders in working with the Venezuelans in Boa Vista (the other leading church working to resettle people is actually the Mormons). Church volunteers bring kids to the Methodist church multiple times a week to get them out of the shelters and give them time to play, make crafts, sing, dance and eat a hot meal. (Many thanks to UMCOR for supporting this project and giving them part of the resources necessary to do this work). They also go into the shelters twice a week to do sports and recreation (volleyball, soccer, rugby, chess and other games) to give the children and youth something to occupy their minds. For those 1-2 hours they aren’t refugees, they aren’t far away from home, hungry and uncertain about tomorrow, they are just playing soccer and screaming and celebrating goals. Life, if only for a moment, is good. 

When I see the conditions here of thousands of people sleeping on cardboard and waiting in long lines for the possibility of leftover food to be delivered, it is hard to believe that things are worse in Venezuela, but they obviously are or else no one would risk it. And the people I talked to said they were happy to be here, even if on the street, because they could eat meat and many had already gained 5-10 pounds since arriving in Brazil.

I say all this not to be fatalistic or sensationalist but to give a real image of what is going on here. At the same time that I have been heart broken by what I have seen, I have also been challenged and inspired and reminded of what is possible when people look beyond national, ethnic, class and denominational lines to care for the most vulnerable in their midst. I have seen people turn their entire churches into makeshift shelters, receiving as many people as possible. I have seen Venezuelans and Brazilians working side by side to care for the children. I have heard people talking about the fines they received for giving rides to immigrants walking through the desert and how they wish they had the money to risk more fines because they would do it again. I have seen Augusto and Marcia, the pastors here, work tirelessly from sun up to sun down, organizing, mobilizing, encouraging and working alongside their church to better serve the Venezuelan community. 

I wish I had more poetic words to describe the abundance that I have seen both of pain and of hope in the past two days. But I don’t. All I can say is that God is here. 

God is living in the shelters. 

God travels the desert road daily from Pacaraima to Boa Vista. 

God plays in the mud with the children (the rainy season just started and while it makes it considerably cooler, everything is wet and muddy). 

God laughs with women and men making homemade bread for the kids to eat before going back to the shelter.

God is present in the volunteers who have tirelessly given themselves to serve the Venezuelan people. 

God shows up in the form of army generals who work around the clock to keep families safe in the shelters. 

God is here. 

In the midst of death, there is new life. In the midst of the darkness, there is light. In the midst of despair, there is hope, if you learn to look for it. Never stop looking for it. Never stop being it. 

Emanuel. God with us. 

Thanks be to God. 

Gracias a Dios.

A Little Bit of the Amazon

In all the years that I have been coming to Brazil, I must confess that I had never visited what is arguably the most famous region of Brazil. I also must admit that until this recent trip, I was fairly (completely) ignorant about it. Amazonia (or the Amazon Region) is made of up 9 states in Brazil and makes up about 42% of the country. Within the Brazilian Methodist Church, Amazonia is considered a missionary region. One of the most well known ministries of the Methodist Church is the John Wesley Medical Boat that serves the indigenous river communities along the Amazon River. The boat leaves out of Manaus, Amazonas and operates between March and July each year. Each trip serves approximately 300+ people with much needed medical, dental and gynecological care.

The week after Easter, I joined a group of about 16 people representing multiple countries, the Florida Annual Conference and United Methodist Communications who spent 5 days together on the boat. We served in 3 different villages around the town of Autazes (Natal, Muritinga and Jacaré).  My role was serving as a translator to a pediatrician and when I was lucky enough,  playing with the kids. Even amid long hours and hot temperatures, I don't think I have ever experienced so much joy in one week. 

Indigenous people that live along the Amazon River are largely forgotten about in the larger political and social context of Brazil, making them extremely vulnerable. This is due largely in fact to their location (it took us 14 hours by boat to get to one of the communities that we served), but also lack of transportation (they literally rely on boats for everything- even “school boats” that pick the kids up along the river for school). If they need to get more serious medical treatment, it could take hours to get to the nearest municipality with a clinic or a day or two to get to the capital city of Manaus. River communities live at the mercy of the river, which can rise up to 30 feet (30 feet!!!) during the rainy season each year. Some have floating houses, others are built on stilts, and even still, some are forced to leave their homes every year for higher grounds until the water recedes and they can come home and start over. This obviously makes it extremely challenging for local infrastructure (like schools) to operate with regularity. For many of these communities, the boat is the primary if not only local medical care possible for them, even if it only comes a few times a year.

And even still, amidst the trials and difficulties of life, the overwhelming sentiment that these indigenous communities expressed was joy, hospitality and gratitude.  Families welcomed us into their homes (and fished baby alligators out of their kitchen window for us to see). They raced after our boat as we were leaving to bring us fruit from their gardens and shared openly about their culture and traditions. The children reminded me that across any border, culture or language, what ties us together is the universal language of laughter and play. They taught me that God was there, long before we (or the Portuguese colonizers) arrived and will remain there long after we have gone. The indigenous people of the Amazon may be forgotten by much of Brazil and they may be foreign to the rest of the world, but they will never been forgotten by God. They too, are part of God's incredible creation and reflect the face of God in a way that many of us would never have expected or imagined. They teach us that God is so much bigger than we will ever be able to comprehend and yet still cares intimately each and every one of God's children, even to the ends of the earth. Amen.

 Photo Credit: Armando Rodriguez

#mariellepresente

       A week ago today, women around the world received flowers and chocolate for International Women’s Day. Today, Brazil woke up with the news that Marielle Franco, a young, vibrant, black city councilwoman from Rio was assassinated in the street, along with her driver, Anderson Gomes.  Marielle was from the community Maré, which is composed of 16 favelas in Rio and is home to 130,000 people. She was 38 years old and dedicated her life to speaking out against the injustices that are daily committed against marginalized people like herself and was elected to Rio’s city council in 2016 with the 5th most votes of any candidate. In the brief 14 months of her term, she was a powerful activist for people of color, women and the working class who lived in the favelas of Rio. She was a necessary and pivotal voice from the community who advocated for people who are largely written off as “thugs” and “criminals”. 

A little over a month ago due to escalating violence, the Military Police of Brazil intervened in Rio, which has arguably only made the situation worse for multiple reasons including corruption and excessive police violence that mostly catches innocent people in the crosshairs. Two weeks ago, Marielle was elected to the commission that would accompany and regulate this military intervention. Last weekend she denounced the police for excessive violence against residents in the community. Last night she was murdered. Police reports show that the direction of the gunshot wound came from behind and knew exactly where she was sitting in the car despite tinted windows. They had most likely been followed from an event where Marielle had been meeting with women in the community. Nothing was stolen. There was no other motive besides wanting her dead. And yet there are some who are saying this morning, “See? She was killed by her own kind- thugs, the very people she defended. This is why we need the police intervention.”  

As I think about this vibrant, powerful black woman whose voice and life has been cut too short for obviously political reasons, it makes me sick to my stomach. It makes me sick to think of her 19 year old daughter who lost her mother. It makes me sick to think of the years of difference she could have made empowering the people of her community- inspiring perhaps a new generation of leaders and prophets that this world so desperately needs. But mostly I am sick to my stomach because I know a lot of powerful, amazing black women (and men) here in Brazil who have also dedicated their lives to fighting for the rights of all of God’s children, especially the most vulnerable. Women and men who have shaped me and taught me and who have become like family to me. And it chills me to think that this could happen to any one of them, simply because of the color of their skin or the depth of their convictions. 

At the same time, I am also deeply convicted by my privilege (as both an American and a white person) that allows me to be surprised that something like this could happen. As I process with friends and follow social media here in Brazil, one thing became very clear- this is not surprising to them. This is not unimaginable to them. They have had to live through this kind of violence their whole lives. (Side note- I have also heard time and time again that what is going on in Rio with this intervention is all too reminiscent of the start of the Military Dictatorship in the 60’s). Marginzalized communities deal with this every day (in the United States too), multiple times a day and are no longer surprised when the lives of their most prophetic voices are silenced or threatened. 

All that being said, I am also deeply encouraged and humbled by the hope, resilience and power of the people who are manifesting in solidarity with Marielle. Yes, there is deep pain and grief today. There are many tears that are being shed, mostly from those who now find one more reason to not feel safe in their own skin. But they will not stay there. They will lament. But they will not despair. They will continue to fight. They will continue to rise. They will continue to speak truth to power even though it may cost them dearly, though it may cost them everything.  

I know news from Brazil doesn’t always reach the US, and even though this story was published today in the New York Times, I just didn’t feel like it did it justice. So I wanted to share her story, as I felt like perhaps it was one small thing I could do at this moment to stand in solidarity with so many people that I love. 

“Those in power may be able to kill a few flowers, but they will never be able to stop the Spring.” - Che Guevara

#mariellepresente

What is Home?

I have learned at many junctures in my life that interim periods are not easy. As it turns out, instability, uncertainty, change, standing in a road that disappears a few feet in front of you with no clear direction, these are not things that human beings deal well with. That being said, they are things that human beings need and are the very things (according to John O Donohue) that can cause the most amount of growth in us. 

I feel like I have been living in almost a yearlong interim time. I applied for a position with the General Board of Global Ministries in early February, got an initial response in March, interviewed in April, got approval to move forward with medical clearance on Memorial Day and the final approval letter on June 29^th. I finished working at the church at the end of November and don't leave until the end of January. And these past 9 months has a painful discernment period in which I had to decide if I was really supposed to uproot one life I loved so dearly for another one that I had dreamed about for 10 years.  Suffice to say the tears have flowed freely on many days and I have often wondered what is so great about being the courageous brave person anyway. Some days (like today as I face an entire house that needs to be packed up when it feels like I just moved in) I really think that being comfortable might have been the better option. But I know (I hope) that feeling will pass.

In August, when I was just getting used to the idea of leaving, Harvey comes and goes, wrecking havoc on the city and taking my childhood home with it- the walls that witnessed my physical birth and every important milestone of my childhood; the front door that I was certain would continue to welcome me home from Brazil just like it has on every other trip I have taken, softly whispering, “its good to have you back. I’ve been waiting for you.” Mom and dad didn’t want to rebuild at their age and they were very fortunate to be in a position where they could in fact move to a new home. For that I am very grateful. But at the time, I couldn’t exactly express why I just couldn’t stop crying in those first few days after the storm. It’s just a house. It’s just material goods. Everyone is safe. It could have been worse. All true facts (although perhaps not the most helpful facts when your parents are left mucking through and throwing out 40 years of memories). All I knew was that my anchor of knowing exactly where home was that had allowed me to fly free for so many years had been cut off and I felt like I was flailing. Where is my home now if not on Penelope Dr.?  Had the storm happened when I was not about to move to the other side of the world, I think it would have been easier, but alas, timing is nothing if not ironic.

As I processed through this question of, “where is home now for me?” I continually remembered the cliché saying “home is where the heart is“ (I hate it when cliché sayings turn out to be true.) And in those first few weeks of seeing the bare bones of the house with its pulled up floors and the non-existent walls, I would stand in the living room and close my eyes and start to remember what the house looked like as a child. The sound of the back door closing when dad came home from work, all the ways I loved to rearrange my pink bedroom and twin sized day bed, the living room where my sister and I and all our friends would make up dances and have sleepovers, the old brown corduroy type couch where I would find my dad sitting as he played the 1812 overture to get us out of bed whenever we had company over. As I mentally walked through each room of the house, I smiled and laughed and cried and grieved, and then I realized, no matter where home is for me moving forward, no matter what door welcomes me back from Brazil, no one will ever be able to take those memories away from me. They are mine. They are home for me now. And I will carry them with me inside of me and that sacred and safe place will live tucked away in my heart for the day when I find myself on the other side of the world with no idea where I am going, feeling a little lost and flailing about. And I will remember that the question to ask is not necessarily “where is home?” anymore but “what is home?” And that is a little bit easier to answer.

When I left Brazil in 2013 to come home from internship, I came across this quotation from Oriah Mountain Dreamer that could not have been more perfect for me then, and I think even more so now…

“This is what home is: not only the place you remember but the place that remembers you, even if you have never been there before, the place that holds some essential piece of you in trust, waiting for you to return when you go out into other places in the world, as you must.”

May this essential piece of me be held well until we meet again…

           

On Herbs and Holy Saturday

It started out as a few store bought plants. I bought them in early February as a pre-birthday gift to myself to enjoy on my back porch. Herbs that I hoped would one day add flavor to food eaten around the table with people I love. And yet while they haven't yet made it to the kitchen, they have taught me a lot, these herbs. They have taught me that I don't have to be in control of things for life to happen. I don't have to force it. There is much that is, in fact, up to me- I make sure they are watered every day (which has been no small task for me to remember) and make sure they get just enough but not too much sunlight. But there is so much that isn't up to me. That may even happen in spite of me. And I have realized coming out to check on these plants every day that that is what you call grace. That it doesn't all depend on us. Life is renewed and beauty comes from dirt. Hope is persistent and flowers blooms when you least expect it. Many days they look the same as the day before but oh those days where you come out to see that a new stalk has sprung up seemingly over night or that a flower has bloomed that you didn't see coming! Who knew cilantro made pretty white flowers? Many times I have found myself laughing at loud on those mornings. Laughing at myself, that I still find it amazing that Mother Nature knows what she is doing without me telling her. 

Gazing at these beauties as I lay in my hammock this morning, I thought for a brief moment I would love to have a time lapse camera to see how fast they are growing. To see their progress. But I realize this is me wanting to control them. This is me being uncomfortable with things I don't understand. This is me being impatient and trying to force the process. So I let go and simply appreciate their beauty. I simply trust that they will continue to grow even if I don't understand how. I will allow myself to be surprised by the newness with which they greet me every morning. I will continue to trust in grace. 

Today is Holy Saturday, which is what we might call an in between time. A time of waiting, which has never been my strong suit. A time where, in the words of John O'Donohue, "the old is not old enough to have died away and the new is still too young to be born." It is a time of acknowledging that some things are out of our control and we just have to wait them out while trusting that just because we are being still, doesn't mean God is still. Because God is always there, even in the tomb, working new life out of death, bringing redemption out of betrayal, promising us that this isn't the end of the story. 

So wherever you are today, whatever season of life or in between time you may be in, may you be able to let go and trust that you don't have to work so hard for life to happen. You can do your part but you don't have to do all the parts. Answers will come when they are meant to come. Growth will happen when it's meant to happen. And we don't have to fight. We don't have to control or plan or worry or work our way to Sunday. It will come no matter what. All we have to do is wait. To rest. To let go and let God do what God does best- create new life out of the dirt. 

Happy Holy Saturday...

Ps. Do yourself a favor and go buy some herbs. They will amaze you...

Missing the grace

When I was a little girl, we had a tradition in our house that any time a guest came over to spend the night, they would be woken up with Tchaikovsky’s 1812 overture (For those of you who aren’t familiar with this amazing work, do yourself a favor and take 15 minutes to put away all distractions and close your eyes and listen to it.) For those of you who are familiar with it you know it is somewhat a long piece, and I remember I would start stirring during the first few minutes when it was still quite soft and I knew what was happening. I would shuffle out to the living room to find my dad in his robe with his coffee and would curl up next to him to listen to the rest of the piece, waxing and waning with intensity, tension building as he turned it louder and louder until the whole house would for sure be awake by the cannons at the end. It is truly a magnificent piece of music and I can rarely here it nowadays without tears in my eyes.

I haven’t heard that piece in forever and for some odd reason, it came to mind this morning. So I tried to find it on youtube to listen to as I made breakfast. I clicked on the first video I found and started listening, but quickly realized it was only the last 3 minutes of the piece, the finale, by far the most intense (and most recognizable), but not meant to be listened to (in my humble opinion) out of the context of the whole song.  And I suddenly found myself saying out loud, “how annoying! You can’t just listen to the end. You’re missing the whole point of the piece!”

And it was at that moment that I stopped and laughed at myself. You can’t just listen to the end or you will miss all the beauty found throughout the song. And yet this is what I do almost every day, worrying about the future, wishing I was already there, trying to think ahead, and wondering how the stories of my life and the lives of those I love will turn out. In Portuguese there is an expression you use when something misses the point or isn’t what it was supposed to be. They say, “perde a graça” which literally translates, “it loses its grace.” And listening to just the last 3 minutes of the 1812 overture for sure “perde a graça.” It loses the grace of the whole work.

            And yet how often do we miss the grace of life, the grace that God has for us in this moment by wanting to skip to the end of something- the end of a season of life, the start of the next season of life. We want to get to the end so badly that we miss the grace of this season. We miss the grace that is right in front of us. And I will tell you something else I have been learning recently. Sometimes grace comes in the midst of life being hard. There is grace in the midst of busy schedules and challenging problems at work that you don’t know how to fix. There is grace in investing in relationships even when it’s easier to do life by yourself. Friends, there is grace, abundant grace in fact, but we miss it if we skip too quickly ahead, if our eyes are not open to this present moment. Not to be cliché, but the grace is in fact in the journey, not the destination.  

So whatever season of life you find yourself in today, whether it is hard or challenging or devastating, or maybe even full of joy, look for the grace.  And may that grace inhabit our bodies in such a way that somehow we forget about the questions of tomorrow, even if only for a minute, and find ourselves lost in the dance of today.