So begins a prayer in the wilderness...

My blog started as a 'letter to home' during my first 3 months living/working in a Brazilian orphanage. It was written to an audience of close friends and family so they could follow my adventures and my experiences from afar.

The reality of all blogs is that no one (but your mother and best friend) reads them. This blog has existed in a corner of the internet - untouched, unread - since I stepped on the plane to leave Brazil after my first trip over 3 years ago.

Life has continued undocumented.

Life is breakups, melt downs, bouts of deep depression, new jobs, homes, friends, new relationships, and most notably a true faith - an active faith, a faith is God's control and my salvation and His plan - a decision to trust.

This blog began as a convenient 'letter home' for a select audience - but tonight I will resurrect it for a very different reason. Tonight, I accept the essential nature of blogs - they are hidden in the enomrity of internet, and they are painfully personal indulgences.

Tonight this blog become my letter to myself - I suppose it is called a journal.

So why am 'blogging' a journal that I hope and expect no one to read? The reasons are practical - I don't like writing long-hand, and I like that this blog can be archived outside a 100 page journal or my dying laptop.

Duct Tape Duck 

If you are reading this... than I wanted you to know the nature of what is about to unfold over the next several days/weeks/months. If you are reading this, what-comes-next was not written for you - but read it if you please. Just as prayers spoken gently with eyes-closed in the woods are not for the passing hikers, this blog is written to God and myself but I do not care if it is overheard.

After these next sentences I will switch to writing for an audience of two - God and myself (expect the pronouns I and You accordingly).  After this I will begin creating a place for myself to explore the horrible practice of a fearless moral inventory... a place to share with you, God, my prayers, fears, and shit....a place for me to speak to myself past, present, and future - like the Doctor dropping notes behind/ahead of himself in the timeline.

Jesus spoke to God away from all others in the wilderness. So, in that spirit, I write to you, God, in the wilderness of the internet.

So be it.

You have to run before you can crawl.

I considered not writing any blog posts this week (my last in brazil), as a gesture of my commitment to savor every last moment with the kids. However, the intensity of this transition and my 30+ looming goodbyes demand reflection time. This is not my final magnum-opus blog post (nor do i intend to write one). This is just another update from the front lines - a chance to collect my emotional dead...a chance to innodate myself with my own propoganda...a chance to plan the next battle and fortify for the next attack. (a chance to use dramatic war imagery)

Today is literally day #101 of living in Brazil. In 9 more days, the wheels of the plane will release their grip on the runway, and I will leave Brazil. I sigh, the sigh of the conflicted. I feel...in an emotional way like this.  After 3 months it has come down to just a few more days until that damn line.

The First Shall Be Last - the finish line is an illusion.

A month ago when I was house sitting for Mike and Mary, I experienced a few days when the weight of the Mr. Fix-It To-Do list, the weight of piggyback rides, the weight of portuguese conversation, the weight of fights, and the weight of the tears forced me to crawl like those exhausted IronMan women....I would crawl into the shower, into bed, or into a cup of coffee. I would picture the day that I could plop down in my plane seat - i would imagine experiencing this triumphant feeling - like I had won - I had done good. To comfort myself on those bad days, I even imagined the perfect movie-script ending for my Brazilian adventure...

If Life Were a Movie.

 A calming, fun indie rock song would start playing as I gazed out the airplane window, watching a Brazilliam Pione Tree shrink into a green dot. Then the camera would cut away to the kids of CLM playing tag under a similiar Pione tree. One of the children would stop to wave towards at a jet streaking through the sky above. The camera would quickly cut from the child's waving grin on the ground to me from outside the plane window - just as my slight grin would stretch into a full yet silent laugh. Smiling wide, my weary head would fall into the airplane headrest. A rapid montage of moments would flash across the screen - and then the camera would freeze on my now serene face...just before my eyelids fell shut the screen would fade to black and the credits would roll. (that's called catharsis).

Life Is Not A Movie...The Credits Won't Roll...Where's My #*@%ing Sound Track? I'll spare you anymore of this 'life as a movie' metaphor. But, before we get on with it... if I could have a sound track for this moment of pensive, conflicted reflection it would be Work Me, Lord by Janis Joplin.

It's Not About The Finish Line...It's About The People Crawling. 

I don't want to be an American tourist sitting on plane feeling triumphant and pleased with myself that I did some good for the orphans of Brazil. It's not even possible for me to feel this way - because those orphans aren't orphans - they are people. They are my friends. They are unique, and amazing personalities. I'd rather crawl with them - the skin on our knees tattered and bleeding - than stride across some good-deed finish line. There is truth and meaning in the crawl...the slow, painful, exhausted crawl. I fear life at home will quickly turn into a sprint...and I will pass by and forget those crawling behind me. I pray that everyday God would shove me to the ground so that I can fall onto my hand and knees and crawl with them...bleed with them...be with them.

I had incredible interesting and note-worthy stories that I wanted to write - but this is the second night in a row that I am simply unable to muster the words. Maybe I wont write anymore for the rest of my time here - maybe i will my usual 3 pages of ramblings tomorrow - or mabye it will all pour out of my in Atlanta airport.... 

"The legs are there you just can't feel them. The eyes still see but through a gauzy viel of delerium."

grace.peace.pat

What Makes Us Happy?

Blog Music: Halelujah by Jeff Buckley (open is seperate window)

More Blog Music: Now We Are Free by Hans Zimmer and Lisa Gerrard (from the Gladiator Soundtrack)

I recently read an amazing article entitled What Makes Us Happy? by Joshua Wolf Shenk of The Atlantic. Don't let the title fool you... this article is far more earth-moving literature than Dr. Phil self-help.

 Shenk opens the article by explaining;

Last fall, I spent about a month in the file room of the Harvard Study of Adult Development, hoping to learn the secrets of the good life. The project is one of the longest-running—and probably the most exhaustive—longitudinal studies of mental and physical well-being in history. Begun in 1937 as a study of healthy, well-adjusted Harvard sophomores (all male), it has followed its subjects for more than 70 years.

The problems with the science of the study are glaring right from the start (all white harvard men who lived from the 1920s till today), but thankfully Shank never expects to find the answer to his own generalized question: What Makes Us Happy? Instead he uses the title as a subversive attention-getter to tell the gritty dramas of these well-documented lives (which include Bill Bradley, JFK, and other notable white guys).

Other than one or two obligatory paragraphs that describe the obvious (mostly physical) qualities that Harvard has determined as the keys to a well-lived life, Shank and the study itself float in the contradictions, the singularities, and the oddities of the men being studied, as well as the men doing the studying. Even the head Harvard scientist mixes his scientific method with a philosophical rhythm. He states of the men being studied, "Their lives were too human for science, too beautiful for numbers, too sad for diagnosis and too immortal for bound journals."

I highly recommend that you waste the next 15 minutes of your work day to delve into this fascinating scientific-character study. It started me thinking about my own life - and its lessons and unlessons have been resonating within me all day. Below you will find my twisted life analysis as inspired by the article...so continue reading if you dare (er...i mean care). However, if your attention span is as short as mine...then please just go over and read the real deal - What Makes Us Happy? by Joshua Shank.

Life as a Longitudinal Study.

Isn't every life lived, in fact, a longitudinal study with one subject and many observes? If you are reading this... please let me thank you for being an observer of my longitudinal blog/ study. In my very first blog post, I proclaimed the goal of my travel adventures would be to erase/finish/perfect/ erratic/ become/ forget the following thought;

I wait for a moment of brilliant, purifying redemption. I wait for a combination of words so lovely, so undeniably, eternally true that they will apologize to everyone I have ever known and make them understand why I never apologized before.

I wait for fleeting moments of innocence when I can smile and feel a rush of happiness without a hint of guilt.

I wait for a sign from a God, I really don't even believe to exist. At night, I talk to my phantom creator and potential savior, but mid-sentence I am silenced by the suspicion that I am either talking to myself, or God already knows I am insincere and has stopped listening. So I wait...

I wrote the above paragraph on the inside cover of my journal 3 years ago, and I identified strongly with its confessional truths until now. At the time, I was drowning in the thick, self-flagellation of depression. [I just deleted several sentences that described the lowliness of my depression. I feel that it is not beneficial or necessary to delve into those details any more. To say it was a painful and disturbing time is enough.]  The above journal entry feels like a relic of my decaying past. I once read it daily, marveling at how beautifully it captured some truth about life. Now, I read it and wince at its untruth, its passivity, and tone of hopelessness. Specifically, the phrase "I wait" strikes me as particularly untrue in this place, at this moment.

I am no longer waiting. 

I haven't been waiting since I made the decision to quit my job and runaway to Brazil. The phrase "I wait" is inherently passive....as was my life prior to the last 4 months. However, my time since leaving Barbour Publishing has been different - It has been lived deliberately. I was unhappy behind a desk so I quit. I decided to come to Brazil, and I came. I decided to appeal my final semester transcripts from Mount Union, and I did. I have decided to move to Portland when I return home, and I will.  It's not that I have found the (self-help nonsense or religious gibberish) Meaning of Life in my travels. It's that I am no longer waiting on a mystical answer at all.

 My friend (and future Portland roommate) Kevin is also no longer waiting. Kevin has taught high school english for the last two years, and for two years Kevin has been waiting to find satisfaction in his job. Well, as of last week, Kevin taught his last day at New Philadelphia High School...like I said he is done waiting. Before we adventure to Portland together, Kevin is spending "an amount of time" in Chicago with his brother - just as I did after quitting my job.  "I am calling it 'the pat gerber road to recovering your soul' trip", Kevin joked in an email to me.

Maturation makes liars of us all.

Indeed, "Recovering my Soul" is exactly what this experience in Brazil has done (is doing). Kevin and I are very much at the same transition of our lives. We are unapologetically looking for the ideal ways to live our lives - to be happy - to become the people we envision ourselves as. I used to call this my quarter life crisis, but now I can see that it is actually the process of entering adulthood.

If I am finally entering adulthood at 25, it means I have been a 20-something child for the past 5 years. I might feel ashamed of this delayed maturity if not for one of the conclusions drawn by the Harvard study that I found particularly fascinating. The evidence overwhelming acknowledges that the person you are at 20 is absolutely NOT an indicator of who you will be or how happy you will be at 50. Perhaps this seems obvious, but it so flies in the face of everything we are intentionally and unintentionally taught as students from kindergarden through college graduation that I felt chains fall off when I read it.

I can remember vividly this sense that my future (and even my identity) depended entirely on the next placement test, the next college admission essay, my final, my next step on the predetermined path to success.  And now at 25 years old, siting in an orphanage in Brazil, I realize it was all a lie...none of it ever mattered.  The Harvard scientist said it this way, "Maturation makes liars of us all". Meaning no matter your test scores or predicted future at 16, 20, or even 24, our adolescent attitudes will be proven false with the passage time. I feel like I am just beginning MY life, and (apparently) it's an okay time to start. How is it that I found peace and justification by comparing my life to the lives of Harvard graduates from the Greatest Generation?  

A Life Well Lived.

As Kevin and I embark on the adventure of adulthood, our transition is being beautiful mirrored by my parent’s transition into retirement. The same week that Kevin finished teaching at New Philadelphia, my mom taught her last day after 30 years as an Elementary Teacher. And in about a month, my dad will retire as a School Administrator (for the second time). The shocking thing about my parents' life transition and the my life transition is not the differences, but the shocking similarities. Kevin, Ted, Sue and I are all asking the same questions:

What now? What do I want to do? What will I enjoy doing? Where do I want to go? Who Do I want to go with? Have I lived a life well thus far? Can I live it better?

The answers are certainly not going to be found in this blog post or in any Harvard study. However, I can say with utter assurance (in my case) that LIFE MUST BE LIVED intentionally and delibertitly. “What we do,” the Harvard scientist also concludes, “affects how we feel just as much as how we feel affects what we do.”

There is another similarity in the overlapping transitions within my family.... I am now the age when parents first became parents and they are now grandparents (times 3).  Our relationship is evolving from the dependent/caretakers stage into the equals/friends stage. This is a wonderful season of life to just enjoy each other. These are the conversations and moments that are worth savoring...Worthy savoring because eventually our relationship will again evolve back into the dependent/caretaker stage - only this time I (and my sister) will have the hard job.

 Just last year, my father carried the burden of a dying parent. I watched him greive through the in-home care, the nursing home, the funeral home, and the in-home auction.  It was painful and inspiring to witness his dedication as a son to his mother. Only seeing it acted out first-hand was I able to grasp the reality of parents aging and dying. I don’t know if I am ready to carry that burden (or if I will ever be), but I pray I can be the son my father was to his mother when my mother needs me. Thankfully, according to our friends from Harvard, my parents meet all 7 of the major factors that predict healthy aging - education, stable marriage, not smoking, not abusing alcohol, some exercise, healthy weight, and mature adaptions. (I told you the actual scientific findings of the study were unexciting and obvious)  I guess this means my mom and dad will go on being Annoying Helpful and Loving well into their 100s. (and I guess I get to savor every annoying moment :)

 Mature Adaptations – Duh.

The only finding of the Harvard study that peeked my interest was the idea of Mature Adaptions. (This would be The Secret – if you were looking for one.) Shanks captures the idea of Mature Adaptaion like this;

The central question is not how much or how little trouble these men met, but rather precisely how—and to what effect—they responded to that trouble. His (the researcher’s) main interpretive lens has been the psychoanalytic metaphor of “adaptations,” or unconscious responses to pain, conflict, or uncertainty. Formalized by Anna Freud on the basis of her father’s work, adaptations (also called “defense mechanisms”) are unconscious thoughts and behaviors that you could say either shape or distort—depending on whether you approve or disapprove—a person’s reality.

I audibly giggled when I read this description because my father has worked my whole life to engrain one nugget of wisdom into my brain – “It is not what happens to you in life, It is how you react to it.”  Apperently, Ted’s hoksey Philopshy of Life has more truth to it than my teenage eye-rolls realized. And He didn’t even need the longest running longitudial Harvard study in the history of mental health to discover the Secret of Mature Adaptation – he just lived and loved.

Mature Adaptations may be obvious from the safe-distence of a Harvard study, but thier incrimental effects on lives is frighteningly-interesting. The power of Mature or Immature Adapations to alter, improve, predict, or destroy a life is sickening. The stories of men stuck in the mier of immature adaptation are painful to read - like watching a car crash in slow motion. You can see the destruction, the pain, and the saddness coming and all you can do is watch. However, men who lived “successful” lives are equally as frighteningly-interesting to ponder. Far from being lives of ease and leiser, the happiest men overcame and conquered like legandary heros of war (which some of them were).  Shank observes, “The most inspiring triumphs were often studies in hardship”.

The Nicest Natzi You’ll Ever Meet.

I recently had (what can only be described as) an encounter with a man who created triumphs from harships and adapted more than successfully to his life. This giant of a man is named Senhor Jack (I never got a last name). Senhor Jack is one of the orginal founders of CLM. After spending time with this aged and wise man, I felt like life was a true adventure – like the road to happiness had been laid out at my feet – like I had just conversed with the oldman version of myself from the future …There was a profound smirk in Senhor Jack’s eyes like he knows…stuff.

Senhor Jack and his granddaughter/nurse, Jessica, stayed with us on the farm for a week. Technically, I suppose this is actually Jack’s farm because he donated the land for CLM 30 years ago (and has been actively investing in CLM ever since). Jack is suffering from the late stages of Parkinson’s Disease, and I got the impression that this visit to CLM might be his good-bye visit.  Despite his shacking hands, his half flipped–up shirt colars, and his question mark-like posture, Jack sat at Vicky’s Kitchen table like a king…his steady and controlled presense filling the room.

Over tea and translations, I learned that Jack was an engineer and inventor in his youth. (anyone that can legitametely call themselves an inventor is automatically cool). He patented the first design for the spare tire holder that is still used today on he backs of Jeeps. In his words, “I just thought… ‘Isn’t this stupid I have crawl on the ground everytime I want to change the tire’. So fixed that problem.”

On our last afternoon together, I drove Jack and Jessica to Turvo. All three of us were squeezed into the front seat of Combi Van, and I was anxiously asking about and listening to Jack’s whimsically well-lived life. Jack was just wrapping a tri-fector of invention stories when he said “Really, I owe a lot of my mechanical skills to the war. I learned a lot working on the weapons, trucks, and tanks. My Dad fought for Germany too, in first world war, and he told me to become an engineer so I wouldn’t have to fight on the front lines.” I was still nodding like a star-struck teenager, as his words slowly hit me.

Senhor Jack was a Natzi.

He continued to describe the modifications he developed for various models of German tanks and planes, but I was no longer really listening. In stunned confusion, I stopped asking questions and silence fell over the car. I just staired out the front window of the van as scenes from Band of Brothers flipped through my mind. Occosianlly, I would peak at Jack from the corner of my right eye – just to make sure he wasn’t sporting a Hitler mustache. But there he was…this generious, gentle, wise old man. He and Jessica casually gazed out the windows as we passed the Guruapuava slums as if they had no understanding of the historical and cultural significance of Natzi Germany – especially to an American who’s Grandfather fought in WWII – They just smiled and we rolled along…

An American and two Germans driving on a dirt road next to a Brazilian shanty town talking about how Natzi Germany helped make this old man into a rich inventor, who gives his money to orphaned Brazillian kids that once lived in the wooden shacks of the shanty town….How the hell did I get here again?

Then, suddenly Jack broke the silence. He started pointing wildy out the window and gesturing for Jessica to fill me on on the excitement. She smiled warmly. “Grandpa just donated that building to a local church to be used as a daycare and after school center”, Jessica explained. “The pastor told Grandpa, ‘I have been dreaming of this center for 2 years now. We just need the land.’ Grandpa told the pastor, ‘I have your land. I have been dreaming of this for 30 years and waiting for you.’”

 What's The Meaning of Life?

I have learned…it is best not to ask. The file cabinates full of paper at Harvard no more reveal the answer than the profound smirk in Senhor Jack’s eyes.

Joshua Shank came to the following (nicely worded) non-conclusion in his article, which I will barrow for my non-conclusion;

Only with patience and tenderness might a person surrender his barbed armor for a softer shield. Perhaps in this, I thought, lies the key to the good life—not rules to follow, nor problems to avoid, but an engaged humility, an earnest acceptance of life’s pains and promises.

Grace&Peace. Gerbs. 

The Inadequate Blog Post

I get frustrated with books like The 5 People You Meet in Heaven or The Shack that try to capture things as intangible and unknowable as heaven or the holy spirit.

Inevitably, these ambitious descriptive paragraphs become silly cliches. In The 5 People You Meet in Heaven for example, Mitch Albom uses floating, techni-color light shows, and teleportation to describe the places between heavenly checkpoints (note: the similiarity to old Star Trek episodes)...as I read these inadequate descriptions,  I just felt bad for Mitch. It's not that he isn't a good writer - it's that he tried to describe the indescribable. His efforts to capture Heaven in a 194-page book struck me as the literary equavelent of a toddler who scribbles a picture of a 'Heaven' with thick crayons. I imagine that if God read Mitch's book he would smile after reading the last sentence like we smile at our childrens' drawings...in a loving yet patronizing grin God would tussle Mitch's hair and compliment his cute 2D creation and then return to his 3D (or 11D*) world.

*According to String Theory there are at least 11 demonsions to our world. Poor, Poor 3-D Mitch Albom was always a few dimensions too short. Mitch - your book was cliche ridden and predictable, but I'm sure God enjoyed your cute scribbles anyway. I am sure 'The Creature of the Universe and of all Reality' lovingly hung your book on his giant refridgerator next to Dante's Inferno and my nieces fingers paintings.

What does all this criticial bashing of Poor Mitch Albom have to do with my adventures in Brazil? Welp...I, like Mitch, am going to attempt to describe the indescribable. However, unlike Mitch, I have decided against crushing you with a avalanche of adjectives and clinhes... instead, I will let the multimedia power of links, photos, and film do the indequate job of describing the undescribably for me.  

Waterfalls, Butterflys, and Rainbows.

No really - Waterfalls, Batterflys, and Rainbows.  

*To kick off this multimedia adventure listen to the theme from Jurassic Park as you read. (open link in seperate window)

Last week, I traveled to the edge of Brazil, where Argentina, Paraguay, and Brazil meet to see one of the Natural Wonders of the World - the Iguazu Falls. To say that seeing these Falls was an awe-inspiring, breathe-taking, humbling, beautiful experience is accurate - but laughable inadequate. None of those expressions capture the senation I felt as the mist gently wrapped itself around me, as I turned in 360-degree circles to see the water spilling over the canyon walls in all directions, as I stood next to a rainbow so perfect that I swear if you touched it your hand would be painted red, yellow, green, and blue, as I raised my voice louder and louder to be heard over the constant white-noise roar of water hitting rock. Standing in the midst of the falls all my of senses were turned up to 11, my mind whirled with sappy cliches and eternal Truths, and yet I all I could do was gawk....dumbfounded. 

My companions and I stood on the final platform in the park for over 30 minutes smiling and staring, smiling and gawking, smiling and reflecting and smiling. As I watched the hundreds of different falls trickle, stream, charge, and gush to the groud of the horse-shoe shaped canyon, I thought to myself if the world really was flat...if the oceans actually ended and casacaded over the edge of the earth before falling into space...this is what it would look like. 

More dumbfounding adventures on the way, but now I have to watch movies on a rain day with our kids. -Gerbs

Respect is Enough

A quick soccer update before bed. The USA lost to Brazil 3-2 in the final of the Confederation Cup. 

Yup, we lost. 

I just hung my head, heaved out a sigh, and pushed an "urg" sound through my clenched teeth after I wrote "we lost". I 'urg' not because we got smacked with another 3-0 embarrassement. I 'urg' because we should have won...we played like a world class team (for the first 45 minutes anyway).

Scoring/Celebration Recap. 

Goal #1 - Dempsey for the old USofA. 

The U.S. Scored the first goal early in the game. I was still playing in our weekly Sunday pickup soccer game outside. I heard the burst of cheering and clapping from the living room, and I assumed Brazil had struck first... and this was going to a very long game for the U.S and me. Even the other 11 Brazilian men on the soccer field cheered for the assumption that Brazil had scored. (Note that these men didn't really care about finishing our pickup game to watch Brazil play. Why you ask? The didn't need to watch. They all just knew Brazil would easily beat the USA) So when word floated down from the upstairs balcony that the US had scored - and not Brazil - there was moment of pained confusion like the law of gravity had just been broken  and the soccer ball was floating in front of our eyes. Eventually, everyone's gawking stares found their way to me and my shocked, wide-eyed smile. 

At first I didn't even celebrate. In disbelief, I just ran off the field. Without a word, I just ran up the windy staircase, through the sliding doors, and jumped over two kids so I could see the score for myself. There it was...the replay, the celebration, the score 1-0 for the USofA.  I spun around to face the living room full of Brazil fans and just stood silently with my arms straight up in the air for what felt like a minute and then ended my gloating with a dashing bow. As I lifted my head, I was hit with at least three pillows, a blanket, and the death stares of 15-20 people. 

Goal #2 - Donovan for the old USofA. 

After the first goal, the atmosphere in the living room was all giggles, teasing, and fun. After all, what is a 1-0 deficit to a Brazillian team? Then, the 26th minute happened... Landon Donovan happened...and the best US goal I have ever had the pleasure of witnessing happened. 

Watch This Now: Landon's Donovan's Goal in the Confederation Cup Final

Notice the goal starts with a Brazillian player making a bad pass to lose the ball. Notice that the U.S. countered with quick, precise passing. Notice that the goal was setup by Landon Donovan's deadly accurate and inspired first touch on the ball. Notice that Landon wears the #10, which was made famous by guy who scored alot of goals like that...a brazillian man...named Pele. After watching Donovan's goal legitimize the U.S. lead at 2-0, you had to ask yourself "Which of one of these teams is the creative, fun-to-watch, world-class power again? 

A few minutes after Donovan's goal, Geovone stated in disgust "Estados Unidos ten nao bom jogadors!"(translation: United States has no good players!) I tapped him the shoulder, pointed at the score, and said "Pergunta su goalairo se Estados Unidos ten bom jodadors." (translation: Ask your Goal Keeper if the United States has good players). This was a good and slightly scary moment to be an American living in Brazil. 

When the ball hit the back of the net, the mood in the living room turned ugly. It was silent...funeral silent. I danced around the couch and then ran outside and shouted to the heavens (and to the pickup game players) "Dois e Zero Estados Unidos!" For the rest of the first half, rage and frustration was manifested in pillow throwing, door slamming, Portuguese ranting, and (my favorite) blank, disbelieving sad faces. 

. 

Goal #3,#4,#5 - Not for the old USofA. 

The second half was a blur of Brazilian possession, poor defending, explosive celebration (but not from me) and pillows hitting the back of my head, which mostly shook side to side silently crying "Noooooooo!". Even Mike and Mary shed their American Flag t-shirts and showed their true colors - yellow, green, and blue - the colors of Brazil jerseys. As sad of a second half as it was for U.S. soccer, I actually enjoyed it. Unlike our emotionally volatile, fanatic kids, I can accept my team being scored on again, and again, and again. I loved watching the kids dance and sing and jump and run after every Brazillian goal. I loved them teasing me with a thumbs pointed down and tongues stuck out. I loved the boys beaming, mischievous/victorious smiles my direction. I loved all 45 minutes of that dreadful second half...

Check out this great commentary on the USA's loss to Brazil.

The above article about the game declares  - Respect on the international stage is not enough for the US anymore. we want/need to win. However, from my perspective as an American living in the world's greatest soccer playing country - the respect is enough (until the 2010 world cup anyway). 

Bia Niote Gerbs

The Highlight 'Real' of My Week

Brazil v USA

Fight to the Futbol Death 
Mars and Jupiter and Pluto (you're still a planet in my book, pluto) have all aligned and thus caused the most unlikely of series of events to unfold- The U.S. Men's National Soccer Team has made it to the final of the Confederations Cup... and to boot (pun intended) we play none other than the soccer super-power and my home country away from home - Brazil. Da Daaa Daaaaaa! 

It was a fantastic week of soccer and it was made even better living in a soccer loving country. In a house where people swarm in non-stop circles like worker bees and the shouts of tiny voices echo off the walls 14 hours a day, the only thing that can bring complete silence to the Sala (Living Room) is a Brazilian soccer game. The lil kids, the older girls, and the teenage boys all sit silently enthrawed by the neon glow of the TV. They clench pillows with fierce, white-knuckled intensity. They seem incapable of articulating their thoughts/emotions because the only word waiting behind their lips is...Goal...Goal...Goal. 

For all you non-soccer people, let me brake down the facts of the tournament and how these facts directly effect me. Early in the tournament, The US lost to Brazil in a 3-0 beat down. That was a bad day to be an American living in Brazil. I was teased and harassed by all 31 kids - even our most closed-mouth, depressed teenagers beamed smiles of pride my direction. But then on Thursday REDEMPTION...The (14th ranked) U.S.A beat #1 ranked Spain in a beautiful 2-0 upset -  Our goals came from our 19 year-old, man-child Jose Altidore and our  legit world class midfielder Clint Dempsey.  After every goal,  I wiggled and bounced with exuberant joy, kicking pillows and blankets into the air and hugging whoever (non-exuberant kid) was closet to me. Again, the kids watched the whole game in silence - but this silence was not the silence of intense devotion - this was the silence of the annoyed. Thursday was a good day to be an American living in Brazil. 

So the stage has been set...Sunday Brazil and the U.S. meet again and this time its for an international cup, as well as bragging rights (quite literally for me). So far I  have 2 bets on the game... The first is with Geovone - we agreed last night in a flurry of Portuguese trash talk that the loser will wear a Jersey or T-shirt of the other country and the loser must also say three times "I love 'other country' futbol". My other bet has some high stakes...Given our actual odds of winning, I should have just walked away and not made the bet, but my patriotic side got the best of me. If I lose we (we = The USofA) I have to buy Lobo a Brazil jersey and if we win Lobo has to be me a USA jersey. 

Aside from all the actual bets, there is the WMD level ammunition for trash talking that goes to the victor. I am not sure I can survive another month if the US loses 3-0 again. However, I am not sure I can survive another month (maybe literally) if the US bets Brazil. This is more than a game...in a very tangible way Brazilians have attached their national identity to their soccer team. In many ways, Brazil has a fascination with the US - our music, our movies, our cities, our Obama. In many ways, Brazil wants to have what the United States has...but Futbol is the one thing they have that the United States and everyone else wants to have...if the US beats Brazil on Sunday...I shudder to think about the death grips around the couch pillows because those white knuckled death grips might find their way around my American neck.  

How Jazz Discovered Me. 
I have discovered the most unlikely sound track for my time in Brazil -  Jazz. I already possessed the obligatory Best of Miles Davis album in my itunes library before coming to Brazil. I (sadly) admit that I may have downloaded the album merely as a jewel to put atop my music snob, crown...However, a few weeks ago Itunes shuffled its way into "It never entered my mind" while I  worked in the wood shop on a damp fall morning. Ironically, this song never did enter my mind as a befitting theme song for CLM - but then I switched off the grinding metallic whirl of the plainer machine, and I slipped away into the floating melancholy. I just watched the freshly cut saw dust float on the hazy, yellow sunlight that streamed in through the window. Outside the window, I melted into the yellow and orange leaves blanketed below the empty, swaying branches of the our tire-swing tree.  The delicate piano melody and the thoughtful trumpet filled my mind with a sense of tranquil bliss that can rarely be found among the screaming, giggling, crying, chatter of Portuguese...This is how Jazz discovered me. 

Flickr - I hardly know her. 
I finally downloaded the up-loader for Flickr (I love saying that - internet is a universal language) and now -  you can all visit My Photostream to get a better feel for the setting of my Brazilian adventures. I sipped coffee and watch the slide show of my pictures yesterday, and I began noticing changes in the tiny faces in the photos compared to the same tiny faces I see everyday. Is it possible that our kids have grown since my arriving here? Have I really only been here three months - or is this a Narnia thing where time here isn't time at home? I think these photos speak volumes about the personalities and atmosphere I am experiencing at CLM - I hope the multi-media experience of Jazz music, pictures, and rambling blog posts gives you sense of the dirty, beautiful, gritty, divine, grueling, joyful LIFE that has discovered me here.  

Wii -  Take that Wobbly First Step. 
Last night, Mike and Mary introduced the Nintendo Wii for the boys. I thought William was going to fall over when Mike pulled the box out of the cabinet. Unlike myself, these are not kids from a computer, video game generation. In fact, I don't think that most of them had ever played any video game system before...Watching them bowl was literally like watching a toddler take their first steps - awkward and heartwarming and wobbly. 

For the first two frames, William gawked the TV as he walked towards the screen (holding the controller perfectly still) expecting that his Wii Bowler to start walking too. He would then jump and dance - kicking his legs wildly to the sides (still holding the controller perfectly upright as the picture on the screen instructed). Finally, he turned to Mike with a look of utter confusion on his face and exclaim, "Mikey, Por que?". 

Some of the boys picked up on the games quickly and some threw the bowling ball backwards 90% of the time, but all of them bounced and glowed with the excitement of Christmas morning every time it was theier turn. "Geewiz adorable" is the only way to describe the boys as they bit their bottom lips in concentration before bowling, and then as they swung their wide smiles around the room, beaming with pride and delight because they knocked over 3 pins. 

New Kid on the Block. 
As I scanned the dinner table two days ago making sure all the kids had a plate, I did a literal double take (like a rubbery necked, carton character) because their was a new little face sitting at the table, staring at me. I blinked. He smiled. I waved and said "Oi". He giggled. And then I went looking for an adult, who spoke English... 

Below is the explanation I heard, which our director, Mary Gibson, later wrote in the weekly newsletter. A Note about Mary: Mary's catch phrase is 'no empty beds'. She is a special person...She welcomes every new, tiny face with bottomless love and open arms.  She has mothered countless children for 30 years - and shows no sign of stopping. 

We had a big surprise today.  An official from the Judge and a Social Worker pulled up with a 6 year old boy in the car.  It was Alex, Aline and Alison's younger brother.  He had been at the government orphanage and was attending a daycare.  Some family members went to the daycare and took him.  Because of the violence in the family, the officials were having difficulties retrieving him again.  The Social Worker had talked about him to me today, but never said that they were going to try to get him today.  Both Aline and Allison were in the shower when Alex arrived.  Aline cried when she saw him and realized they were together again.

These are the kind of happy - but overwhelming -  surprises that lurk around every half hour at CLM. Kids come and go with the tides of the child care system in brazil - and we all scramble to keep our heads above the water line. 

One thing I love about the modern day childcare system is the goal of keeping sibling groups together. Allison and Aline have been incredibly helpful and happy as they stand by Alex in his adjustment to CLM... It is real love and family and devotion on display. After all the short termers go home and the missionaries move on - these brothers and sister will have each other. Alex reminds of a hyper, new-born puppy that prances and bounces behind his mother - but in Alex's case he bounces behind his older siblings.

Yesterday, I played with Alex on swingset for the first time. I pulled him highup, next to my shoulder, and teased "Alex you're stuck! What's the magic word?" He glanced at this older sister on the swing next him, who mouthed the magic work for him.  He slowly turned towards me, shyly smiled, and sweaked "Por favor?". I released the swing and off he flew. As he swung back and forth, I walked around the front of the swing set and inquired "Voce gosta, Alex?". He glanced up at me and then turned to his sister with a big smile and big, puppy dog eyes, as if to say "Yeah, I like it here. This could be home."   

grace.peace.pat

Close Your Eyes and Exist

Close your eyes (after reading this paragraph) and ponder if the world around you... the computer screen, your coffee cup, and even your body...still exists. Unless the world around you consists of illegal substances, open permanent markers, or hallucinogenic toads, I think the answer you will find is YES... the world continues to exist even with eyes lids shut. 

The reason this tidbit from my first semester of philosophy comes back to me is because this week has inspired me to make a technological tweak to the idea. If Facebook, blogs, email, ichat, AOL, and Skype are our online selves - our means of seeing others and our means of being seen - and we stop facebooking, blogging, emailing, ichatting, IMing, or skyping, do we then cease to exist to the world? Has our Ethernet connected, collective consciousness somehow become more real to us than the world we find behind our eye lids? I think the answer might be YES - if you don't believe me just turn off you cell phone and stop email for the next 24 hours. I think you'll find you might actually feel invisible. No longer is the question "Does the world exist if i close my eyes?"...The question is now "Will I exist if i close my online eye?" My absence from the blog for the past 2 weeks has caused some of you to wonder if I have indeed vanished from existence. Thankfully, I have not...living in a place where the internet is a 10 minute a day luxury I have discovered that you will continue living even if you unplug. However, you will experience symptoms of withdraw. For example, I have absolutely no memory of how to write in cursive, and I am bewildered by the encyclopedias here in Brazil...I look at them and see a shelf-full of stone tablets covered with pictures of cavemen. 

So the problem with actively blogging life here in Brazil...turns out to be life here in Brazil. The thought of posting a blog post has fleetingly flashed through my mind the last few weeks, but every time the thought arises Everton jumps on my back or Gisi starts crying - or both (x15)

Here are some antidotes and updates from the past few weeks...

The Machines Are Taking Over. 

In one 4 day period, it seemed that all of the machines around me were staging a cue. 

Two weekends ago, I was dropping the workers off in the poorer section of the colony, and I ran out of gas right in the middle of a one lane dirt road. It was a sunny Saturday and the whole neighborhood was out to watch the Americano's stupidity. I pushed the van to the side of the dirty road (into a dirt yard), and began considering my options. Walk a mile home or walk a mile to the gas station...then a passing car stopped. A tall German man with a belly almost larger than his belt buckle moseyed my direction. Luckily, love actually is all around. Before I could even sputter, "Des-cupe, Eu somente falo un poc portuguese", the man started syphoning gas from is tank into a two liter. Afterwards, I shook his hand like a fool and shoved 5 reals at him. The next day, I drove Romalo to a party and got a flat tire in Mary's car. (important life lessons - car jack's are different here, but kicking a tire out of frustration has the same effect)

After the cars attacked, then the computers took up the fight. I have become the Go-To computer guy for CLM  (when Jack isn't around) because I mentioned I used to work with computers. Most of the time, I just restart the routers or wiggle the ethernet wires, but to the kids I am like the computer whisperer. This reputation feels great until a real problem arises...we were mysteriously without internet for about a week and nothing in my bag of tricks could bring the internet back. In about an hour, I knew the problem was beyond me (and i admitted as much to everyone) but ever passing day, 35 anxious faces would stare at me and ask, "Internech Bom hoje, Pat-reek-e?". I would shrug and watch their hopeful faces contort into disgust. Even the adults seemed convinced that the router just wanted more attention from me...like it was my pissed off girlfriend. In the end, professional help arrived. They whispered some voodoo into the router and poof - internet. 

I have more machine horror stories...but I leave you with this last one as the climax of a bad week. I am currently in the process of cutting and plaining boards of a new swing set at Turvo. Our plainer is beast of a machine that can slice a quarter-of-an-inch right off the top of a board. However, the plainer is all muscle - not user-friendly. Every board requires, teeth clenched grunts of manual strength to force it through. One day, after several frustrating stuck boards, I went to move this 400 pound box of metal. Instead of wiggling the machine slowly, I shoved quickly -tipping the machine over - where it landed, motor first, on top of my left foot. I did two laps around the shop before I stopped to assess the damage - my foot was bruised, along with my work ethic - and the stupid machine wasn't even scratched.   

Movies like Terminator, the Matrix, and War Games make us believe that machines will eventually destroy humanity in an explosive revolt. However if the super computers of the future are really smart, they won't create killer robots to destroy mankind. They will simply stop working and watch us wither way like pants without water. Can you imagine if all machines went on strike? Hmmm - the whole world would get to sleep in - but after that it would suck. 

Goodbye, Fair Well, I hate to say Tchau.

A lot of good byes have been said (and not said) the past few weeks. Mike and Mary have been on vacation in the States - thankfully they return tomorrow. Altair ran away and he has not been heard from since. A week later Elaine, our oldest girl at 19, was asked to leave CLM. She has had problems with violent outbursts, lying, and disrespect. I am not clear on the details of the straw the finally broke the CLM back - but it had something to do with lying and seeking out to a party. She was gone before I even made to the house for breakfast...Sneaking out to a party made me think about myself at 19 and all the parties I lied about not going to...it made me appreciate and marvel at the exhausting amount of grace my parents endured for me. Some of use learn the hard way...I think Elaine - like me - is one of those people.

Today, I learned that Marcello is being adapted and will be leaving on Friday. His new Mom (or Moms) are here today in a very strange and fast transition period. They sorta lottery around the house like people looking at animals in a zoo. Marcello is shutdown around them...shy is not the word of it...its more like the emotional fetal position. Mary does most the talking for him and he just nods when prompted. This is how the system the works...the courts make the ruling and 72 hours later the package is delivered to the new owners. The most interesting thing about Marcello's adaption is the reaction of all the other kids. They stare at these women just like the women stare at them - bewildered. I can't tell if they are secretly wishing it was them being adapted...or if they are afraid it might be them next...or if it a whole tornado of emotions are manifesting in blank stares, giggling stares, defensive stares, and longing stares. 

Next week, my Hungarian counterpart, David, returns home. This will be a sad day because David has a great "big furry bear" personality and set of grand facial expressions that render language unnecessary. The day after David leaves will be an even sadder day because all of the work that we now share will be unshared back to me. Driving in the morning, driving the workers, driving the kids, dishes, repairs, picking corn, boys' showers, preparing dinner, and helping with bed time...I am tired just thinking about it. 

A few weeks after David returns home, Edit(our nurse) and her husband Fabio will be leaving for Hungary also.  At the end of this month, Juan and Bethany and baby Caleb are taking their vacation in the States. Of all the things I anticipated being challenged by at CLM, people (other than me) leaving is not one of them. I find myself feeling more and more entrenched here as I see people come and go. Ever time, some one leaves (child or adult) the whole houses flexes and adjusts with the work and the emotion - eventually, we settle into a happy routine but I am beginning to feel like our kids must feel...that the normal routine is people leaving...people staying in their lives (and now mine) is abnormal. This feeling eventually leads me to picture my own departure and the flexing and adjusting that I will cause in the house and in the lives of each of these kids. I am looking forward to watching how David handles his last week here and how the kids handle the week after he leaves...perhaps I can learn some lesson in his departure to soften the blow of my own. 

David Beckham going to pick corn with a kiss on the cheek. 

Life here the past few weeks has not been as heavy and depressing as my blogs may read. I have had so many happy moments, silly moments, perfect memories, and wonderful gifts that I forget most of them now that I want to document their wonder. The thing is... imagine that the cutest kid you know - child, grandchild, niece, whoever - imagine that child does or says something heart-meltingly cute...now imagine that happening 20 times a day. I am like a cute addict....I started shooting up with a normal dose when i arrived, but now I need 12 needles full of cute just to get my daily fix. 

I have come to love the custom of kissing on the cheek when meeting or leaving a friend. Really only a few of the girls do this...the boys express their affection through karate kicks and punches to the shoulder in stead. The older girls would be mortified to greet with kiss - me too actually. However, Rita(10), Luana(7), and Marione(4) have started giving me a daily little pecks on the cheek when ever i have to leave them. Rita is our 10 year old know-it-all...She is a tough girl, and I like her strong willed nature - even if it can be annoying. One morning, I had to shout Rita into her seat as I drove the kids to school. I never yell and it scared me as much as it scared them. Rita sat solemnly in the back seat of the van for the rest of the drive. I watched her from the rear view mirror as she fought tears back.  She waited in the van till all the other kids exited and then Rita climbed over the backs of the seats just so she could kiss me on the cheek and I could give her my normal morning pep talk - "Apprendar Muito" (learn alot). So much was communicated in this simple gesture...her tears were gone - on the way home, I reflected on my yelling and her kiss and now as i reflect again i realize I am the one learning a lot. 

A few weekends ago, we celebrated the anniversary of the church with a BBQ and a huge soccer game - the biggest we have had yet. There were a lot of good players at the house and the game very quickly became a spectacle for everyone to watch. I have been a novelty around the colony since arriving - like a sideshow freak "Come one. come all. and see the amazing futebol playing american!" However, on this day - I happened to play extremely well. The key to soccer here in Brazil is not trying to score goals, but trying to be spectacular. I did my best Cristino Ronaldo imitation in the corner right in-front of the crowd, which earned me roar of "Ole". After the game, everyone including the pastor of the church started referring to me as David Beckham. This is probably because I am the only player with blonde hair and blue eyes - but either way being compared to Beckham isn't a bad thing - better than Americano Punto, which is my other nickname here on the pitch. 

My last joyful adventure involves the adolescent joy of picking corn and throwing it at other people. The past two week the boys and I have been taking the tractor into the fields and picking corn by hand to use as feed on the farm. The view out the endless fields is breath taking...The yellows of the fields compliment the blue sky and although it is cold - i feel warm. The best part of this boring job is watch 8 adolescent boys launch cornels and ears of corn at each other in full on trench warfare. It takes me back to fall weekends in high school and the corning warefar of Dover/Phila week. I don't know why - but throwing corn at people is an international joy. Unfortunently, I am normally the main the target...but I know the boys throwing corn at my head is their kiss on the cheek. 

grace and peace to you all. good night. gerbs. 

Rain, Rain Go The #$@% Away

A grey, uneasy damp mist hangs over the house and people here in Brazil. An uninspiring brown has smothered all other color.The rain has not stopped for three days now. Everything green is sadly drooping with the weight of bloated leaves. The once white VW Vans are splattered brown like a monochromatic Jackson Pollock painting. Even the dogs are burdened with the weight of water and mud. Their shiny fur coats drip,drip,drip thick drops of water into puddles under their muddy paws. They meekly beg outside the glass doors to the house struggling to lift their longing, heavy eyes to meet mine.

The mud seems to be creeping into and onto everything. Every step I take feels heavier than the last... My shoes and my jeans are plastered with layers, layers, and layers of mud....It is as if this damp supernatural ooze plans to continue to creep up my legs until I can no longer move. Another day of this and we will be forced to strain our necks up towards the sky because the mud will have climbed over our shoulders on its relentless mission to encase us in earth. As, I sink deeper and deeper and deeper, I will desperately shout to the heavens "Please, save me!" What will I see as I lift my longing, heavy eyes towards God... Will the clouds part, allowing glowing photons of sunlight to fall on my face or will the tap...tap...tap of the rain and the roar of the gray/black clouds muffle my cries for help?

The day before yesterday, Altair and Billy played volleyball in the dinning room using a stuffed elephant as the ball and the table as the net. It was a hilarious and intense game. The boys laughed mischievously every time the elephant/ball crashed into the table...sending cups, forks, and plates flying and smiles spreading across everyone's faces.  

The day before yesterday, it rained and Altair played. 

Yesterday, it rained, and Altair ran away. 

Today, it rained, and Altair is missed. 

Altair ran away...even as i write that sentence, I am numb with disbelief. The idea of him walking the streets of the city alone under these gray, wet skies is making me physically tense. The rain imagery above is nothing but a cheap distraction...a way for me to slowly wade into the reality of Altair's absence. 

When I heard the news yesterday morning.... I closed my eyes to pray and a picture of Altair sitting in a dark corner with his knees pulled tightly to his chest hung behind my eye lids. So I prayed in images of angles standing over him using their massive, white wings as umbrellas. I prayed that he would think about us thinking about him. I prayed for the clouds to part in this soul and his mind so the glow of God's love would be able to fall on him.  Perhaps all this imagery is over dramatic and sentimental...but my mind was (and is) heavy with it. My every thought is saturated with helplessness and dread. The worst part is... I realize how inadequate my words are in this moment...During the SHIT moments of life, only actions matter. And prayer is the only action i can have to delivery my love and protection to Altair.  

He was scheduled to have surgery in the city and ran away from Edit when he used the bathroom. Apparently, his brother pulled the exact disappearing act on Edit last year. Edit is feeling this loss most of all...You can literally see her dragging her guilt with her. I pray... that Edit can lay her burdens down...emotionally, intellectually, spiritually. I pray that when she throws her false-guilt down into the bloody mud at the foot of the cross, she will see something green courageously reaching out of the dirt so it can feel the life-giving photons of light on it blooming face. I pray that Edit will feel the sun on her face, on her soul...that she will free herself of her guilt, her doubt, her questioning...that she will realize her only fault was caring too damn much and for that (and for everything else) she has already been forgiven.

Where are you, my friend. Where ever you've been...please, come home.

We know Altair's brother ended up back at home with their mother....unofficially of coarse. So perhaps he is home or perhaps he is on the street...? Altair is only 11 years old (i think). He is a moody, lethargic, goofy kid. He can be difficult, but he can also be bust-a-gut funny. He is an entertainer at heart. Before yesterday, Altair is the last of our kids I would have envisioned making a jail break. But that was yesterday...Now, I can't shake these questions out of my mind:

Did Altair premeditate running away - back to his mother? Or did he run in moment of nervousness because of the surgery? Where did he sleep last night? Did he make it home - was he welcomed by this mother if he did? 

Runaways are not uncommon at CLM. Yesterday, Victoria recounted tales of kids running away in the past...some returned, some were found, some were not found. Even some of the happiest kids sitting with me right now (playing computer racing games) tried to run away less than a year ago. Short-terms like myself had to be one-on-one prison guards to them everyday so they would not runaway again. Why -  despite, the powerful, tangible love here do our kids run (to what?, i wonder). This must be an example of how deep seeded and overwhelming their pasts, pains, and emotions run.  They do not have the coping abilities to deal with their inner-demons in a healthy way... so these demons fester under the surface...manifesting as depression, anger, rage, fighting...,running away. 

I have thought about Altair's behavior over the past few days, and I cannot remember one warning sign that he was planning to run.  Moreover, he even refused Edit's offer to get him a jacket before they left... which means he ran in nothing but a t-shirt and jeans. These facts make me believe he ran in a moment of panic or false-hope to find his family. I am torn between the hope that he found his mother and shelter last night and the hope that he stayed on the street. If he made it home... at least he is safe (or is he?), but if he stayed on the street maybe he realized that Family isn't defined by biology...it's defined by the Act of Love. I feel like the father in the parable of the lost son (Luke 15:11) and I have only been here a month and half. 

"But while  he was a still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him: he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him." 

I long and dream to see Altair walking down the drive way... I want with every cell of my body to be able to pull up my figurative jewish rob...and run to him. 

 

At lunch, I sit between Billy and Altair. They were my first buddies on my first day during that first lunch. During prayers and devotions, Altair often leaned back into the gap between my left shoulder and my chest. I was his human Lazy Boy. For the past two days, Altair's place at the table has been set and his plate filled with food but his seat has been empty. The first day the emptiness at the table could be felt from end to end. Some of the kid's eyes would occasionally glance at the hole in the wall of people...and then their eyes would fall away and they would just stare at their plates for a moment - frozen.

The second day, I noticed a change in the glances towards Altair's place at the table. The glances were filled with less confusion and longing - and more with hunger. His plate (and pieces of corn bread) are now up for grabs. Our kids have developed massive, trash compactor like emotional defense mechanisms that allow them to shut down emotionally, to crush feelings, and to hide pain. Their lack of noticeably empathy and emotion is bewildering to witness. But I know it is necessary. They cannot seriously deal with another person exiting their lives... they have been left too many times before and to think about Altair's absence I think would break the emotional dam - flooding their minds with the absence of their parents, of their siblings, of missionaries come and gone, of past run-aways, and of the kids who have been adapted.  

Even the missionaries are not allowing themselves to lament Altair's absence...I can hear the veiled helplessness, hurt, and pain in both Mary and Victoria's voices when we have talked about Altair, but the words they spoke were words of strength...they are matter-of-fact about the chances of Altair returning, the reality of where he might be, and the lack of priority Altair has in the eyes of the police. They are also seeking the silver lining (in a cold logical sorta way)...if Altair is not returned, the twin girls (his sisters) will have a far better chance of being adapted (the shopping-mentality and psychology of parents looking to adapt is whole other blog). If the missionaries are hurting because of Altair's decision to runaway they aren't showing it. Instead, the carry on in acts of love... smiles, chores, food, games, and hugs. 

It is now the third day, it's still raining and Altair is gone. The rain is not only a fitting setting (and metaphor) for this painful time here at CLM, but the mud, the rain, the gray, the pain, the confusion, and the absence have actually combined into a tangible, swirling vortex of hopelessness. There is a bleak nothingness in the eyes of everyone I pass around the house. There is still laughter and grins, but there is also a uneasy damp feeling hanging over CLM.  

Still despite the clouds inside and outside,  Edit, Mary, and Victoria (all the others and myself) have no other option but to carry on living and loving because there are 32 other kids still here, who need life and love. I pray that this rain will go the #$@% away. I don't care if its a literal or figurative break in the clouds, we just need to see the light again. 

grace.peace.gerbs