Rubberband Man

Last Thursday as my wife and I were walking in downtown Fortaleza (Brasil), we came across a fellow on the side of the street who was begging. At first glance, nothing seemed to be wrong with him. He was just sitting there with a hand extended saying the equivalent of “alms for the poor.”

The sidewalk wasn’t very wide and there were a lot of people hustling to and fro. I managed to squeeze by him, without giving him any change, and continued on my way. Then I realized that my wife was no longer with me. When I turned I saw her stooped and talking to the beggar. Dang it!

So I make haste and hussle back to the beggar with plans to extricate my wife and be on our way. But, she is in deep conversation with the dude and not having any of me pulling her away.

Seems the fellow had a wall fall on him a few years ago. Almost killed him. Broke his arm and shoulder in more places than I have years of life. This doc put him in a cast but neglected to set all the bones. Twelve weeks later when the cast is removed, no bones! From his shoulder to his wrist he was missing his bones. He exclaimed, “its just like a giant rubber band!” and commenced to wiggle his arm from shoulder to hand, just like a giant rubber band.

He grinned like a cheshire cat and said, “Gross, ain’t it? But, you know what, I’s still alive and lovin’ every minute of it cause the other option ain’t too good!”

He got a whole lot more from me than some loose change.

And the rubberband man gave me much more in return.

Ever heard the expression, “When life hands you lemons, make lemonade?” Or, how about “Give your entire attention to what God is doing right now, and don’t get worked up about what may or may not happen tomorrow. God will help you deal with whatever hard things come up when the time comes?”

How often is God just waiting to give us the best He has to offer, only, if it doesn’t come in the form we want it to or expect it to, we don’t see it nor do we get it? Why do we think that God will only give us the pretty, the nice and the safe options? Have you ever really read through the things Jesus said? Ever come across statements like “all nations will hate you because you are my followers” (Matthew 10:22)?

Could it be that we’re hiding in the basement of the church when we’re supposed to be charging the gates of hell? Is it possible that we’re too afraid to leave the safe confines of our ordered and proper lives to embrace the opportunities that God is giving us, opportunities that will always look like adversity, not blessings? Have we convinced ourselves that God is really a type of Santa Claus who only does “nice” things for us and shun the concept that our ability to help others heal is limited to where we’ve been wounded?

Maybe God is stacking the deck against us, just so we can experience a miracle of divine proportions.

Rubberband man brought this back to my attention. Life screwed up his arm and turned a bricklayer into a street beggar. But it made him appreciate life in a way he never could before. His “new” status is lowly in the eyes of the world, but he rejoices with every single day because he can open his eyes and breathe fresh air. “Gross, ain’t it?”

If you’re bored with your faith, spiritual life, religion, church, then one thing is for sure — you’re not following in the footsteps of Christ.  Maybe it’s time for the true Jesus followers to put on crash helmets and charge the gates.

My rubberband buddy is leading the charge…

Song of the Grateful

There is a popular praise song called “Glorious One” written by Steve Fee. In the second verse it states:

God of infinite worth with hands that carve out the ocean
You hold the universe and still You run to the broken

I was reminded of the immediacy of those words today. Still reeling from the trip to Brasil, or more exact, the effects of the trip (exhaustion, lack of sleep, mild dehydration, jet lag), I stumbled into the worship service this morning trying to correlate the exaggerated distinctions between the “have nots” I’d left behind in Brasil hardly 24 hours before and the overabundant “haves” of our culture.

Pastor Jeff further disturbed my mind by preaching on practically the same subject. At moments I couldn’t distinguish where I was, my thoughts and his words intermingling like some sort of faucet mixing cold and hot water. The best I could do was to bow my head in humble acceptance that in allowing the God of the universe to have control of my destiny, I was relinquishing control and throwing it all on Him.

With those thoughts careening through my head we launched into “Glorious One.”  Never have I felt so useless; never have I felt so alive. Why me? Why was I chosen? Because the Giver of Life and Creator of All came running to me and is allowing me to participate with Him in the awesome expansion of the Kingdom, both here and in Brasil. He doesn’t need me . . . He wants me!

Folks, if you are not jumping into the pool of God’s plan and power, you are missing the excitement that makes life worth living. I sang like a madman today, so much so that I was hoarse. I, for one, am grateful to be a follower of the Glorious One.

Back in the US(S)A

Funny how your brain works after being up for over 24 hours. In my case, it doesn’t.

After a very long day, and almost 5000 miles later, we arrived in Raleigh at midnight. That was good. Then we faced a 2 hour drive to Wilmington. That was bad. Felt like a 8 hour drive. Continually asking wife to talk to me, pinch me, hit me, do anything — just keep me awake.

Don’t remember going to bed. Simply passed out.

Woke up and it was afternoon.

Good to be home. Now I’ve got to process the trip.

Thanks to you all for the prayers!

A Case of Mistaken Identity

Sometimes you just can’t win . . .

Poor ol’ rooster. He’s the King of the coup; he struts his stuff; the hens are his harem. But, in the backyard of a small house in Ubaúna, one particular rooster was having an especially hard week.

First, there was the issue of the fox. Now, foxes and chickens, historically speaking, don’t mix too well. All the “girls” had a safe house to sleep at every night. Mr. Rooster, being the tough guy that he is, roamed free during the night. When Mr. Fox decided to pay a neighborly visit to Mr. Rosster’s domicile and wished to have him for supper, Mr. Rooster’s owner decided it was time to “protect” him.

The result? Mr. Rooster goes to prison, for his own good. Caged… and he’s done nothing wrong!

Locked up in a crate for protection. Rodney Dangerfield, “I can’t get no respect.” Perverted justice; the system gone bad.

It gets worse . . .

Since Mr. Rooster has been in jail for over a week, his system has cleaned itself out (after all, you can’t forage for your own food while in the slammer — you can only eat what your jailer brings you). This is what is always done to a chicken before he shows up on the dining table. So, since he’s caged, clean and available, guess what happens to Mr. Rooster?

Yep! Mr. Rooster didn’t need to be worried about Mr. Fox at all. “But your Honor, I’m innocent…”

Hot bad, Beach good!

We’re baaacck!

Made the drive from Ubaúna in record time. Only hit 1 pothole, no donkeys, no goats and no people! Car looks like it has been through the Baja1000 cross-country road race — totally covered with sand and dust.

I want to try to define “hot” for you in an upcoming post, but, just let me say right now that it was HOT in Ubaúna. I’ve been there with it being hotter . . . but this hot was really hot. Probably not more than 110 (I’ve seen 130!) — brain numbing.

Pulling into Fortaleza you could feel the ocean breeze. Just seeing the water made me feel cooler! Still hot, but really cool . . .

Faithful

Since we’ve begun coming to Fortaleza regularly in 1998 we’ve always stayed at the same hotel. Every day at 6:00 a.m. the tapioca lady shows up in front of the hotel to sell tapioca.

She stays for almost 3 hours. It takes her an hour and a half to bicycle from her home to her selling point in front of the hotel. On her bicycle she carries a butane tank, a cooker, all her supplies, herself and her husband (actually he pedals the bike). When she finishes up, it all goes back on the bike and they return home.

I’ve been amazed at her clientele. Everyday there are dozens of people lined up to get her tapioca (kind of like a flat taco shell, only made from tapioca flour and is soft). I’ved been more amazed at her tenacity. Rain, sun, heat, she’s always there. Nothing changes. The ride to “work” and back home is always the same. If you’d ever see the traffic here, you’d be astonished that she is still alive!

She has to do it; she really has no choice. It is how she pays her bills. If she didn’t do it, if she missed a day of work due to sickness, she’d literally go hungry. Paid vacation days do not exist. Company coming in for the weekend changes nothing. She is fixated on getting the job done so she can do it again tomorrow. If she can’t do it tomorrow, she dies.

Kinda starts you thinking . . .

What would happen if her faithfulness to her “job” was the attitude we had towards our walk in the Way? What would we be like if we lived as though there were no other choice but to show up to represent the Carpenter? Would not being a follower be the death of us because we can’t image not serving Him? We think it tough to have to get up to go to church on Sunday — would we be willing to sacrifice everything and endure any hardship to go to where the King appears?

The tapioca lady is “on,” 365 days a year, 24/7. She has absolutely no choice. She does it to live. Can I say the same? Can I be “on” 365/24/7? I really have no choice. Without doing it, I miss life . . .

Roosters can’t tell time

Stupid rooster . . .

Here I sit in the middle of Ubaúna,Brazil, in the middle of the desert, 5000 miles from home and 6 hours from civilization. Peace and quiet, right?

Wrong!

The stupid rooster can’t tell time!

Three o’clock in the morning, three o’clock! The crazy bird starts crowing and crows every half hour until dawn. Then he stops. Six times, every half hour, as though he was looking at a watch, he sings his song. Irritating, brash, cutting, penetrating the deepest slumber.

Worse yet, his stupid clamoring got all the roosters in the villa riled up. At one point there must have been 5-6 having their own yodeling contest.

I asked my mother-in-law if rooster would fry up well. Other than being a bit tough, she said he would.

Here chicky, chicky, chicky . . .

A Sunday drive

Ok, travelogue participants, today we leave the big city and head for the boonies.

Car is packed, breakfast eaten, hotel bill paid. We leave Fortaleza on interstate BR222 heading west. As we leave the outskirts of Fortaleza we go though the town of Caucaia with the next stop being São Luis do Curu, 68 kilometers down BR222. Our first road change occurs 12 kilometers later in rustic Umirim. You have to be careful here because it is easy to take the wrong road (none are marked).

Navigating the donkey carts, bike riders and stray dogs, we pick up BR402 and head for Tururu 10 kilometers distant. BR402 is in much better shape than BR222. The holes aren’t as deep and don’t span the entire width of the road. Nothing dead on this stretch of the road.

Thirty-one kilometers later we roll into the bustling metropolis of Itapipoca. Besides the town of Uruburetama, which is only a few kilometers to the southwest, Itapipoca is my favoritetown to pronounce in Portuguese. It virtually rolls off the lips: I-ta-pi-po-ca (“pipoca” is “popcorn” in Portuguese; but the town’s name has nothing to do with popcorn!). “Uruburetama” sounds like the word for “buzzard;” so I tend to think of popcorn and buzzards as we drive through the area. Interesting combination.

Amontada, 33 kilometers away and Morrinhos, another 40 kilometers, takes us through some of the most desolate territory of the interior of the state of Ceará. We once had a flat tire in this area and an American with us began to freak out and loudly proclaim that we were going to die and never be found again! Quite desolate and not the least inviting.

Now we pick up state road CE178 and look for the town of Santana do Acarau 37 kilometers due south. Potholes are back with a vengence. One hit and you can lose the entire front end of the car! Much nicer driving during daylight than at night.

After 33 more kilometers we enter the sprawling city of Sobral. The major city in this region with more than 50,000 inhabitants, Sobral means we’re almost at our destination.

You could drive through the city but the number of pedestrians, bikes, donkeys, cows, goats, dogs, hippopatmases and small dinosaurs makes it a slow endeavor. So, we elect to run around the by-pass and are soon speeding towards Ubaúna.

Ok, so we aren’t “speeding” towards our destination. We’re back on BR222 and the potholes (bomb craters) are so horrific that we crawl down the interstate at a blazing 10 kph. Donkeys are passing us so fast that they look like a blur!

Here’s your math question for the day: you are driving at 10kph and it is 40 kilometers to your destination; how long will it take to arrive? Answer: ridiculously long!

Finally we arrive in the quaint vila of Ubaúna. What should have been a pleasant drive of 3 hours only took 6.

Where’s the bathroom?

Dead Day #2

800,000!

That’s how many folks turned out to see the grave of a dead guy on Dead Day. Not just any dead guy, but perhaps THE dead guy in all of northeastern Brasil.

Padre Cicero was his name. Champion of the poor while living, the focus of miraculous activity while dead. Interesting resumé. Interesting story — Billy the Kid, Bonnie and Clyde type of stuff, and Padre Cicero slap dab in the middle. Good guys, bad guys and the priest in the middle as the score keeper. Maybe I’ll tell it one day.

Meantime, back to the tomb. Padre Cicero has been bones for a really long time. Yet, his fame has continued to grow. He can help you have a baby, give you a better job, take care of your in-laws, cure you of cancer, regrow your limbs. Shucks, he can even raise you from the dead. All he needs is a red cape and be weakened by kryptonite and you’d know who he was.

So, what’s the big deal?

The folks who go to see this dead guy are fanatical! They walk for miles on their knees, crawl on their bellies like a snake, hop on one leg, walk backwards, all just to please him so he’ll grant their wishes. Every year at the end of the celebration on Dead Day (November 2), everybody takes off their hats (they’re all wearing one) and waves bye-bye to the priest (he’s dead, remember), then leaves town.

The guy is dead. He was then, he still is now. But he has millions of devotees.

Same story, but the hero raises from the dead. Only the living Lord doesn’t receive the same devotion as Padre Cicero here in the land of the sun.

We want to change that!

Black beans and pig tails

Gastronomically, the northeastern diet is quite interesting.

Today we had “feijoada.” Yum, yum. Black beans, pig tails, pig feet, pig ears, sausage poured over rice and collards. Orange slices on the side, roasted cassava root in garlic and all the Guarana you can drink. Dang! It just doesn’t get much better than this!

Feijoada is a traditional northeastern Brasil staple. Normally served only on Saturdays and antecipated by everyone, it fills you to the gills, makes you search for a hammock and enter sleepyland. Ocean breeze, a bit of warmth to the air and off you go, cutting logs as though you were a saw mill.

Feijoada is much like hot dogs and apple pie in the U.S. When you don’t have access to it, it’s like a slice of heaven when you get to indulge. And indulge I did!

Beeelch! Pardon me!