Brazilian Love Letter
How’s your story coming along, my friend? Are you all bundled up in your fleece as you walk to class in the crispy autumn weather? Have you jumped in a pile of leaves lately? I love the smell of October, the apple cider, caramel apples, wet leaves . . . I hope you’re soaking every moment in your nose and letting it spark the squirk of your soul. The other day I watched an old Brazilian woman skip down the street with a huge smile on her face, popping the crunchy leaves under her feet and laughing like a child. All the wrinkle cream in the world couldn’t have made that woman more bright or beautiful. What a sponge of a soul! She was soaking in every moment of her life!
I think I’ll tell you a little about the life of this little Brazilian. I wake up every morning to the sun beating through my window. I eat fresh pineapple, mangoes, bananas, papaya, and all sorts of colorful things for breakfast. I take my clothes from a bucket and hang them out to let the wind kiss the water out of them. I traipse down cobblestone, dirt, and paved streets all day with the sun on my back and the wind in my hair. The padarias fill the city with all sorts of sweet smells of bread and bolos. There are kids flying kites in the streets made from cans and film taken from old video cassettes with some paper tied to the end. The families who don’t have cars use bikes. The husband peddles while the wife sits on the bar in front of him.
All the dogs are missing one leg. The ones who are still fortunate enough to have all four proudly prance down the street singin’, “I have four legs, I have four legs . . .” I’m everyone’s child. Every woman that passes says, “Oi minha filha!” I love having so many moms. Blair, you simply have to come to this place one day. The people are wonderful. They’re not perfect, and any observer of the newspapers could find millions to critique about this country. But give me one of those critics for one day and they’d have a change of heart. The people would kiss his cheeks as he walked in the door. They would all sit on the cement floor and let their guest sit on the only chair in the house. They’d make him laugh. And not just a casual run of the mill laugh—a real one—a Brasilian one. The kind where the cackle fills the air and echoes for miles. He would want to cry as they offered him part of the small food they have. The kids would hug his legs before he left the house and ask for his address. He’d leave a different man . . . Just like I will leave a different woman. I’m learning to be generous. I’m learning to be meek and grateful for what I have. I’m learning tolerance. I’m learning that the sacred Spirit of the Lord is moving upon the souls of these people. So many want to learn. So many want to change. I’m learning of the sacred and weighty responsibility I have to be a messenger of truth. At times it’s a bit overwhelming. When my tongue can’t find the words, when my own weaknesses cloud my mind, the Spirit speaks through my eyes to someone. We see each other in our true forms for a moment’s time. My eyes feel clear as I look in theirs. They remember that what we’re saying is something they’ve only forgotten. They don’t understand, but they knew something is true. Last night we were teaching a man who has been searching to find the true church of God for years. As we bore testimony of eternal families he quietly whispered, “I feel that. I feel that that’s true.” May we feel the truth. May we have faith in what we cannot see. May “we live as Narnians, even if there is no Narnia.” I love you, Sweetheart. Pray that you are well. Please write soon.
Your friend,
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