A glimpse of life two months in

Camp last weekend

Sorry it’s been a while since the last blog – hopefully some of you got my November prayer letter in that time (if you would like it let me know on facebook or on feb36@cam.ac.uk). I thought I’d do this blog a bit differently today and give you a glimpse of a few moments from my life over the past couple of weeks.

It’s Monday evening and I’m standing at the back of an exercise class that Judith’s running. I’m trying to do the class while holding 3 year old Niara and she shrieks every time we lunge forward. 12 year old Diogo has brought his friend’s Mum for the first time and she seems to be enjoying it, there are less people this week but it just means there’s a different atmosphere to it. It seems calmer, more open and a chance to get to know these women better. I hold Niara upside down and laugh at her giggles before trying to stop her touching the computer for the 100th time! A week later and we’re there once more, this week there are more ladies and Niara is climbing all over me as I talk to 7 year old Thalles, who is sitting in his wheelchair watching his Mum and the other ladies jumping up and down. He’s telling me how his football team won this week and pointing proudly at the badge on his shorts.

It’s 8 o clock in the morning and I’m sitting alongside a roomful of children eating a breakfast of cous cous and egg and extremely sweet coffee. Some children are squabbling over getting the purple cup and outside it’s just starting to pour, the kind of Brazilian rain that is so loud you can’t think and that immediately fills the streets with water. The rain drips through the roof onto my hair and an excited murmer of “chuva chuva chuva” (rain rain rain) echoes around the room.

Ten minutes later and I’m standing in front of the youngest class here at project CCM – the name is painted on the wall by the gate and in Portuguese it says “for every life, a new story,” it makes me think about the new story God gave me and the reason why we’re all here sheltering from the rain. After various attempts at loud Portuguese and eventual clapping to get attention the children are finally sitting down and (vaguely) quiet. We learn a song in English about God’s love and I’m just starting to pull tissue paper and toilet rolls and glue and brown paper out of my bag when suddenly chaos descends. Across the court the oldest children have run out of their classroom. My class start to panic and I notice a hissing sound coming from the kitchen, one boy jumps out the window, a little girl starts crying. I don’t get what’s happening until I start to smell gas, at which point one little boy helpfully informs me that it’s going to explode and we’re all going to die. We evacuate to about 10 metres across the yard and stand in the rain until Pastor Roberto turns off the gas, panic over and five minutes later we’re back in class making tree pictures.

I’m sitting on the little minibus with the 2 reais note (about 60p) clutched in my hand. I’ve been trying to give it to the conductor for 5 minutes now but he’s sleeping in front of me, I poke him a few times but he doesn’t stir and the other passengers laugh. Normally the conductors are loud and lively and shout a kind of place name rap out of the window at every passerby, jumping on and off the moving bus. I sit back in my seat and watch the familiar shops and churches and houses passing by out the window. On the ceiling in front of me there is a faded sticker that says in Portuguese “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want”, I smile to myself and finally manage to hand over my money to the stirring conductor.

I’m on my way to a church ‘acampamento’ (camp) down the coast and we’re stuck in what appears to be the world’s biggest traffic jam. I was picked up at 6:20am and the plan was to leave at 7am from church, however we didn’t leave until 8:30 and the optimistic plan of a day’s activities is fading as we pass hours without moving However the couple I’m in a car with are unfased, they play Brazilian worship songs at full volume and out of the passenger seat window a kind of bongo drum is being played, balanced on the roof of the car. Behind us are various other cars heading for camp and some of the mocidade (sort of 18-30ish group from church) have got out of their cars and are playing volleyball across the lanes. Everyone’s laughing and smiling and putting photos of the traffic on facebook and no one seems in the slightest bit annoyed by the hold up. There’s a favela at the side of the road and children are emerging from there to weave in and out of the cars selling water and popcorn and other snacks. In the hard shoulder two men stand chatting, laughing, their shirts say “Traffic Management”, which seems somewhat ironic. I curl up on the backseat close to the air conditioning, as the Brazilian national anthem blasts out of our speakers and several nearby cars join in singing.

The camp is called Solo Scritura (Only Scripture) and throughout the weekend I’m reminded time and time again of how God’s word is powerful and relevant to our lives. One evening I’m sitting with a couple of guys my age and we share our testimonies, hearing their stories is so moving that the hecticness of camp seems to stop around us and  I hardly even notice the mosquitos eating my feet. When I wake up in the morning there are monkeys out of the window and the sun is already hot at the window.

It’s 5 in the afternoon and I’m shattered, slightly sunburnt and desperately trying to stay patient with the girls telling me how the boy across the corridor has been tirando onda (taking the mick) out of them.  Then there comes a  beautiful moment of quiet, I seize the chance to sneak out onto the balcony and looking out at the palm trees and setting sun I ask God to give me the energy I need and help me to love, when everything in me cries out for bed. He gives me the moment of peace that I need before heading back out the door. In the evening we play a word game a bit like Articulate and I try and rise to the challenge in Portuguese, my first word I later find out means “anvil” and predictably I flail not having a clue what it means. Later on I manage to get some words though and everyone claps, I sit back in my rocking chair and watch everyone laughing and enjoying themselves. It feels for a moment like church camps back in the UK, that same feeling of one big family united on what really matters

.

On the beach at camp, with a guitar and a ukulele!

With the four teenagers who came on camp from Porta Larga, the
community I'm working with.

I walk in the door of the apartment, my 17 floors high home here in Brazil; at least the lifts are working today! Bruce and Bella the pugs jump up at me and I grab a banana and a chocolate milk from the fridge. I’m so tired from camp that when I give the dogs some banana I find myself telling them off in Portuguese for not saying “obrigado” (thank you). I laugh at myself and drag my bag to my room, there’s one hour until I leave for church so I sit down at my desk with my trilingual Bible trying to make sense of the passage we’re looking at in the teenagers class tonight and trying to wake myself up from my car sleepiness.

With my Brazilian cousin Augusto and a comedian called Nelson Freitas 

It’s 2am and I’m on a crowded dance floor with my Brazilian Mum and several aunts. It’s a week since I was at camp and we’re on a weekend away at a gathering for food company owners Recife (my Brazilian family own a supermarket chain called Arco-Íris (Rainbow!)) Around me everyone is sambaing like they were born with perfect rhythm and hips that move in directions mine just don’t. I make myself try again, and again, and again, I start to think maybe I’m getting it when an aunt informs me that the wiggle is coming far too much from my shoulders and needs to come from my chest, she helpfully puts her hands on my chest in case I’m in any doubt over where that might be! I turn to my Brazilian sister and say ‘socorro’ (help!) before inwardly promising myself that if I manage one more song I can raid the table of coxinhas (an incredible Brazilian chicken snack). I turn back to the dancefloor and stare at the feet below me that seem to be moving at 100mph, so different from the British jump up and down/halfhearted sway of nights back in the UK.

We make it back in time for our different church services on Sunday evening. I’m sitting in the front pew trying to keep the little boys beside me from shouting or hitting each other! In the service we sing what is so far my favourite Brazilian worship song,  

At the cross You beckon me

You draw me gently to my knees, and I am
Lost for words, so lost in love,

I’m sweetly broken, wholly surrendered

We head out for the teenagers group and do some dramas in pairs before splitting into boys and girls, as the group has become pretty big to keep all together. I take the girls next door and we’re looking at the end of Mark 1. It’s hard work and I’m struggling to get everyone to concentrate. I come away feeling tired and disheartened, yet I pray that somehow God taught them something tonight and for the umpteenth time I’m  forced to thank Him that it’s not about my weakness and tiredness and failures but about His strength and what He did on that cross.  Monday morning brings a new week, new opportunities, new challenges and the arrival of four bin bags of toys with damaged packaging that couldn't be sold in the family supermarket!

Lots of love and hope things are going well with you,
Flo xxxx

p.s. Bella the pug has just got home from her Ultrasound and it is now confirmed, FIVE PUG PUPPIES ARE ON THE WAYYYY!