“Ola. Boa noite.” I softly uttered the typical Brazilian greeting for an evening event. I removed my sandals and shifted my bag to the other shoulder in order to bend and kiss the cheek of the hostess. The worn wooden floorboards squeaked and groaned as we moved toward the middle of the room. As my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, I took in my surroundings. Several white plastic chairs were arranged underneath one bare lightbulb, but the room had no other furnishings. Toward the back, the family’s sleeping area was partitioned off by two colorful, thin curtains and I could make out several hammocks and at least two young children within.

I lowered myself into the plastic chair offered me. I felt sweat begin to trickle down my back. It was a humid, stale evening and the room had no windows. The one oscilating fan offered little relief. As more people entered the room, I offered my chair to a woman bent with age. I settled on the wooden floor and joined the quiet small talk.

The home belonged to the family of a sixteen year old girl who, at eight years old, began to have severe headaches. As it is with her family’s culture and custom, she was taken to the only person they knew for healing — the pajé (witch doctor.) He offered her healing but it was through the means of evil spirits. Soon after this encounter, she began having experiences outside the ordinary. She has lived through what some would call a nightmare these last several years, in fear of these occurrences. Tonight we were gathered because she wanted to know more about the One True God.

“Só em Ti confiarei, eu nada temerei…” The lyrics roused me from my thoughts, “I’ll only trust in You, I have nothing to fear.” I had agreed to speak tonight, and I felt deeply aware of how utterly dependent on God I was. I did not have any human words of wisdom for a girl living in crippling fear of demonic attack. I had no three-point plan for her healing.

The songs faded and the prayer ended. I opened my Bible, took a deep breath, and began…

Our truck bounced and lurched as we hit yet another dip in the road, throwing us all to one side. As I braced for the next one, I snuck a glance at Greg. He caught my gaze and his face broke into a huge smile that matched my own. We were almost home. Nine months and five days from the day we closed our front door in nervous anticipation of our first stateside and our third child, three months and five days longer than we had planned because of the pandemic — we were home.

As our town-and finally our home-came into view, Titus gave a happy squeal, “I remember this!” I felt my doubts and fears begin to lessen as both Titus and Addison “remembered” everything — their toys, the kitchen, the wide porch — even the papaya trees and the sound of the chorus of jungle birds. In the days that followed our arrival home, they have astounded me with their vivid memories of our home, and the contentment they find in the very simple, unencumbered life we live. It appears I worried without reason, for though we left the land of zoos, splash pads, pools, and parks on every corner, they have not asked for any of these things. It’s as if they realize these are not part of their world anymore. Though I was tempted to grieve this for them, their pleasure with the small, ordinary things, and their squeals of delight over lizards and butterflies make me wonder if they aren’t really missing out on anything at all.

Though sweet, our arrival home was laced with difficulties. Greg and I spent hours cleaning the house from top to bottom with a bleach solution to get rid of several mold issues. Titus and Addison both got sick soon after we arrived, and had difficulty breathing, coughing, sneezing and wheezing and Matthew began teething, which meant several sleepless nights. We dealt (anew) with the bugs, the endless heat, humidity, dust and mold. All of these things we predicted, and even braced ourselves for — all except one.

Three days after we returned home, I reached to turn on the faucet and nothing came out. “That can’t be,” I thought, “Greg had just finished pumping the water into our water box,” so in theory, we should have enough for several days.

A few minutes later, Greg walked in. His face was pinched with worry and he looked confused. “We are out of water,” he stated. “Completely.”

It’s our worst fear where we live, by far. We are completely dependent on the rain. So to have run out of water in our 8,000 liter cistern is a huge deal. All our water, for cooking, bathing, drinking and cleaning comes from the water we have stored in our cistern, and the process for getting our cistern refilled is cumbersome at best. After a quick scan of all our pipes and plumbing, we discovered a leak. While we were pumping the water into our water box, it was leaking out through some pipes on the opposite side of the house.

For over a week, this was a daily chore that took Greg hours to do. Since only so much water can be hauled in a day, it would take all morning and we would only have enough water for the next day. We lived like this for over a week before several heavy rains began to refill our empty cistern.

Just last night, rain finally filled our cistern to the brim. What a sweet relief it was. In fact, I looked around today and realized for the first time in three weeks, we are functioning at “normal.” Our routine has been reestablished. Clean laundry hung to dry on the lines outside, rice and beans were cooking on the stove, and the children are all content and healthy.

We’re finally home.

Savannah

A global pandemic. A shelter-in-place order. Worshipping with our churches from our living rooms, allowed to leave our homes only if necessary. Suffering. Weeping. Meeting new babies through glass windows  — cancelled trips and weddings, postponed funerals. Fear of financial collapse. Fear of the future as we pick up the pieces and count our losses and try to regroup. Death.

We feel the effects of the fall. That moment in history where mankind brought upon itself all the horror of disease, loneliness and shame, fear, hopelessness, separation and ultimately — death. The pain of this broken world can be masked by ease and temporary pleasure. The blow can be softened with money, distracted by Netflix, comforted with food. We work and laugh and gather and eat and buy and scroll and watch and sleep and then do it all again the following day.

But for the first time in a long time, we are all looking up from our phones. We have collectively paused. The whole world has stopped.

When we stop, we see. By the grace of God we see our world for what it is — incredibly, incredibly fragile. Crippled over one virus that cannot even be seen by the naked eye.

By the grace of God we also see who we are. When our world is in upheaval and everything in our lives changes in one fell swoop, we often find we see ourselves anew, as if looking into a mirror. We see fear and anger, disappointment and despair, laziness and hopelessness. We see things in ourselves we have rarely, if ever, seen before.

We see all the things God sees and knows — we see the real person that He loves. It gives us a chance to wrestle and repent over sins that lay hidden before this ugly time in our history.

And it gives us a chance to move. Not outside of our home at this point — we must continue to protect the vulnerable — but as we see the people around us in confusion and pain and fear, there has been no better time to use our voices to answer questions with love and compassion and strength and hope. To use the devices we hold in our hand and on our lap to speak truth into a confused, broken society.

Who in our lives needs to hear of the gospel that has power over disease and death, offers real life?!

Because for the first time in forever — they’re listening.

I couldn’t speak around the lump in my throat. As his words sank in, so did the reality of what we are doing — of what it might cost.

“They asked us to come,” Greg’s voice shook with excitement. “They invited us to go up the river. They want our help. They know they need a salvation.”

He was telling me about our people. One of the groups to which we were sent. They live deep within the jungle, where sickness and hopelessness pervade. We recently learned thirty-three of the males killed themselves last year. Some venture out of the jungle, to the nearest towns, searching for help, education, and medicine, but those who make it to the towns are introduced to drugs, alcohol, prostitution and gambling, spend money they do not have, and become trapped by a new sort of problems.

We live on the fringe of this jungle. We positioned ourselves here because we cannot go in unless they ask. We thought it would be 10 years before they did.

I thought back to a journal entry from the previous week: It’s almost beyond my ability to comprehend that people yet exist, untouched by the outside world, hidden by miles of dangerous green, filled with jaguars, poisonous creatures, anacondas and deadly fungi. 

Stranger still, to sit here at the edge of it, hoping to understand it, waiting to see how and when to enter it.

Greg went on, “They know they need help. They fear they are losing their culture, and their population is dwindling because of the suicides. They feel they are a people forgotten, overlooked.” He paused. “It may mean a very different life than the one we thought. I may be gone for weeks at a time on the river.”

My mind instantly flooded with questions, thoughts, fears. What about the dangers, the unknowns of the jungle and the river? What of the days with no cell signal, nights with no knowledge of his whereabouts or safety? What about our two small children? What if we have an emergency, I wondered, thinking of the tiny one-room public hospital our town has.

“This is an unreal opportunity!” I heard myself say. And I meant it with every fiber of my being. This is what we’ve been asking for and all we’ve been working towards since we got married.

The coming weeks and months are uncertain. The task at hand seems overwhelming—impossible even. We’ve known all along it would be, but now it’s here.

But even through the fog of these events and changes, for us it remains simple:

We have but one purpose, and one life to give.

*        *         *

God, in His glorious way and perfect timing, has chosen to place our family in this place at a truly incredible time. “Our people,” are struggling in the jungle which is forcing them out, but they are coming to realize that they face just as many or more problems if they reach the cities. This is creating a sense of desperation, for the preservation of their ancient culture and way of life, as well as for hope of any kind. One man asked Greg specifically if he would come and bring about the salvation of his people. We are in awe and humbled by these things. We ask for your prayer. For wisdom — the jungle is dangerous and the people in it are broken — and for the true salvation of our people.

I had just put Titus to bed. He had fallen asleep while I read him a story — exhausted, fighting some sort of allergy or sickness. The previous three days had been full of wheezing and coughing, and nighttime sleep had been interrupted — exhausting for both of us. His health had been a challenge off and on for what had seemed like 6 months. I wanted my healthy, happy boy back.

My heart was heavy as I lowered my seven-month pregnant body to pick up toys and began to work on the grandiose pile of dishes. With no dishwasher, just two meals can make the kitchen a mountainous mess and ants in Brazil are aggressive, so no leaving everything “to soak.”

My mind was occupied with Titus’s health and the 90 degrees it felt it was inside our home at 8:00 pm. I sighed and wished for “home” and healthcare I understand for my small son, for dishwashers and cooler temperatures. There are days where the combination of stress and heat and unfamiliar feel suffocating.

Deep in thought, I accidentally bumped a glass plate. It fell onto our unforgiving tile floor, shattering into a thousand pieces.

And I just stared at it.

One more thing to add to the workload. One more thing that would take care and precision to clean, so that Titus would not catch a tiny shard in a foot or hand the next day. Just bending over to pick things off the floor these days is a task. And now this?!

I have a comment I make to Greg sometimes, when it seems like everything is going wrong, and then little things on top of those things happen and tip the scale, resulting in frustration and tears. I joke and say, “Someone somewhere hates me!” As if days that go “badly” in my short-sighted economy and perspective are some sort of conspiracy by someone “out there.” It’s a ridiculous philosophy and we both laugh.

But sometimes it feels that way.

Recently when I have gone to utter those words, a truth hidden deep inside comes to the surface. “Someone somewhere loves you.” I’m reminded that these things that happen to me or around me, or threaten to overwhelm me with stress and discomfort  are actually part of a grandiose plan formed specifically for my life by someone who loves me and wants me to cling to Him. Someone who knows my only hope for true, lasting joy is Himself, and to be unsatisfied and uncomfortable in this world is the grace by which I seek and find all I need in Him.

These discomforts are reminders that I am not home yet. They are not haphazard and by chance, but rather crafted for me by a Creator who loves me too much to let me spend my days in total comfort and peace, forgetting the broken world we live in and my desperate need for Him.

So as I kneeled to pick up the shards of broken glass from the floor, I said a quiet “thank you.” His gifts seem strange sometimes, but gentle reminders of his love come more from anxieties and struggles than holidays in the sun.

So for that one glass plate, I am thankful.

Savannah

There must have been fifty children in the room. They live on the outskirts of our city, and they have a community all their own. They have come to the city for work and opportunity, but they come from places along the Amazon river where they live a vastly different kind of life.

Most of them have many brothers and sisters. Most of them began caring for their younger siblings almost as soon as they could walk. Standing on stools to cook, bathing and changing diapers, they are tiny mothers and fathers out of sheer necessity, for their parents are busy working to provide food and shelter.

I know this. Mentally I understand that they are careful and protective of babies, I know they have the ability to carry children for long distances, to do multiple tasks while taking care of smaller ones.

And then they reached their arms up for my child. 

Before I could move, they took him. They carried him across the room and bounced him up and down on their tiny legs. They pinched his cheeks and tousled his different looking hair. They grabbed his feet and stared into his face and tickled him. The surrounded him, speaking a language he did not understand, looking different than anyone he had ever seen.

I stood there and held my breath. My heart was pounding. I did not even know enough Portuguese language to tell them he might rather be with his mama.

“Let him go,” I heard, “I have him.” 

The fierce protectiveness that filled my heart the first time I looked at tiny Titus still swells in me every day. “Let him go?”  

I let him go that day. And he smiled and laughed and played. And my heart was gently reminded by our sweet, good Father of the joy that comes from holding our gifts with open hands.

Your prayers for our family are being answered. We are filled with joy.

Savannah

We are officially residents of Manaus, Brazil!

This week has been full. Day 2, we learned to drive manual transmission, and had a difficult time in some soft sand. An offer to help us turned into a full size tractor pulling us out of the dirt?! Below you can see our “new” vehicle, and the mess we made! We are learning to navigate a new city, a new way of driving, and heavy traffic. 

We are settling into our new apartment, and way of life. We have a washer with no dryer, so clothes hang either on our balcony, or all over our apartment while it rains. We have toilets, but cannot flush toilet paper, showers with primarily cold water, and each day we learn a funny new quirk about living or driving or cooking in our new country.

Below is the view from our apartment. The city is located in the middle of the rainforest, which makes for an interesting, beautiful dynamic. Manaus has over 2 million people, and it is located directly on the Amazon River. We hung our hammock on our porch, and have loved every second of laying in it while the rains (every day this season, perhaps?) cooled the heat of our city.

We are truly loving life here. God has been so good to make adjustment sweet and fun for all three of us. In different ways, and for different reasons, each day has brought about fun new memories we will never forget.

Thank you for your prayers as we adjust. The joy and rest and peace of God has filled our hearts and minds during what could be a very stressful time. We are so incredibly grateful.

 

 

“We measure the worth of a hidden treasure by what we will gladly sell to buy it. If we sell all, we measure the worth as supreme.” – John Piper

Greg, Titus and I are leaving in just under two months for the country of Brazil. God has led us to sell all we own and leave our family and our country and we do so with joy. We are going because His worth is supreme, and because we want to make Him known in all the world. 

“The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field, which a man found and covered up. Then in his joy he goes and sells all that he has and buys that field.” Matthew 13:44 We have found this treasure, and it is worth losing all other things. 

This blog will be our primary means of keeping in touch. We will post prayer requests, pictures, and updates about our travels and adventures. If you would like to stay in touch, our ‘About Us‘ page will have more information on how to do so.

Savannah