Jesus, alive and present in a mama and son's life.

“Put your finger here; see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side. Stop doubting and believe.” Jn 20:27.

Easter always reminds me of how alive my Jesus still is today. I think that folks forget that when Jesus rose from the dead he rose body, spirit, mind, and soul. He walked in earthly feet, he picked up his bread and fish with physical hands and ate them with his physical mouth, just as you and I do.  Mary hugged him to her, Thomas placed his own hands into the nail torn hands and feet of his Lord. When Jesus was taken up into the clouds, He did so body, spirit, mind and soul. He never shucked off his outer physical earthly being. So he most likely is sitting besides his father in bodily form. Why does this mean so much to me? Well, I find that knowing he is still physically present gives me a special kind of human comfort more than that of the image of His Spirit does. But let me tell you the story that got me thinking about His physical being.

Carlos, the day he won my heart! His first day with us.

I was sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, with my elbows digging into my knees, watching my new little son fight for his little life. We had named him Carlos after his Papaw. Our little boy had been placed in our hands with the warning, "here's your baby, but he's very sick so you need to take him immediately to the Emergency room." He was 3 months old and wieghed only 5 lbs. This was back in 1990, Brazil, in Curitiba, Parana, two states north of our home in the South of Brazil. In Brazil, Brazilians always have first choice to adopt over foreigners. We had left our names at an orphanage near there and were soon offered the privilege of adopting this little guy, because all the Brazilians on the list did not want him because he was not perfect. He had been born with no right hand. When they asked us if this would be a problem, we simply said, "no, we already know he's ours!" 


Three months back, during a prayer time, I asked God to prepare my heart for any child he would give us.  Suddenly I heard His voice without hearing a whisper, " Will you be willing to adopt a handicapped child?" I had never actually thought about it. But I knew if God had chosen a child with a disability for us, then I knew he would help us parent him/her. My husband felt the same way. As the coming months passed we both began thinking that maybe God was just doing a heart check, proving us our commitment.  3 months later,  We received the call about this 3 month old little baby that had been dropped off at the orphanage by the judge. ( yes, God had spoken to me about the same time as his birth). As we drove up to Curitiba, we questioned why in the world God thought we needed to be prepared to accept a son with such a small disability. Little did we know!


So here I sat, frightened, stressed, and hopeless to do anything to save this little guy. But he was mine and I loved him with all my heart. I had been watching the saline solution drip into the vein on his head, counting them, every drop. The drip system was the old kind that the nurse had to adjust constantly because it would slow down. I knew his life depended on that drip. He no longer was given a bottle because everything that went in came out quickly and explosively. He was not absorbing any nutrients, and the pediatric gastroenterologist was off at a conference so they couldn't give anything more than a drip of saline solution to keep him alive until she returned. I had called the nurse in repeatedly to adjust the drip. It didn't seem to ever drip fast enough. This last time she had stormed out of the room growling behind her, "Do not call me again, its dripping fast enough.. You are just worrying way too much.  Stop bothering me!" I was furious. I was hurt, I was scared.  I could literally see his life seep slowly out of his little malnourished body.  I began to cry uncontrollably. My shoulders shook, and I tried to hug myself to still.  I cried out audibly in a desperate raspy voice, "God help me!" An uncanny silence filled the room, filled my soul. The bed dipped a bit beside me, my body warmed on that side and I could feel a strong arm curve around my shoulders. I leaned into the warmth of His body. I quietened. I knew it was myLord. He said to my heart, " I am with you, it will be alright". I felt no need to ask a thing of him, I just needed my Lord there, physically present, holding me, calming my distressed heart. We sat in this warm embrace for a long time. I don't know when He left, but when I looked up toward the window, the sun was already perched in blue. 


My little guy looked grey. I breathed deeply and went in search of real help.  I felt empowered. I tracked down the pediatrician and with more confidence than I've ever had before or since. I told him that this little guy was my son, that I knew that he and the nurses thought that he would die one way or anther. and weren't giving him the attention he needed. I told him that God had given me this son, whether for just a day or two, or for a life time, and I was going to fight for his little life with every thing I had in me and I needed them to fight with me. And things changed. Carlos was weighed again, the first time in 3 days. He had gone down to 2.5 lbs from the 5 lbs he came in with. The real fight for Carlinhos's life was on and the entire staff were now on board.

Carlos is now 21 years old and plays for his college soccer team. Having only one hand has never slowed him down one bit at least until now. He would give anything to be in the Armed forces, or serve in the field as a cop. There are no openings for someone with only one hand. He's devastated and lost as what to do with his life. I know that God has a special plan for his life, and when he slows down and listens, he's going to hear what God has purposed for him, and find great meaning in life, one that will give him all the excitement he requires of life!

So, I shared this very long story to remind you, that Jesus is alive body, spirit, mind and soul. And in that he can comfort us as we need to be comforted, encourage and challenge us in our human state. He is alive, really alive!

Carlos playing soccer

Carlos, age 3 months in the hospital

The poetry of Travel, but maybe not

Driving swiftly through the plains outside Bogota then  painfully and slowly winding up and down Andean Mountain roads, my mind becomes pressed to the horizon. The mountain peaks pierce the sky; a nose, an elbow, chins and  young perky tits. I laugh. I know the last description makes minds shift uncomfortably, but let's be honest, all human beings have them, whether they are sizable or not. They are the source of nourishment for one just out of the womb, so important, givers of life!!!So say it, "Tits! breasts! Boobs! chachas! Don't you feel just a little better? So stop interrupting me with your uncomfortable inward reactions to my poetry!! . I must poetisize on. ( You say that's not a word? )

The further we head out of the mega city the more open the face, more amiable the smile of those on the side of the road. City and Cement are behind us. My back pain has me stretched out on the back
seat, with my feet propped above the car window. My view now is of sky, white with clouds, cotton and fuzz. From the front seat their conversation drifts back to me. Gringo and indigenous, share thoughts, share lives, share impressions of the drive. Passing under on overhang called the Devil's nose, our friend speaks of this place as having many demons as its residents. More man chatter. Questions, misinterpretations, guffaws.

We slow to a crawl up a steep incline behind a slow truck. I sit up for a bit to see roadside stands filled with brown zapote ( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manilkara_zapota) cut in half bearing their bright orange flesh. Mangoes and papayas hang along side them just as intensively orange and ripe.

As we approach a small town the motorcycle to truck ratio increases, A small ranchero, ranch style house painted daffodil yellow brightens the solemn features of the grey old man that stands out front purposelessly watching the traffic go by in a haze of diesel fumes. Windows rolled down, humid, wet,  tired, sticky hair on neck, in face, all over the place. Tall green bamboo mark cool river's edge.
Clouds begin to bully the setting sun from its last appearance. Peacocks tied to an umbrella table along side the road. WHAT? I didn't get why peacocks either! Were they for sale?...we drive on.

Front seat conversation drifts to hunting, poison frogs, arrows and Chiguiro ( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chiguiro ) for dinner.  Don't forget to cut out the part of meat that has the poison in it before you cook it. This leads to a tale of a man who kills son with poison arrow when drunk, took 20 minutes for son to die.  Which leads to talk of his own cow being poisoned with frog venom but was cured with human urine. What? yeuk, maybe I don't want to listen in to the man talk from the front seat.

The mountains raise again, shacks tiptoe on the precipice of deep gullies. Jeeps piled high with plantains, people and live animals. That means we are nearing Pereira. From the front seat we are given a lesson in plantain farming. It takes 9 months for a plantain palm to bear its bounty. I think I remember that in the villages around Mount Kilimanjaro, women would plant them when they became pregnant, to help them keep track of their pregnancy. The present and past collide in the most unusual ways at times.

Clouds lower their powdery paws upon the mountain around us. Darkness soon follows and a humid chill fills my bones. We are at the peak, and we wait, and wait and wait for hours as the heavy night truck traffic shares one lane with us after the most recent mud slide. Boulders mark a muddy path down the mountain near us.

Late, tired,  damp we arrive at our destination. The house awakes my memory though my body may already be in slumber. The floor under my feet, the same as our Moshi house, so long ago in Africa. The constant whir of the fan over head as I sleep, brings me into dreams of childhood, and Land Rovers, long dusty trips, and stewed plantains.

I wake hot, salty damp skin, night clothes clinging. This morning will wake my ears to words, nasal, , quick tongues to my deaf ears. Epena, Chami, Katio so little tie the three together yet to hearing they are but one. Linguists amaze me! Indigneous languages confuse this old worn out mind. Am I really to learn yet 4th new language at this foggy old brain? In all honesty I doubt I'll get very far!

Our indigenous friend joins us rested. Breakfast's story is of the boy born from the calf of a man, a ladder to heaven, flying, and a people who eat only steam because they have no place in their body to evacuate. Oh boy, this is going to be a long day, but a good one !!! Saca Buma!!