Two Cities in Paraguay: Part 3

Asunción is the capital city of Paraguay and home to more than 1.7 million people. The city is dense with commercial and residential buildings side by side and for me it was disorientating to navigate outside of the neighborhood I lived. I was lucky to have a guide for my trips beyond a jog or an afternoon walk. I spent about a month in the city and even on a map it is hard for me to find one a place of reference. I am very grateful for the aid I received traveling to different parts of the city. You are warned by taxis drivers and locals to be careful in the tourist areas and at certain times during the night and early morning. I will say my night life was limited to group activates but that didn’t always mean I wasn’t out late on occasion. These brothers and sister “try” to keep normal hours, but that’s not always possible, between youth events and missions in the streets.

My first week in Asuncion was in late October during the order’s twelve year celebration. I was able that week to see many things in a tourist sort of way. I left for the boarder of Brazil and returned four weeks later to experience life on a day to day basis. It is important give you an overview before describing my return.

 Asuncion is a swirling blend of locations and districts that buzz amidst constant sound and movement.  One such place is the market district that wraps around many city blocks encompassing store fronts, wall-less shops packed in warehouses, and tarps covered stands tucked between building and road sides. The maze like district is covered from both the hot sun and the passing torrents of rain. The market is lively and exotic for foreigners as vendors sell just about everything. They have no restriction on what they can offer in their varying sized spaces, from car parts and electronics, to meats and fruits, it is all in the open and ready to be sold.

The Government square, “Heroes’ Memorial”, the center statue park, and the Cathedral all reside close to each other in the down town tourist district. I walked with two Americans friends and my spiritual mother Sister Magdalena to the edge of the statue park. The stands sell hand crafted wood working, intricate sewn items, and even piercing and tattoos. I walked away from shopping and watched the men at the many concrete tables playing checkers. I could see the seriousness of their games as I walked closer, each man held a wad of cash in his hand or tucked it under their side of the board. The players chain smoke and exchange sours looks as roving spectators drift around the tables.  Under a grand looking statue people sit and talk while resting in the heat of the day. The native women sell their own jewelry and Rosaries fashioned from different types of threads, beads, and local seeds. They sit segregated from everyone else next to the goods arranged on blankets. The native people live in the poorest parts of the city, some live in shanties along the stale drainage ditches, and others in housing alongside the city trash dump.

The United States is embraced in Paraguay, and so is American themed fashion, capitalism, and coke a cola. I helped interpret many shirts with knock off logos and non-sense phases; some were comically bad in translation. The capitalist system is well instilled in the cities culture, and it’s a hustle to survive. Yet there is a Spanish and Guarani phase that defines the easy mind set of the people, “Tranquillo Pau”. As a question it means, “Are you Calm?”, or as a statement, “It’s all quiet and good.” There is a strong work ethic in the people, and I have seen it working alongside the laborers of Paraguay, but they don’t worry about things, just relax in between and pace themselves. They do love Coke a Cola in Paraguay -it’s made with real sugar, along with American vehicles like the Toyota Tundra, I feel the giant Tundra is an American vehicle especially next to the French Peugeot truck. There are American restaurants like TGI Fridays’, malls that have American or American like stores, and the hotels and bars use English names. All priced for the wealthy and the tourists in areas far away from the average Paraguayan. 

I lived in an area that was typical of the many neighborhoods threaded about the city. These areas are packed between the fast moving thoroughfares where cars and buses weave for supremacy. In my neighborhood the speed bumps and uneven stone streets and prevent speeding. The family living across the street shared their living space with a warehouse for reupholstering furniture. When it rained the three children would go on the roof and clear the water off the low spots and to the gutters. Many of the houses up and down the street had open windows to sell small household items, cigarettes, food, beer, and soft drinks. There is a barber, an internet house, little bars, a salon, a couple restaurants, and a gym. The outer streets are lined with repair shops, butcher shops, a supermarket, and many other services; there is no shortage of little businesses.

The brothers’ house was nearly abandoned before they began renovation and the neighbors welcomed them warmly. The house is three stories with a roof used for hanging laundry. It has an open air courtyard of brown aggregate concrete, with a grand mango tree living off to the side, and a grotto to the Lady of Caacupa; the Mother of Jesus Holy Mother of Paraguary. The kitchen, dining room, and chapel are on the ground level, the brother quarters are on the second floor, and the sons’ quarters are on the third. I lived on the third floor with the sons. The sons all were in their late teens and twenties, living with the brothers after struggling with drugs or alcohol, estranged from their parents and family, and without good options in life they turned to the Fraternity for help. They all attended a Regate-me (recue me) which is a religious retreat focused on younger adults both men or women that are struggling with drinking or drugs. I my time in Asuncion, five sons lived with the brothers. They alternate tasks, like cooking or cleaning, but all had plenty of time to recover, reflect, and find a focus. Martin was one of the men, he was around twenty, and after six months started working, staying with his parents on weekends, and speaks to groups about his drug additions. Another son was named Ronny, he is originally from Brazil, and after time spent with the brothers began working for a painter and lay member of the Fraternity.  

***

First Street Mission in Asuncion, Paraguay

We packed the cars on a hot night in late November with bread and juice for the Friday night mission into the streets of Asuncion. The donation materials for the street mission in Paraguay consist of bread, butter, and powdered juice. This is a poor country and the Legos (lay Members) stretch what they have to keep the weekly mission going for most of the year. There are many different missions with the youth, children and families, and the regular needs of the brothers’ and sister’ houses. The legos all give time, money, supplies, their homes for retreats and events, and their talents in the capacity they can sustain.

Brother Seraphim was in charge of the mission that night and we fit fifteen people in three small cars and headed to the other side of the city. We drove through at a grand complex for South American soccer that had a large office building for administration, an elegantly lighted hotel, practice fields, and sporting stadium.  At first I expected us to drive on by into a nearly neighborhood, but we drove in front of the hotel and jumped the curbs on the other side of the road. All three cars parked inside the ring of light provided by the hotel and when I got out a string of long shadows approached us. Where the light begins to fad is a deep drainage ditch mostly full of swampy water, full from the persistent rains and run off from the streets and fields. The first to arrive at the cars were the children, and they quickly organized themselves with little help from the Formados. In their native language of Guarani they prayed and lined up for bread and juice. I came around one of the cars with my camera and a little apprehension because this was my first mission in Asuncion and I remember being overwhelmed by the crowd in the border of Cidad De Este earlier in my travels.

The children smiled and wanted to have their pictures taken, and then asked to see the pictures in the viewer. This went on as the line for food and juice moved steady. The calm of the people was striking and I remembered the madness in Cidad De Este in late October. The adults were behind the children holding the youngest children, who now chewed on little French breads and wriggled around to see the action that was going on around them.

When the line dissipated so did the space between us and new groups formed with the brothers now holding the babies. The children played alongside the road in a patch of mowed grass, and I was asked to take more pictures by the natives.

I was walking beside the largest group and a tall dark featured man spoke to me in English.

“Hello.”

I paused and said softly. “Hello.” I didn’t recognize this man and he didn’t come with our group.  “You speak English?”

“Yes, I speak English. Would you like me to help you talk to the people here?”

“I would, thank you. My name is Sean, what’s your name?”

“You can call me Rob, Sean.” He drew a breath,” You are an American and this man wants you to know about him.” He pointed to a dark skinned native man who stood very straight and was wearing a clean white shirt. “He speaks Spanish and I can translate between you.”          

I was still confused because I didn’t know this man, and wasn’t sure how he knew I was American, but he spoke softly with direct intension.

That is how I met the indigenous man Maximo who stood alongside his girlfriend Antonia, and they told me of the situation in this camp along the water. There are 125 people living in the long line of wood and tarp shacks that run into the darkness. Maximo came here a year ago without an option from the agency that assists natives call “the Institute of Native Affairs”. Much like the Native Americans the US, the Guarani peoples were displaced from their homes and enslaved for centuries. In this century areas in the undeveloped lands to the north became “reservation” like villages. The issue is compounded with little employment and a preference for the more European Paraguayans. One positive movement is the Paraguay’s renewed appreciate of its past heritage. This includes the language and the culture of the Guarani peoples, which has been embraced with great enthusiasm. The country has celebrated its improvements during their bicentennial, but social and economic changes remains slow.         

Still Maximo lives here among the many children and want for assistance. Like his people before him, he was living in another city to the north until he was unseated from his housing. His assistance ended and after losing his home he moved to Asuncion for work, but work is hard to find for many native people and he remains unemployed. He and the other adults claimed to have no problem with drugs or alcohol and I could see the genuine care for the children by their clean clothes and faces.       

I was amazed at the pride in Maximo’s weathered face and his clean blue shirt, for he had not given up, but knew he needed a voice, for his was not being heard. He asked me to speak for him to the people I knew in the United States, and he said that with a real faith.  Even still he is there without good shelter, power, and water beyond the faucet outside the hotel.        

 Sports Complex

 Shadows

 Native Children

 Clean Clothes and Faces

 Martin Helping with the Street Mission

 Maximo and Antonia

 Brother seraphim

 

The camp in the distance

Profession Day Two

I arrived at Saint Anthony’s Church for the Missionaries of the Poor of Jesus Christ’s yearly Profession of Vows. I was relieved when we got there bursting out of a truck with eight Paraguayans. We had to make due for the short trip to the church and I shared the back bench of the extended cab truck with five female Formados (sisters in formation). In Paraguay the bed of the truck is passenger space, but in Brazil the police are not as liberal about using the outside of the vehicle as seating.  All told there were eight of us squeezed together, which also is not uncommon in Paraguay.  Those crammed in the truck and the thirty others from Asuncion Paraguay greeted me warmly with smiles and hugs that morning. They are a sweet group of people and I was touched to be so energetically embraced after their 10 hours overnight bus trip.

Across the parking lot was the side entrance to the church and the walkways in front were filled with a mix of brothers, sisters, and friends. The doors remained closed as the novices and choir rehearsed the ceremony in private, but a flood of the music permeated the walls and closed doors of the church. I spotted a car load from Governador Valadares, the first city I stayed in. Among them was my fellow American friend Kristin, who had been teaching sewing techniques to the monastic sisters in that same city. I laughed when I saw Andrea, I had not seen him since October, and he looked uncomfortable for about a second as he lifting his heavy torso from the back seat of the car. He is a lay member of the order, sings at church with the brothers, and helps greatly with activates for the poor and the youth. He is always with a light exuberance and springy wit.  He laughed when he saw me and with my improved Portuguese we exchanged greetings.

The church doors opened and the waiting crowd pushed in to find seats. I heard the confused clatter from inside as I stood at the back of the swelled line. I felt no rush so I looked for friends before entering myself. When I did enter I took some picture of the practice as I found a pew in the second tier of seating. It was an hour until the ceremony but the church was almost filled. I saw Brother Gabriel singing in the choir to the left of the altar.

Br. Gabriel was the first member of the order I met in Brazil right off the plane. He and I had many adventures in the initial two months of my mission. He set up a classroom for me to learn entry level Portuguese, took me on all the missions, and even nursed me back to health after my first Brazilian flu. I feel that when I was struggling with my past he knew it. He opened the door by saying, “You have sadness in your eyes and your soul is very tired. We talked a lot about the freedom God wants us to feel right now, of letting go of the past, be it painful or difficult. That forgiveness from God is a complete gift and we have no reason to limit God, but because we have trouble forgiving and loving ourselves and others, we think God is the same way.  Even if many of our conversation required google translator I valued his wisdom very much. I am excited that I will be in Kansas City to greet him when he arrives early this summer.

I sat down and waited for the ceremony to start, and when I saw Kristen I waved her over to sit with me. She was tired from the trip and the seemly endless energy of our Brazilian friends. It is common for them to spend long hours with each other and, as I have seen, when they are together no one ever stops, be it dancing, working, playing, or setting up for an event.

Bishop Dom Pedro Stringing walked into the church from the side door and was met by many people eager to welcome him. He sponsored the cofounders Fr. Gilson and Sister Servant for their official charter as a Religious order in the Catholic Church. He drew quite a crowd as he made his way out the front doors to take his place in the line of procession outside. The start of the Profession was minutes away and I could see though the textured glass windows the blur of hurried adjustments.  The building was now standing room only and a crowd of parents and friends gathers along the center aisle ready to take photos. The choir stood silent for the signal and we were instructed to be silent as well. The choir began and those professing walked into the church in two columns, brothers on the left and the white veiled sisters on the right. For them this is a marriage ceremony and a graduation combined. 

The journey takes many years to be ready to serve as a brother or sister. In the beginning they learn about the order and religious life on missions and in “vocational experiences”.  The next step they decide to become vocationals and, leaving there past lives, move into houses of the religious.  They study and learn the formation of the order, and then it is decided mutually if they are ready to announce their intent to continue the road to religious life. During a mass many witness as they are presented and put on a heavy brown shirt with the order’s crest, it is their first habit and will be worn at all times during the day and when not in their houses.  It is a major step in letting go of the outside world and preparing for a life not focused on comforts and obedience. There are classes to complete on the liturgy, behavior, the Catholic Church, and the order. Also requirements for assisting in the sacraments, in the Mass, and pastoral work, along with scheduled daily prayer and work. It is two or three years before they are ready from the novice stage, but already a change is evident.

A novice brother or sister spends a year in their respective novice house isolated from technology, phones, and most of the modern world. They are given a new name in the order and only use their birth names on government documents. They do not stop mission work with the poor and are not cloistered from human contact. It is a time of deep prayer and reflection combined with instruction and peace. When I visited the houses of the novices, the peace was so palatable it saturated the buildings and the grounds incorporated both nature and spirit. After they are sent to any number of locations, this is their “mission year” and they are as brothers or sister working in the company of more seasoned religious. At the completion of their mission year they will return the novice houses in preparation of the Profession Ceremony. It is a marked change in these men and woman from Formandos to Professed Religious, but they don’t lose themselves, they aren’t denied personalities, robotic, or thoughtless. I have met many who are greatly in tune with themselves and have a strength that supersedes them. They seem to help others simply with their presence in counseling, helping, leading, and listening. They do know many of the life’s problems and their backgrounds are varied. They are still human with fears, hang ups, hardships, and conflict, but are more adapt at detaching from these issues in the light of peace and faith.

The parents are in a restrained fervor clicking their cameras, phones, and tablets as the procession walks to the Altar. The professing take their seats, Fr. Gilson stands by his chair in front of the Altar, and the other distinguished members take their seats against the wall. Under the statue of the risen Jesus the ceremony begins as the choir transitions from the open song. The professing stand and walk as their names are called to the space before Fr. Gilson. They form two rows, the sisters to the right and the brothers to the left, and Fr. Gilson stands as “vows” portion of the ceremony begins. The novices lay prostrate on the ground in an act of humility to God for this is the more solemn promise of their lives. The choir sang over them and the vows conclude with restrained elation from all in the church, so much emotion was present that I saw many men and woman with tears in their eyes at this beautiful moment.

The remainder of the ceremony confirmed their vows with material representations, to affirm by sight what was true in their hearts. First, all of the newly professed took a white candle to the large Easter candle that represents the light of Christ. In ordered pairs of equal homage one brother and one sister would light their candles at the same time. This act is much like a marriage ceremony, and each sister is the bride of Christ, and each brother is joined eternally to the Church. They return to the rows and are given their respective adornments for the habits they wear. The sisters and the brothers are given rope belts to exchange for the white cotton rope belts worn only by novices. The newly professed are assisted by senior sisters and cover the white veils with the final black veils of this order. Father Gilson is seated as they come forward and he crowns them green wreaths with white flowers.  The brothers come forward and receive the circular brown skull cap distinctive to Franciscans. And finally a cross to be worn around their necks is given to the newly professed. Congratulations are delivered and the newly professed are embraced by all who were on the Altar, the Priests who assisted the order in various locations, the Bishop Dom Pedro, Fr. Rafael (the second priest in the order), and Father Gilson.  Mass was celebrated by the Bishop and afterwards was a short reception.

The hurry after mass was close to an emergency evacuation. Many of the brothers and sisters that came to see the event had buses arriving at the station in an hour or a half hour. Even I discovered that my bus was leaving at 8:30 PM only two hours later. I hugged Fr. Gilson as he was quickly exiting the church, and while I was getting directions to the train station.  Before I got to the reception I talked to twenty or more people that I had meet from all over Brazil. When I arrived the tables were mostly empty and the food and soft drinks were being consolidated. I wasn’t that hungry, but I knew that Brother Benjamin and Brother Gabriel would be around, because both were staying in Cascavel.

Brother Benjamin is from Brazil, but is an American citizen. He will be the first brother in Kansas City Missouri to help set up the house for the other four brother set to arrive sometime early this summer. When I meet him in 2011 he was in the Formado stage of the religious path. We became friends when I begin spending time with the Sisters the Poor of Jesus Christ in Kansas City, Kansas.

I asked another brother where Br. Benjamin  was and the Brother quickly responded. “Oh, Saint Benjamin, he’s around somewhere.”

I found “Saint” Benjamin cleaning the trash baskets in the restroom. He had a giant black sack and was rushing to get everyone set to go. “Brother how are you!” He smiles and walked with me over to the other trash bags and said, “Do you like Brazilian Hot Dogs.” I laughed and told him they were pretty good.

He smiled and said, “Then we have one.”

We talked for ten minutes about the plans for the house in the United States, and how the sisters in the U.S. were doing. Then I helped clean up and we took out the trash bags. I took some pictures of Br. Benjamin playing Brazilian basketball, which is a joke for putting out the trash. In Brazil they have metal racks that stand five foot tall to prevent animals from getting into the trash; it is where you stack the garbage. Brother asked why I was taking pictures and I said, “I can never get a normal picture of you, so I guess a picture of Saint Benjamin taking out the trash will do.”

He muttered and shook his head, “Saint Benjamin.”

Across the street was Brother Gabriel and I waved him over. We took a couple pictures and I had to go.

I asked Br. Gabriel when he was going to the States.

He smiled, “I think I will go with you.” Then he laughed.

“I would like that. I’ll send you my flight number.” 

We both laughed. I said good bye, and then I set off for the train station on foot.

 Sisters After their Vows

 Brother Gabriel to the Left and Brother Benjamin to the right - I will never get a good picture of him.

 My friends from Asuncion Paraguay

 Novices lining up the final practice run

 Father Gilson during the Profession

 The Vows

 Changing Rope Belts

 Brothers receive caps

 Sisters Receive new Veils

 The Sisters are crowned with weaths

 Enjoying a Brazilian Hot dog - and still not good picture

 "Saint" Br. Benjamin takes out the trash

Profession of Vows - 1-11 &12-14 Day 1

I awoke on the bus to the red hue of morning framed in the opposite side passage window.  I felt wistfully at home as the sun warmed the colors on the easy hills, and watched intently as the light bore out the lands resemblance to Northwest Missouri in summer bloom.  The country side around Cascavel in the southern state of Parana is filled with green crops. As we reached the outlining towns the bus spun around many traffic circles and highway on ramps, alerting everyone that is a few minutes we would arrive, after a thirteen hour bus ride from Sao Paulo.

 I walked out of the bus station at 8:00 AM to wait for my ride. After a half hour on the bench outside the station I made a choice to wait a bit longer for my ride before calling, in part because of the peaceful surroundings and partly to see what may happen. In ten minutes Brother Junipero walked along the far parking lot parallel to the station; I stood to catch his eye. I picked up my things and followed him as he walked quickly along the sidewalk. He stopped to calculate and was looking off in a different direction when I caught up with him. I stood behind him and with force spoke, “Irmao!”  

He turned, “Sean, Quanto tempo!” (It’s been a long time!)

“It has. Did you take the bus from Paraguay?”

“No, I walked here from the brother house to get my Mother, but her bus is late. Where did you come from?”

“Sao Paulo, I am working at the house for the elderly in Villa Natal.”

“That’s great! I am walking back to the house, I’ll come back later.”

“I’ll walk with you if that is ok.” (As if I had other options)

 “Sure.” He reached down and grabbed my bag before I could and started walking quickly. We walked together for three blocks and I remembered the area from my past visit a month before. The station was only four blocks away from the Brother house in Cascavel.

Their house is two stories tall and set back from the road and its large front gate. The front approach has a green area with a little flower garden complete with gazebo and multiple seating areas. They always keep the garage door of building wide open as the main entrance to the house. This was an industrial or commercial building before. I could see the kitchen against the back wall under the rooms that were offices, now a chapel, and the work or showroom space in front serves as the dining room, recreation area, and to the side a set of four shared bedrooms. The residents of the house were heavy into lunch prep for themselves and the brothers, but I could see them hurrying because of the inflow of people for the Profession.   

The Profession is one of the most important yearly events for the Order of Missionary of the Poor of Jesus Christ. As their anniversary in October celebrates the orders birth, life, and continuing mission, then the Profession is the celebration of its renewing strength to that mission. These men and woman have studied, worked, and prayed for many years in the process of this monumental vow of service. Both alone and unified, they have journeyed along the way dropping some things of their past lives that would be no help to them, or fashioned them into the crosses to they carry consciously in the knowledge of their own humanity and humility.

I arrived in time for mass which was going on in the converted office space above the kitchen. I was dreary from the ride and felt it as I climbed the stairs to the chapel. The priest celebrating mass was Father Rafael, he is built like an NFL Tackle and is all of 6’6. Father Gilson the co-founder and head, Father Rafael, and soon to be ordained Br. Seraphim are the priests on the order. In addition to their priestly duties they all hold roles of leadership in this flourishing movement.

The tiny chapel room was packed full and out into the hallway. I really knew that many had made the journey to this farming city, and I was excited to see many of my friends, some made in Brazil and some from the United States.

After Mass, I quickly showered and repacked to go to the next “wherever” on the trip. I stepped out of the bathroom with a toothbrush still in my mouth, wet towel under my arm, and my hands still wet from washing my face.  Brother Gideao was standing right in front of me with a grin and his whole family. I lived with Br. Gideao in Governador Valadares for two months in September and October of last year.

He turned to his family and said, “This is the American I lived with.”

I put the toothbrush behind my back and he pointed to his father, his two brothers, and his youngest brother’s soon to be wife. His father was tall and had the same side mouth smile like Br. Gideao; his complexion was leathery from years of sun in the construction trade in Sao Paulo. I could see Br. was enjoying that I was unprepared for meeting this group, so he kept asking questions. His family reminds me of the stereotype of Italian New Yorkers; they talk loud, with a deep voice, and seem to be impatient.   

After things settled, I found myself down stairs watching Brother Gideao and his family playing dominos with one of the sons.  Brother was a good player, but his Father liked to approve of his play by breathing out words over his shoulder. Sister Imolatia walked down the stairs from the chapel and I walked quickly to see her. She is an American member of the order, who I know from my time with the sisters in Kansas City. I got up and was able to speak with her for a short time. I could see that she was excited to greet all her brothers as they started to rush into the building, so I said a quick good bye and Ate Mais (until later).

As more parents and family arrived a caravan was organized for us to walk the mile to the church we would be staying in that night. I meet Br. Ilumminatto’s family on the road and his father was draped in the flag of his home state of Para. We looked like a procession to a prize fight with all the brothers in hoods and our champion in a cape of red with one large white diagonal strip and a centered blue star fluttering in the breeze. This proves that parents are entitled to embarrass their children with their odd showings of pride even at religious Professions – not just relegated to graduations.  

We reached the church’s activity center organized into male and female dorms. The kitchen was in full swing cooking for the families and friends of the forty one novices. I took my stuff to the dorm and two large rooms were set with empty mattresses for the night before the Profession. So many lay associates worked long hard days to make sure the events for the Order would run smoothly. They are regarded as a backbone of support to the religious members. Their work is indispensable to the success of the orders events and mission.  

We took a two mile walk to one of the Order’s male drug rehab centers; they have many centers in Brazil both for men and woman. In April of this year they will add a new center for woman in Sao Paulo making three women’s centers. The one in Recife also houses the children of the women in treatment. It is a beautiful strength when the order asks someone to leave the street with the infrastructure to follow through with a 9 month program. The wonder of their work is they receive no government aid, and are able to exist solely on donation or providence as they call it. I have seen them make due with little and stretch what they are given to continue operating day to day on schedule.

The men’s centers are set up like farms complete with live stock, vegetable gardens, and grounds to maintain.  The work is part of the recovery along with a balance of prayer, peace, and recovery. We walked through the pristine grounds of the compound and into the main building of the center. It is a white building with two large entrances, one to the chapel, and the other to the foyer adjacent to the bed rooms and the dining room.  I walked around by myself and looked at the gardens and could see the one cow being milked before night. I made my way back to the house and found another door that faced the chicken coups. It held a roaring fire for the wood burn stove and their wood pile was enormous.  The large pots used to cook for 30 men and the handful of Brothers were stacked on and around the stove. I cut past the inside kitchen, the laundry, and the TV/recreation room. My group had walked on to the corner of the grounds and after asking a couple of the brother that lived in the house where they were - I rejoined them.  They were watched the pigs and the goats as they rolled in the dirt and mud to keep cool.  A great big hog posed for me to take a photo as he stood against the pin wall. We returned to the house and loaded into a VW van and made our way to the women’s house 15 minutes away.

We turned from a neighborhood onto a country road and were among the rolling bean fields. Up a hill the little VW van had to take a run at to clear, we arrived at the compound. On three sides it had a grand view that made me a little home sick. The hills and valleys flowed into the distance where the City of Cascavel sat on the horizon.

I walked into the dining and living quarters and was greeted by two female legos (lay members) that I meet two months before when I lived two hours to the west on border of Paraguay. They lived in Cascavel and were excited to host the Profession and visited the women in this house regularly. A daughter cut by me and I said, “Oi!” She turned, smiled, and gave me a big hug. I meet her once on the 17^th of December when I returned to Sao Paulo. She was living for a short time in a house run by the sisters in urban Sao Paulo. She was on the way to Cascavel to start her nine month rehab and we shared the back of another VW van. She was eating all of her snacks meant for the 13 hour bus trip. She said, “I am getting fat,” and kept sneaking chocolate cracker from her bag. The sisters would chastise here lightly, but it became a joke as she kept eating. Only days ago she was using drugs and the sugar in the candy worked to aid her blood sugar that was for sure out of balance.

I looked around the dining room of the drug rehab with the long table and great number of doors to the daughters’ bedrooms. In rapid fire she told me she liked the house, missed her daughter, was getting fatter, worried about her brother still on drugs, and meet Padre Gilson and Sister Servant (the co-founders of the order). She also missed cigarettes.  She wouldn’t let me take a picture because she wasn’t dressed for it, but I smiled at the life in her after only a month in the house.

We said our goodbyes and my group returned to the church to eat and rest for the Profession the next day.                 

 Drug Center of Men Cascavel Parana

 Vegetable Gardens

 Wood Burning Stove

 Posing Pig - he is a Pro

 Drug Center for Woman Cascavel Parana

One of the meals provided at the church for all the family and friends in town

Storming Crackland

There are very few things that are not a surprise in Brazil to an American. I am blessed that most of them have been great or a least timely learning experiences. I was welcomed on a mission last night that returned me to Crackland with a purpose that was very different in appearance than the first time I was there in the winter. The winter in Brazil is in August when it can dip to around 40 degree at night.  Before a hail of snow ball comes my way from the US remember that for Brazil that is cold. When I first came to Brazil I was told of 7 men who died of exposer when the weather turned to near freezing with rain and winds. Those are the surprises that teach you not to always think as an American. Now, it is summer here, which yields temps in the 80’s and 90’s with a couple days in the hundred.

I am on my way to Cascavel in the state of Parana for the Profession of this year’s class of novices. Novices are those who are progressed through the testing phase of their discernment to holy life. In The Fraternity of Missionary of the Poor of Jesus Christ they are marked with differences in their habits. This shows that they have not taken their full vows and are studying, taking formation classes (instruction on being fully professed religious in the order), and praying for guidance throughout the year of discernment. In addition they all have their various jobs in the order that requires their attention.

The Sisters “not fully professed” wear white veils and a white cotton rope belts around their waists. The Brothers in this stage wear the white belt also, and both have the same brown Franciscan habits of their respective genders. I will explain in more detail about the Profession after the event, but I am very excited to see the ceremony in which a number of my new and old friends will be a part.

Back to yesterday’s surprise, I was set to pack at the Casa Madre Teresa and spend Friday as a normal day assisting the elderly men with showering, dressing, meals, and cleaning their quarters.  But that was shocked out of existence when, as it happens often, a conversation changed the assumption in my head to what was just decided to happen for real. I was to pack immediately and depart with a small group for the house in Luz, which was having a late night Mass and 1 o’clock Adoration of the Body of Christ. For non-Catholics, Adoration is when the consecrated bread – the Body of Christ – is place in a tall metal stand with a glass enclosure and placed on the Alter. Those present meditate in the presence of Christ in communal and individual prayer.

We set out after dinner and the flow out of the city was great than the flow in, which allowed for a quick set of metro transfers to the door of Brothers’ house in Luz. I walked in and was greeted by a full house of people waiting for the events of the evening. Kawan who in the recent past lived in the streets in a different part of Sao Paulo, gave me a big smile and asked if I was ready for the whole night of activities. I felt a resistance in my mind, maybe I said. He laughed as went to stow my backpack.

I had been cloudy for a number of days, inundated with strange dreams and a lack of sleep was jagging my edges.  I could feel small waves of irritation when I called on my mind to assist me and only heard the crashing dial tone of a dial up modem. I paused to reassure myself that I had been pushing myself and some uneasiness and needed down time was part of my experience, but a strange ache was building in my lower back and up my neck, this too is all part of the ride. The more I jumped on the rollercoaster the more it jostled me around, and what I was feeling was when you think you know the ride too well and exhaustion builds from tensing in the turns. I will give a great deal of respect how the Brother and Sisters sleep every night. Like our sons and daughters in the streets all religious in the order rest on a pad of cardboard, two or three blankets, and some the luxury of a pillow. It is a small act of presence to remain understanding of the poor, who rest in the same way each night.

A part of me wanted to bypass the evening and rest, but Roque and Brother Beno, both from the house in Natal, started out the door and I followed.  Along the way I meet a man who lived in the United States and was back in Brazil for a time. He wanted to visit the houses of the order in Sao Paulo because he knew most of the Sisters and Lay Associates in Kansas City, New York, and Boston.  We had a good conversation as we walked to the Luz Tran Station. The station is a beautiful and grand building with European columns a little like Union Station in KC. It was the primary building to which most of the surrounding buildings modeled themselves and was constructed in a time when this was a busy and commercial area.

In the main plaza around a hundred assembled and half danced to popular catholic guitar music. Yes, the Brazilians like to dance at any opportunity and most of the “sacred music” has a good beat. I saw Brother Agnes and smiled as he descended on me. “Brother, great to see you!” We embraced and he looked at me with a breath, “So I am like a mosquito, you say that in your blog. That I buzzed around.” He rapped my hand, so I would feel it and walked away. He turned quickly and smiled at me from a different group in front of me.

The event was organized by both the Fraternity and another religious and lay hybrid call Mission Belem.  The organizers explained before Mass we would walk as a group into Crackland to invite all to attend. Unlike the last time I attended, we would have no food or drinks, but instead came with a welcome message to the inhabitants of the area. We walked in force as someone would yell out a chant to anyone to join into. The chant would build and drop off, but always rebound into another. The crowd was able to hold an echoing “Jesus Te Ama!” Which is Jesus loves you, and on return to the station it was “come to the Mass, it is now”! During the march many stopped to talk or asked personally.  I at first was sheepish about walking into someone’s home and being loud, then I remember the car blasting carnival and American pop country music for 4 hours at the my bedroom in Madre Teresa one night. Noise is a common thing at all times here, and there are no noise police to play catchpole. I guess that goes for partying Brazilians and Catholics.

What changed my feeling was the smile from a woman maybe in her forties. She was standing still against the flow of the sidewalk as I pasted her on the street, but we both looked at each other and smiled. It was a genuine smile that holds no guile, and does not recoil fearful of too long a glaze. She was a humans being and so was I, a quiet truth in the clatter of the night.

After the Mass, the priest took up the Blessed Sacrament (Body of Christ in the medal stand) and marched us forward for what would be an hour and half long procession into a number of neighborhoods. At times I could see the resistance on the faces of those in the street, they didn’t want to be seen, greeted, asked how they were, or if they have a place to sleep that night. But keep in mind that one or two in the morning is very active in these areas. Bars, vendors, red towel markets, and drug dealers are up the same hours as those living here. The resistance in some could not overshadow the smiles of others. The priest would stop in the street and like the ending battle scene the lines would break and combine into one. Only in this case conversations were happening and hugs were being exchanged. We would linger for a good amount of time and give a chance for the conversations to end naturally. Many of the sons and daughter are drunk, high, coming down, or shaking without the drugs, but still some word maybe heard. “You are loved”, “you can come off the street”, “We are here.”

A couple times we were met with fireworks in our path, but the group would just walk around. It was powerful to see the priest with a standard in the front of the line. It stands as peace and love, it stands again the pushing away of the poor, the “unneeded”, or the “issues” for the Government. An issue that the Government wishes only to box up and distract you from long enough to come for the World Cup.

We returned to the house at Luz at three in the morning. It was nice to sleep in a bed that night. It was good to rest after see the night.

Mission in Paraguay Part Two: Continuing from November

Scattered by the thick woven clouds the morning sun washed the narrow streets with a dim fluorescence that accentuated the green in everything. I walked with Brother Junipero and three “Vocationals” through the jutting produce stands, parked cars, and motor carts of the market. In Ciudad Del Este I stayed at the brothers’ house in a quiet neighbor. It was only two miles away from the sisters’ house, in the industrial and commercial section. The order tries to keep the houses as close to each other as possible and still near the poorer areas of whatever city they reside. It is not always the case because of various reasons, but I have seen a good effort to optimize each location to their work.

Two nights before, I helped distribute bread and juice with the Fraternity to the shanty towns along the outer roads. In each city at least once a week the lay members and religious assemble for a “street mission” to go to the poor, in Paraguay they focus on the indigenous. The natives Guarani or “indigenous”, as they are called by other Paraguayans, live traditionally in the northwest region of this small and poor nation. Some seek a more modern life which is difficult as the more Spanish influenced people both celebrates and isolates their own native culture. It is a strange paradox that leaves the Guarani alienated and at times exploded in the larger industrialized cities.    

In Ciudad Del Este Paraguay five days a week a lunch is provided at the home of the sisters for any who are hungry. Men, women, and children wait at the gates around noon, and are welcomed in carefully as the Brothers send in small groups to sit and eat a preset meal of soup de Paraguay, a hard potato like root called mandioca, and bread. Today we are the kitchen crew and set to arrive around 9:30 AM.

We are greeted by Sister Veronica and have a small breakfast in the dining room. After breakfast we walk into a part of the house that looks to be a haste addition. It is a white walled room cut into a kitchen and a dining room by a wood framed wall paneled to face the dinning space and exposed in the kitchen. The room is heavy with the smell of fat, salt, and plywood which changes balance as we walk farther away from the small closed off kitchen and into the larger dinning space. It holds three long tables with the capacity for ten people each and an over flow with 12 chairs with no table in an L shape along the wall. The back wall is painted with the logo of the Fraternity and cartoony caricatures of the poor, the religious, and the associates add color to the dimly lit refectory.   

I opened a wide and short door into the courtyard and remembered seeing it when I first arrived, days before, all the way from the other side of the house. I wondered where it led at that time and now I stood enlightened at its threshold. The great courtyard had even more space.  A tent and table were set for about eight, and a grotto shaded by a grand tree offered plenty of space on the stone and concrete ground.

Fernando, a vocational who was about nineteen, gave me the task of cutting all the vegetables for the soup while he prepped the kitchen and cut the chickens for both stock and the meat. We didn’t speak the same language so communicated very short, but he gave a pure essence of quiet. Once the soup was assembled we set the tables, ordered the chairs, and took plates and cups out of large trash cans used for storage. At that moment six high school students in blue catholic school uniforms walked in and joined in to help. One of the girls spoke a little English and would explain the process of setting up to me. They wanted to be there and held a youthful energy, and if you have worked with motivated young adults you know the feeling.  Somehow, the Order of the Poor of Jesus seems to both fuel and draw from that energy. It is a young movement, but no matter the age, from teens to those in their 60’s, a force of spirit is obvious in all. Four girls that live in the sisters’ house discerning possible future vows also came to help, and a crowd formed.    

I faded back to take pictures and let the machine work so I could observe. It is a strange thing for me to not define my role in life as a worker. I realize at times my presence is best served to watch, and at other times I follow the urge to observe in action. It is a new experience for me, because I had never been good at backing up and taking something in. I thought without dirt on me I was loitering in life and it would pain me right where I thought my worth was, both to myself and other. Now amidst all the things I have learned here in South America was called to pause and to redefine my worth to myself. It has been unnerving, but I have only felt alone when the guides in my path took their leave in my best interest.

Through the fence I could see everyone filing the space in front of the gate.  

Brother Junipero reappeared and manned the latch at the door, and I stood on the bricks beside to position myself higher.  A group formed on our side and we waited for the signal to open the door. A yell came from the dining room, and the crowd outside pushed against the gate; Brother reached down to open the door. He could not find the right key and raised his high pitched voice to the arms that reached through the bars. I was directed to check for the correct key in the house as everyone worked to quiet the unease outside. I returned with a different set of keys and the gate was opened slowly by four of us. Brother Junipero stepped out to the sidewalk in front of the opening, three children wriggled and slid by him and jogged to the house.  The crowd pushed him against the side of the gate and he braced himself, glanced back, and started to pull young children and mothers into the courtyard in groups of four. Always a few more would slip in, but a since of order remained.

The older teenagers did not approve of his management, for them the world outside this moment is different, taking and pushing are strengths and patience is a weakness. They are raised by the street, to take care of themselves in the streets, that assertive essence only fulfills their immediate needs, beyond that they remain frustrated. They use drugs and alcoholic to medic themselves internally as many have been abused and used for the sex trade and drug trafficking. I was the surprised the night before last at the unconcerned bravado of these boys, who may be their fathers, pushed the children aside. Standing in the daylight I could see their soiled clothes hanging heavy on them.  I saw three of them break from the outside of the crowd and converge at the gate. Brother sternly held his arm out and rolled them off to the side and continued to control the flow. It was a steady flow as the inside filled and spilled into the courtyard.

The women and children sat alone taking up most of the inside and courtyard. The men sat in the grotto area where they were shaded by the large tree and huddled close to each other without much interest beyond their circles. The only time the men and women mixed inside the gate was when seconds were offered and the dining room overfilled in a mess of confusion.  When the confined bedlam broke up, the room cleared quickly, but the sickly sweet smell of unwashed bodies and the fatty chicken soup was choking. Scattered on the floor and tables were chicken bones and discarded chucks of bread. One of the boys walked by and chucked his chicken bone behind his back on is way out. The room radiated filth and for a moment I was filled with anger wrapped in a feeling of ownership. I wanted to comment and yet I paused without a solution and turned to the courtyard. I look out and noticed a little baby walking alone in nothing but a heavy diaper, a thin layer of dirt covered the child and a little boy came and got the baby. I watched the two walk back to their group in the courtyard and then scanned those who remained. 

How could the mothers bath their children? How did anyone clean themselves? As I could see, there was no water supply that was clean and plentiful. The little clean water was for drinking.  

I have seen bags of trash thrown causally out of car windows in Paraguay as if that was where it went.  I wondered if for many of the Paraguayan people and the government limited in resources if the issue has remained long enough that the common belief was, “well that is just where they go”.  There is no sanitation, limited services, and few able or willing to assist these cast aside refugees in their own county.

I turned back into the dining room and my anger was gone, but a stronger thought remained. They live in the trash of the streets, how is this floor any different than in their tiny plywood homes. They are acting no differently here than anywhere, resolved to the same fate as any repressed people that a society allow as acceptable.

I knew a man in Kansas City named Michael who was homeless and lived in the street. He explained that he lived in the streets all over the United States and would talk to me about the Bible. I simplify to call him a street evangelist, but that was always his main focus of conversation. He very emphatically pointed out that some people must be snatched from destruction and held until they can stand on their own. In most of my experience that is rarely the case if the other does not first lift their arm and make a small even unconscious choice to change. In observing the cast aside natives in the cities of Paraguay, I see that little remains but to lift them out of the side of the road. The meals provided by the sisters’ opens a door and the trust grows as the community learns the sisters are no there to take. So many have taken from them in the past and then tossed them back to the street. It is diligent work and only grows fruit if love is present, the patient love to proceed without thanks or immediate results.       

 Some  of the lay associates and the indigenous childern 

 The sisters and children in a sing along after bread and juice

 One of the Market Streets in Ciudad de Este

 Fernando making the soup

 The gate of the sisters house

 Dinning Room in the sisters house

 Paraguay Boy

 Two photos of Brother Junipero at the Gate

Christmas in Natal

Encircled by multiple positions the Holiest of Nights of Earth was concussed by the fireworks discharging in sporadic busts. I waited with three brothers under the dim light bulb of the front overhang of our shared bungalow. We waited for the return of our Christmas caravan as we shuffle together about the courtyard, mock fighting, dancing, and joking until we sat down on the concrete beach. Brother Beno who is about fifty mostly observes us. His white beard gives him a Santa quality if not for his gaunt body.

He has taking to mumbling with a dance party rhythm, Sean – Sean – Sean, every time he sees me and other times at random. This induces other to break into muted dancing, it takes very little for Brazilians to start dancing and there is a club song in Brazil now that is very popular that sound much the same as my name; “Chao - Chao – Chao”.

An hour ago we decorated forty five places at the big table for our big Christmas Dinner. I helped to place the silverware, candies, fruits, and breads on the table and individual plates. I laughed to feel elfish to facilitate the Christmas joy here in the neighborhood called Christmas Village (Ville Natal). Two shimmering wrapped Bon-Bons, two Kit Kat like chocolates, and cups of M & M with pink and white marshmallows adorned each setting. On the table were fruit cakes and carved melons filled with peaches, plums, other cut melon, and grapes.  The serving table was overflowing with empty wrappers and commercial sized candy bags. In the kitchen Brother Beno pre-set the ham and turkey cutting some meat up and reheating what was cooked before everyone else had left. I caught him with a turkey leg and he made no eye contact and walked out the door, but stuck his head in the door and tisked “mal menino” (bad boy) when I put a piece of turkey breast to my mouth.

Now we waited on the bench and I listen to the rapid chatter of a language in which I understand about fifty percent. Notably they never seem to use the fifty percent I know when they address me, so it is nice to not speak and just attempt to understand their overall conversations. I imaged the group would come in at any time in the normal fashion of two or three at a time, maybe singing and laughing. I stopped the conversation, “did you hear them. I hear them, I think!” Everyone stopped and listened and gave me a funny look and started to talk again. The fireworks salvo continued in the sky, some whistling and popping and others color illuminating the sky.

A half an hour pasted, then an unmistakable choir of “Come all Ye Faithful” drifted from the hill above. The Brothers hurried to the chapel to light the candles, and Brother Rogue took a position at the bell ringing it as if there was a fire. In a surprise to me came a procession lead by vestment clad acolytes holding candle stands crowned with glass encasements, a sister holding the a statue baby Jesus, more brothers in white garb waving the smoking censer, and following behind a train of people in a messy two by two column.  I watched the elation on faces in the crowd as they filed into the chapel as they mugged for the camera. I walked in last to a room lite only with small candles grouped together in front of a picture of the manger and star. It was a somber mood as a quiet reflection was read out loud.  I couldn’t help to think the candles in the hay seemed a fire hazard, but Brazilians have strong angles and my worry wasn’t going to help them. The communal prayer reached a crescendo when they begin to speak to God out loud in a personal and chiasmic fashion. I sat into a lotus position and reflected on the work of the day, Christmas, my family, and a long list of things I was grateful for.

***

I was grateful for the morning of Christmas Eve, not distracted with the impeding merriment and holiday. Any special day comes without our thoughts to make them arrive, and we preoccupy ourselves in preparation and expectation for the event as if waiting for a bell to begin. I was given notice the night before that I would be helping the men in nursing home to shower and dress for the day. It caught me as a beautiful experience to serve others on the day before Christmas. The idea that all great holy men and woman in both the Christian and Eastern Faiths saw humility and detachment from the things of the world as a freedom, not as something we give up in heroic example. Yet as an example we can see they struggled with the same mental and physical challenges to reject the world and seek beyond. I like to think anyone that cares for others, which in a small or a big way we all do, gives up a part of the world.  It is hard for me to think about myself in an act of immediate service, yet in idle time I can turn very quickly to judging people or situations and thinking of myself.

 Christ lived for us God’s instructions for a noble life, and how simple in thought and challenging in action to love without fear of the world, without allowing the limitations of others to limit us, and to radiate joy in the present moment even in suffering. It is faith that Christmas celebrates, faith that we are worthy of a love that is given and presented to us freely. I sat and warmed myself in that peace as the room settled into silence.  Still I glanced up on occasion to make sure the chapel wasn’t on fire.

***

Our evening prayer in the chapel ended and all of the sisters flooded the kitchen to finish the last bit of preparation for the Natal dinner. Everyone traded hugs and said “Feliz Natal”, “Merry Christmas”, or, to the Paraguayans in the house, “Feliz Navidad”. It was about 10:30 PM, most of us waited outside the dining room doors, only a handful of the sons were staying up to join us, and our special guests were Sister Marisa’s family who drove 20 hours to be with her on Christmas.

I walked into the kitchen of hurried activity both because of the last minute cooking and, with or without hot pans or knives in their hands, everyone was still embracing. I slipped into the dining hall to get a picture as everyone came in.

The doors were opened and the sons were sat first, some sadly had there candy removed as diet restrictions, but quickly had a warm plate of the traditional favorites set in front of them. The Christmas staples are much like any families’ in the US. There was turkey, ham, potatoes, and various pasta salads. Although, this is Brazil and rice and beans are served at every meal but breakfast. Rice was served as creamy rice salad with beans in farina (type of Flour) and pork cracklings. I cut a slice off the ham bone and was surprised that in was not just a ham, but contained an inserted collage of smoked sausage, carrots, green vegetables, and maybe chicken. They had three types of mousse for dessert: Passion Fruit, Grape, and lemon. The grape mousse was a medium shade of purple and reminded me of the Jello and marshmallow dish my Mom makes every year called “pink stuff”. Perhaps next year we will have “purple stuff”. Advent is a time of fasting for the Christmas Season and all candy and soda was given up for the three weeks prior. Most of the Formandos, who are around 20, over indulged on sweets and it was hard not to notices they were humming and high on sugar. The dancing at times became feverish, and I remained seated to not be swept into the mass of madness.   

The dinner ended and everyone helped organize and clean some part of the kitchen or dining room for the next day. Instead of the glass plates used for dinner we set out blue plastic ones and with the same loving care the brothers arranged each one with fruits, breads, and candies for the morning meal. It hit me to know that without the Fraternity of Missionaries fuzzing over the sons that they may have no Christmas morning to-do, no clean clothes, no one to feed them, or make engine noises behind them as they pushed them to the dinner table. 

I knew tomorrow would start the same as this morning with the same sons being woken up, the same showers running, and the same coffee being made – one with sugar and one without. Although Christmas morning the ordinary blue plates will be filled, filled with the kindness that is in the hearts of these beautiful Sisters, Brothers, and lay workers.

That the internal is there at times to behold externally.