Arriving in Pennsylvania in 1998 was part of a ploy my mother concocted to get me back to the U.S. She knew better. I was content with my status quo of teaching, eating out with friends, and pursuing a comfortable career path. Nevertheless, my relatively stable lifestyle was all under the rubric of singleness. Furthermore, my prospects of pursuing college and further education had disappeared under the allure of a modest income. I was not thinking about marriage, children, or spiritual maturity. My status had plateaued much like my profession. As I mentioned in part 1, all of that changed when my mother exhorted me to return to the U.S.
To my recollection, I didn’t put up much of a fight. She had a plan. And I followed that plan. My mom bought me a very expensive business briefcase for my trip. She wanted me to arrive in America as a returning hero, ready to face a daunting new world.
The Angel From Georgia
When I arrived, an old friend I had met as a child picked me up, and we made our way home, chatting and sharing stories of our shared Brazilian history. That evening, he was to drop me off at Yvonne Dey's home. Mrs. Dey, as I called her, had a reputation for housing missionaries on furlough. That is, short for missionaries returning to the U.S. to raise funds, then returning to their missional place. One of those missionaries convinced her to host an 18-year-old from Northeastern Brazil. She agreed without hesitation.
Mrs. Dey was already in her early 70’s when I met her. She was the classic Georgian Aunt Bee. Her drawl was stronger than 100% proof whiskey, but she assured me that she had no Southern accent. I gaffauwed internally when she said that, ‘cause ya’ll, that was some serious elongations coming out of her mouth. At a practical level, that first night I arrived, she had some sweet tea, cornbread, and some kind of meat pie—the Southernest thing I’ve ever seen and tasted. Mind you, this was railroad country, and sweet tea was nowhere to be found…nowhere.
Mrs. Dey was married to a Vietnam veteran, who had served our country, but struggled with severe health problems after returning from war. I believe he died in the 80’s. She had been a widow for some time and had become accustomed to that life. She was a woman of habits. 6 am toast and coffee. Midday sandwich. 5 pm supper. I quickly fell into her routine and joined her for every meal.
When the meal was ready, she would call me. “Uuuuri!” “Yes, Ma’am,” I would reply. She was hard of hearing, but I never struggled to speak to her. I had the upstairs all to myself. She could no longer walk up the stairs regularly. It was like a private suite. So, she’d call me down for supper. Afterward, we would sit down, and she would shower me with stories about her past and how excited she was about her church, grandchildren, and friends. She wanted to introduce me to everyone. She had an old TV where we watched The Price Is Right and The Lawrence Welk Show. To me, that was America at its prime. I’ve always been a traditionalist. In fact, my wife has told me in the last 23 years that I was born in the wrong century and in the wrong country. I remember the purity of those programs with tremendous clarity.
She also introduced me to the Gaithers. The deep Gospel songs of the Gaither choir and soloists got into my soul. Ol’ time religion became sentimental to me. I needed that Billy Graham revivalism in my bones. In that season, my faith did not bask in the existential delights of heaven. But the music, the routine, and Mrs. Dey’s simple faith kept giving me a renewed sense of the holy.
Brethren, We Have Met to Worship
Sunday mornings were also ritual-laden. We got up during the Summer, ate some breakfast, and made our way to church.
Church was different.
There weren’t bands. It was a lovely 19th-century building in the heart of Altoona, PA. She introduced me to everyone. It was an elderly congregation with a few scattered teens, which I spotted fairly quickly. I should say we spotted each other.
The service was traditional, like an old Baptist church in the 60’s. We sang out of a hymnal, and though I was not quite familiar with a hymnal, I sang my heart out as soon as I could comfortably predict the melody line. In a few weeks, I knew almost everyone in that congregation by name and their favorite hymns. The pastor, an elderly man, took an interest in me and kindly invited me to Saturday morning breakfast with the men. I had lived in the U.S. in the 80’s as a kid, so when he took me out to eat, it was the first time I had ever ordered something. My English, though proficient, lacked restaurant etiquette. I remember being quite embarrassed as I figured out what sunny-side up meant. I thought it was some northern weather analogy. Nay. It was about eggs. Such a jubilant title for an aberration. I should have told them loud and clear that real men eat fried eggs. But alas.
All the men were incredibly kind to me. I should mention that Altoona is a city in Blair County, central Pennsylvania, nestled at the base of Brush Mountain within the Allegheny Mountains. Translation: lots of white people. And white I was not. They were so curious about Brazil. And I entertained their questions. Their generosity baffled me at times. For instance, at the beginning of soccer season at school, a dear friend, Duane Brooks, took me out and bought me cleets, jersey, sox, chin guard, and whateever else I needed. I will never forget their acts of kindness.
The church was the highlight of my week. Though my Bible knowledge was lacking, I began to delve into it deeply. Every time the pastor took me out, I used the opportunity to ask questions. He enjoyed the inquiries of an energetic young man. He was a Brethren minister. Their roots were deeply dispensational, and they still practiced foot-washing. I enjoyed our time, and he always seemed encouraged by our conversations, even though we were 50 years apart.
One day he pulled me aside and asked whether I wanted to share my testimony in an evening service. I dreadfully agreed. I wasn’t quite sure what all was involved in my testimony. So I pulled up a page from the printer and began jotting down an outline. He knew I dabbled with a guitar and asked me to sing something. I can’t remember what I sang, but by the time I was done, I was quite at ease in the pulpit. To my recollection, fewer than 50 folks were present that evening. My outline was a bit of my childhood story in a pastor’s home, and my present desire to serve Christ. I honestly don’t remember much, except that when I was done, folks gave me a rowdy applause. I didn’t think what I said was particularly thrilling, but to the Solomonic figures in attendance, hearing a young man talk about the faith was genuinely reason to rejoice.
Afterward, the pastor and a few others asked whether I had ever contemplated pastoral ministry. I smiled politely, but that evening, lying in bed in Altoona, PA, I began to narrate in my mind what it would be like to follow in my father’s footsteps and the life of the church. That night, I may say with some confidence, was the planting of seeds—religious seeds, but also ecclesial seeds.
Notations
I have been reading the Iliad out loud at home. Son #2 finds it amusing, and he also interprets portions so his dad can get a sense of what it may have been like to grow up with a classical education.
Psalm 14 is a retelling of the flood story. David sees the fool as those who failed to heed the Noahic call to life. They said in their heart there is no God, and God rightly judges them so that they would know that salvation can only come from Zion.
"God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: it is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world." ~C.S. Lewis (The Problem of Pain)
Nuntium
I know this may seem like a shock to those outside the world of CREC officers and my local congregation who have already heard the news, but many of you have followed my writing for almost two decades. I feel the need to be honest. While the details are best shared locally, those of you following me should know that I have been diagnosed with cancer. While it is serious, there are far worse forms. I am thankful for God’s providence in my life.
What those of you on the outside of my immediate circle should know is that my faith is strong, and I am confident that God has called me for such a time as this. Please pray and lift me to my Great Physician!
I will be praying for you, Pastor, your family, and your congregation. May the Great Physician speedily send healing to your body.
Beautiful story.
Praying for your health, strength, and faith.