C-mail: My Brother

Howdy All!

Happy February everybody!  Here are the happenings in Caracas:

1. On January 6th, I had the joy of helping out one of our neighbors put together a community event for the kids of our barrio.  We had a big soccer tournament, a "marathon", various other races, and an impromptu dance contest.  I was so happy to see him put forth the initiative for organizing the event as well as give many of his own resources for the benefit of the community.  It was rather symbolic as the tournament was held on the day of "Los Reyes Magos" or as we know them, The Three Wise Men. These kings gave of their own resources to the baby Jesus just as our neighbor was able to give to the youth of our community.  The day went extremely well and everyone poured out to watch the kids play.  Check out the attached pictures. 

2. I've been doing a lot of teaching recently.  Twice a week, our team continues to hold tutoring sessions for children that are behind or completely lost in their education.  We open with a prayer and close by reading a story with some critical reflection.  We've had a number of kids showing up just so they can hear a story read to them!  We're hoping to build a solid Venezuelan volunteer base so we can work with more kids and give them the individual attention they need.  Pray that God would provide good volunteers.  In addition, I'm two months into teaching English to a group of neighbors.  I've really enjoyed the English class as it's been a wonderful way to meet with these neighbors on a weekly basis.  It has led to lots of good discussions, spiritual and otherwise.  I'm really excited about what God is doing in their lives and am hopeful for the gospel to take root in them.   Pray for more hunger and growth in them spiritually.  Pictures are attached.

3. I'm a little late in doing it, but there is someone I'd like to introduce you all to . . .  Gracie, my girlfriend.  Gracie and I have been dating for just over a year now.  We met in 2006 during InterVarsity's Global Urban Trek in Lima.  She felt God calling her back there and has been serving with a Peruvian organization called Paz y Esperanza for just over four months.  The distance thing is not easy, but over the past year, we've been able to coordinate and meet up a few different times.  In fact, she just came to visit Venezuela for a week and we were able to celebrate Valentines together.  Yet another attached picture.

4. Keep praying for our visas!  We're trying everything possible, but nothing is going quick or easy.  We're soon hoping to find out if it even is a realistic expectation to get visas.  Pray that we would know quickly if we can get religious worker visas or if we need to look at other options.  But even better, pray that God would grant us visas and soon! 

5. This summer, our team will be hosting a summerXchange site.  What is summerXchange?  It's a 40 day internship through InnerCHANGE where participants will live with a team and engage in their day to day ministry.  I'll be leading the Venezuela site which is a bit scary, but I'm excited to do it.  Pray that God would prepare the hearts of the participants that are supposed to come, prepare my heart, and for all the preparations to go well according to His plans.  If you want more info, check out the summerXchange website. 

Well, that's it for now. Don't forget to check the blog.  I update there with much more frequency than with email, plus the updates tend to be shorter.  Also, if you ever wanted to send a letter or a card, the address is: 
Cameron Carter
CCS 16019, (819)
PO Box 025323
Miami, FL 33102-523 USA
And that will get here with just a plain ol' USPS style stamp. 

Please let me know how I can be praying for you.  I know things are tough back home and I want to thank you for your continued giving and prayers.  God is faithful and He will supply all your needs.  May you be filled with all love, faith, and hope and may they always endure in your life and the lives around you.  Stay strong, seek the Lord and
Press on for Joy!
Cameron

Monday, February 2^nd, 2009

"Finally!" Alejandro shouts. Except he doesn't exactly shout. Alejandro can't shout: he's 18 and has muscular dystrophy. It's a hereditary disease that progressively weakens all skeletal muscles. He can move his hands to make stick figure drawings, feed himself, and change the channel with the remote.  But for the most part, he's immobile.

"It's because of the rain." his brother Osvaldo chimes in. There are four brothers in total: Alejandro 18, Lucio 16, Osvaldo 14, and the youngest, Armando 11. They are all affected by the same disease. The youngest is still ambulatory and is quite the handful with the attitude to match.

It's a standard Monday night: hanging out with the boys. I've been coming here for over five months now and these boys and their family have become endearing to me. Sometimes we'll do drawings, sometimes make things with play dough, many times just hang out.  Tonight, they are hoping to watch the first game of the Caribbean series. Baseball is THE sport here.  The finals between the Lions of Caracas and the Tigers of Aragua finished last week. Tonight, the champion Tigers, representing Venezuela, are playing the Dominican Republic.  However, the game isn't on. Chavez is giving yet another speech before the upcoming election. Providentially, he's finishing early due to the heavy rain falling on everyone at the rally. The game comes on and I quickly catch the brothers up on the score and inning.

"Venezuela's winning!" one shouts and smiles breakout across their faces. We chat a bit, I ask them how they've been doing, what's been going on. They return the questions, and ask about my girlfriend. "She's coming this Saturday. You want to meet her?" I look at Armando. He's not exactly the most charming or mild mannered around the feminine gender. Once when a female team member and I stopped by, we sensed a fair bit of awkwardness. She asked the boys if they were waiting for anything. Armando snapped back "For you to leave!"

He doesn't respond to my question. Looking at Alejandro however, I think I can tell that he wants to meet her. He, unlike Armando, turns red when girls talk to him.

"I actually need to leave early tonight since it's her birthday and I want to talk with her." I tell them.

"How old is she turning?" Alejandro asks. 

"26, same as me."

Mateo drops by. He's the boy's uncle who lives in the house constructed directly above their own.  I was just about to leave, but we fall into a good conversation.  We hold the English class in his house and he's always asking me for more words in English.  Tonight though, he's curious to know why I would come to live in their barrio instead of stay in the states and earn money in a good job. I get to tell him the story of the rich young ruler and how much of an impact Jesus has on my life. His questions are on the theme of my "religion" but I'm hoping to show that I'm just trying to know and follow Jesus. He has been asking me questions of this vein recently, and it gives me hope for his future faith. Or, he could just think I'm a spy; he does work for the government.

Venezuela is rocking the Dominicans in the sixth inning and I bid my farewells to the boys and their family and head up to our "office" to wish a Happy Birthday to Gracie over Skype.

Friday, February 6^th, 2009

It's late.  Walking across the street from the closing bodega, I find Alejandro seated facing the doorway, his face covered by a respirator mask from which little wisps of medicated vapor escape. He's ringed by numerous observers, all asking him questions to which he doesn't respond.  His brothers are mixed in the crowd, not participating in the spectacle.  Lucio is busy looking around at everyone, taking it all in. Osvaldo is glued to the baseball game. Venezuela is playing against Mexico, and if they win tonight, they'll win the series. Armando is tottering around causing a ruckus and trying to avoid the attention of a group of women from a nearby household who seem intent on tormenting and ridiculing him until he begins to like them.

Alejandro doesn't look good.  His aunt Sara is there with him, and his mom, Isabel, comes in and out at regular intervals. The crowd takes turns asking him questions.  "Do you want to vomit? Do you want to vomit??" and they all utter their opinions about his condition and needs in unified disharmony.  I push my way in and sit down next to him, trying to give him as much space as possible while acting calm. I tell the people around him a few times to let him be, but they aren't in any sort of mood to listen. Everybody wants to help. 

After listening to the steady chatter, it seems that at some point in the early morning, Alejandro began to have difficulty breathing. His muscles were too weak for him to breath while lying down.  This was somehow linked to an issue in his colon.  Mateo and Sara rushed him to the hospital where the doctors examined him and then pumped his stomach. He had spent the day without food, without sleep and now is back "home" although this is not the warm, maternal environment every sick person longs for.  He takes a few offered spoonfuls of liquefied soup. The vomiting interrogation begins again and stops the feeding. 

The environment is overwhelming for me. I'm not sure what to do, and honestly feel tired.  But, like everyone else, I too want to do something.  I lean over and tell him "Look, you are very tired, you haven't eaten all day and you just want to rest. Every pain you feel is magnified.  I understand how terrible it feels to be surrounded by everyone staring at you, asking questions and telling you what to do.  But listen, that it is their way of showing their love and compassion for you.  You'll get rest soon, but for now, you need to eat and get your energy back" I'm having a bad Spanish day and with all the commotion in the room, I'm not sure what he heard. 

"Kelvin, Mira!" Osvaldo yells at me with a smile. Venezuela had just scored another run.

"Where's mom?" Alejandro asks.

"She's not here yet but, she'll be here quickly" put in his aunt. His "mom" is actually his grandma, Rafaela. She is their main caretaker since their real mom is always working.  Right now, she is coming back from the funeral of a distant relative in the Andes Mountains, about twelve hours away. Thankfully, she's already made it to Caracas.

"My stomach hurts! Take me to the hospital" Alejandro cries out with frustration.  Sara and I look at each other, we aren't sure what to do. We all think his stomach pain comes from the fact that he hasn't eaten in such a long time.  She puts my hand on his chest to feel his heart running a mile a minute. I ask him where his pain is, but he isn't in any sort of condition to answer. One of the women walk over and begin to message his abdomen. She had deduced the pain he's feeling comes from a build up of gases.  The messaging begins to calm him down, some color comes back into his face, and his heart rate slows to something normal.  Rafaela shows up just a minute later and it makes all the difference in the room. She looks at Alejandro and his demeanor changes for the better.  The crowd's running commentary agrees that he was just a little spooked by all the people and now he's going to be ok. More people are beginning to crowd in. I figure the least I can do is get out to give him some space.  Stepping outside, I run into Mateo. 

"How are you doing?" I ask.

"Good, although we were scared this morning." He says.  

As we talk through what had just happened with Alejandro, I begin to realize that he had probably just gone through shock. I mention this to Mateo, and note that normally in shock, when people turn pale, you lie them on their back, but this wasn't a possibility with him since he can't breath while lying down. "Eet eez problemateec." Mateo quips in his English. But we agree that it looks like he is getting better. 

He's made it through this ordeal, but I'm more scared for what happens later.  It all depends if he can learn to sleep upright or if he can start breathing while lying down.  But for now, there's nothing else to do except pray.  So, I make my way home. In bed, about an hour later, I hear some shouts, then maybe ten minutes later, I hear the booms of fireworks and firecrackers, more shouts, and a few rounds of gunfire. Venezuela had won the series.

Sunday, February 8^th, 2009

I had told Gracie to come over to my place by eight am. She had flown in Saturday afternoon and we spent the evening meeting a few folks and catching up. I learned earlier that Alejandro had been taken to the hospital about an hour after I left on Friday night. He was in critical condition with an appendicitis caused by complications from his colon. They still can't operate because he is too unstable. The whole family had relocated to a spot closer the hospital leaving their house locked down. Visiting hours at the hospital start at five.

Until then, I'm making plans to take Gracie to a local church and have a relaxing lunch until our "convivencia", or house church meeting, later in the afternoon. I'm a bit behind in breakfast preparations when she arrives from my near by, teammate's place. We ask each other how we're doing and I respond that I'm feeling good yet heavy with Alejandro's situation. The conversation moves us to the topic of healing prayer. Which is relevant for the hour. In the middle of our discussion and eating, my landlord's wife calls through her kitchen window, "Kelvin? Kelvin?"

"Ah hah? Dime." (Tell me)

Her face looks tired. Her eyes are red. "Alejandro died."

"No . . . When?"

"At eight, right now"

We just stare at each other. What else can you do? It honestly doesn't hit me. We were just talking about healing, having faith in God's ultimate power, and it all just doesn't seem real. At least three more people drop by in the next few minutes to ask if we've heard. It's awkward conversation.

"Did you hear about Alejandro?"

"Teresa just told me." Silence for a moment while we both look at each other or look away. "Oh, hey, this is my girlfriend. She's visiting for a week."

"Oh, nice to meet you." and they smile, greet each other, and do a bit of small talk.

We walk down to church and get there just in time. This particular church is led by a charismatic, ecumenical, catholic priest which, for many of my Baptist friends, is three strikes too many. But, in his quest to be a reformer within the Catholic church, he has been a man seeking first the Kingdom of God. And for that, I trust him. He has earned the nickname "the evangelical priest" from the Pentecostals in the area since on any given Sunday you might hear him expound upon the priesthood of all believers, caution against rote prayers, emphasize the necessity of walking by the Spirit, and continually uphold the Lordship of Christ and all its implications.  Even the church itself, with its brick-honeycombed walls devoid of icons and statues, its lack of windows and stain-glass, and its uncathedral-like, squarish layout would trick the naïve to believe they had wandered into a mainstream, denomination church. I once even saw a young man carrying around a translation of "The Purpose Driven Life."

The mass is wonderful. I know it's wonderful because I breakdown halfway through. The homily follows the Gospel reading from Mark 1:29-39. He points out that when Jesus saw Peter's mother-in-law he did three things. First, he came to her: he became present with her and entered her reality. Second, he took her hand: he showed compassion and reached out to her. And third, he lifted her up: he healed and restored her completely.  The priest says any ministry must include these three things: coming close, extending compassion, and lifting people up. When he mentions lifting her up, I lose it. My cheeks stay drenched until we pass the peace.

I can't be certain, but I'd be willing to bet that most people, in the face of loosing a loved one, imagine that they could come back. We've seen people here that probably should have died and yet through God's grace and lots of prayer, they end up living. So what's just another step for all powerful God to bring someone back? But, I need to tell you right now, this isn't that kind of story.

We leave mass, prepare lunch, and arrive for the meeting.  In light of Alejandro's passing, and the death of a woman up the road, we hold the convivencia as a time for the community to come together and pray. Tons of people show up, many who have never come to any meeting of ours before. We have a long time of worship, we pray, we do a scripture reflection. I try to keep myself busy ushering the door for those showing up. I'm not ready to fully engage; I feel physically exhausted. Crying is tiring.

In the evening we attend Alejandro's "velorio". I'm not really sure what to equate this ceremony to: perhaps a funeral, a wake, a showing? I've never attended any of these in the states. This is my eighth in Venezuela. Everyone from the community packs out the sadly frequented funeral home. Inside where the family is gathered, the three boys are hungrily working away on pieces of fried chicken. With all the preparations and stress, I'm sure it has been a while since they have eaten. Their "mom", Rafaela, shuffles between the three of them, helping them drink from cups, cleaning up smudges of grease. Her eyes are red but otherwise she looks ok. The normal details of life are never ending and all consuming.

Rafaela's mom, the boys great-grandmother, on the other hand . . . I approach and hug her. She holds on and cries and beats her fists in all directions. I've been told losing a parent is hard. Loosing a son or daughter must be infinitely more difficult. So, I can't even begin to imagine what it must be like to loose a great-grandson.

Isabel, is by the casket. We walk over to her, but she's a mess. I wish I was a mess, but the emotions aren't there, the tears either. Alejandro is there, a glass wall between us and him. He looks normal, like he's asleep. They do such a good job with the makeup that sometimes folks look better dead than alive. He could just open his eyes, and it wouldn't even be surprising. More family and neighbors arrive to pay their respects, lining up behind the casket to see him. 

We spend about three hours there. In this culture, simply being present, both in life, and in death, is the sign of friendship. The funeral home begins to shut down and we head back with Hector, who owns the local bodega. He has a truck with a cargo section and we squeeze ten folks in the back.  The ride back in the dark of the container is pleasant.  Life here is intense, but it's also enjoyed to the fullest. Smiles, laughter, camaraderie fill the darkness. I'm still not sure what to think about it. 

Monday February 9^th, 2009

We're at the cemetery outside of the city.  The open casket sits on the ground in the middle of the crowd while a final ceremony is performed.  For some reason, I feel like I need to drink in this last sight of him. It's hitting that I won't ever see him again, at least in this world. They lower him into the ground, everyone watching. His brothers are there by the graveside, wide-eyed; they don't get out much and being out this far must be quite the adventure. They watch him go down, the cement lid laid over the casket, and the grave diggers working to fill in the hole. The sod is put back in place and everyone wanders off to their respective rides back to the city.

Gracie and I take a detour in the city.  We walk around a bit before returning to the barrio. It's about just dark when we get back, and I just want to walk by their house and say hi to anyone who happens to be at home. Rafaela comes to the door and beckons us in, while I weakly protest, "I just wanted to . . ." and I don't finish the sentence.

It's a standard Monday evening, but there's nothing standard about it.  The two oldest boys are engrossed in a movie that everyone else was only half-heartedly obeying. Armando is quiet, sullen, shy, playing with some little toy. Gracie sits down next to him. "What's that?" she asks pointing at the object. He pauses, and for one reason or another, actually responds without resentment. They start talking, he brightens up a bit.  Mateo asks Gracie about her work, her religion, and how she lives. Rafaela serves us all some coffee while mentioning to Gracie and I how Alejandro really wanted to meet her, and it's a shame that it didn't work out. Mateo and Sara are deservedly tired from the countless funeral and burial preparations and their lack of sleep from sadness.  They excuse themselves and we take the opportunity to exchange a few silent hugs with the family and leave. 

Later, I confess to Gracie that I can't understand how a family could ever take in a stranger, and allow even a foreigner to be with them in their most intimate moment of trouble and grief. I can feel like an impostor.  She tells me I shouldn't feel that way.  She says we have the audacity to believe that Jesus has made us all into one family.  No matter the country, no matter the earthly family, we, through Christ, have been adopted as our Father's sons and daughters.  I think she's right. 

So now, I'm learning how to mourn my brother, how to let Christ lift me up, lift us up, and how to follow Him in binding up the brokenhearted, and in place of mourning, giving the oil of gladness.