Return to the Promised Land

PART III - Return to the Promised Land--Auburn, Alabama, 1966 

 All the Days of My Life  (Continued)

 Trying to adjust

Our return home to Belo Horizonte was, of course, delightful.  To see my relatives again – my mother, vovó Isamira, Lica, Lucia, Helcias and all the Pedersolis, was wonderful indeed.    We basked on the love and admiration of all.  John and Miriam so grown up, and little Andrew, so lovable, became the stars for some weeks.  I don’t exactly remember when we started calling Andrew by his first name – Marcello.  I suppose because Andrew was more difficult to pronounce, and Marcello was a common name in Portuguese.  But the baby had no problems switching, and Marcello he became to all of us.

A couple of days before Christmas I went to Rio to pick up Waldir at the airport.  Dr. Waldir Pedersoli, DVM, PhD was beaming with pride and pleasure to be back in his beloved Brazil.  He had done well, and his advisor had told him if he would like to return and apply for a position, he’d be welcomed.  But he really wanted to be back home, and try again, and contribute to the development of our native country.  We had one year’s reprieve before our green cards would expire.

We talked about his plans for the future as we rode the bus back to Belo Horizonte.  We acted like newlyweds, kissing and snuggling, in our seats, all the way there.

My grandmother, now living alone in a big house, offered the apartment in her backyard.  It was convenient, while we waited to decide what to do.  We did our best to overcome the readjustment to a place that seemed so different from what we remembered.  The kids seemed to have less difficulty than us, basking on the attention of the adults, and playing with their cousins.

The political and cultural situation was one of the problems to contend with.  In 1964, the government of President João Goulart had been overthrown in a military coup.  He had been my hero in the late 1950s and early 1960s, and one of the reasons I had doubts about leaving Brazil for the U.S. in 1962, as I mentioned before.  To us young students at the time, Jango stood for the people, against the ruling higher classes, for better public education, for taxing the rich corporations according to their profits, for voting reform, so that being illiterate, or of another race, would not prevent one from voting.  But we also knew that, because of his liberal left leanings, he fell into the traps of the American anti-communism hysteria.

Thus, when we returned in 1966, the conservative ARENA (National Renewal Alliance Party) was in full domination of the politics of the country.  In other words, the military ruled in a repressive government much like other dictatorships in Latin America.  We heard of disappearances, tortures, violent police clashes, and other evils.  I was appalled.

Nevertheless, we bought a nice house, enrolled John in the American School at the Consulate, Miriam went to Kindergarten, and we tried our best to reenter the familiar routines, and get over our cultural shock.

It was more difficult for Waldir.  Back to his old Teaching Assistant position, working with the same old head of department who, even after 4 years, had no intention of retiring or stepping down, he found out that there was little acceptance for the ideas of a young, bright, knowledgeable, U.S. trained scientist.  And the salaries, under this regime, hadn't been raised for years, and payment was consistently late.

To complicate things even more, I found out, surprised, that I was pregnant, and contrary to other times, I had already missed two periods, so I was eight weeks when I finally went to the doctor for confirmation.  The test was positive and I thought “Now, God, what are you doing?  Did I ask for this?” but, of course, I was thrilled.  I tried to stay calm, and off my feet as much as possible, but with an active nine month old crawling all over the floors and getting into everything, it was difficult.  Around the 12^th week I started spotting and cramping.  I called the doctor and he said to come to the hospital.  I went with my mother, and after examining me the doctor decided to admit me for observation.  I had never come to this point, so I was concerned.  They ran various tests, put me on progesterone, and waited for the results.  The pregnancy test came out negative, and the ultrasound indicated fetal death.  I was devastated.  I was sent home, to wait for a spontaneous miscarriage, and in deep depression I lay in bed, cramping and spotting, but no resolution.  I was getting really sick, feverish, when it was decided to admit me again for surgery.

Afterwards, I went back to my bed, silent and morose.  For ten days I lay there, while friends came and went, and Lica came to take care of me.  I could see the flowering lemon tree outside my window, and saw its blossoms turn into little lemons that grew into big green limes, and I still lay in bed.  I don’t remember what finally got me out of my funk, but perhaps was the day Waldir told me we needed to start thinking about going back to the U.S.  Things weren’t really working out to his satisfaction, the tense political climate, the repression and control of academia being regrettable.   He knew that there were some good Pharmacology positions open, and if I would help write the letters and get the Curriculum Vitae together, he’d appreciate it.

“I suppose you won’t mind going back, do you?” he asked with his ironic smile.  “What would you prefer? California, New York, Alabama?  Not Illinois.  Too cold!”

I hugged his neck, smiling, at last.  “Anywhere!  Let’s go!”

He brought the position announcements home and I proceeded to write the letters and do the mailings to UC Davis, Cornell, Auburn, and Tuskegee.  Strangely enough, Alabama seemed the only State with two Schools of Veterinary Medicine.  Interviews were done by phone and every one would like for him to go for an interview.  All except Auburn and Tuskegee that offered him their Assistant Professor positions sight-unseen.  He opted for Auburn, whose School ranked the 2^nd best in the country, the weather was hot and humid in the summer and pleasantly cool in the winter.  It was also in the South, closer to Brazil.

Our relatives weren't pleased, especially my mother-in-law.  She blamed me, for instigating the return.  It’d be so nice to have the family together, watch the children grow, and how about my grandmother?  She was in her 80s.  Wouldn't I feel guilty if she died, like vovô Arthur, and I'd never see her again?

By mid-August we had sold our house and everything in it.  I saved my books and records to be sent later.  And we flew to Miami where we rented a car for the trip to Auburn, Alabama.

We felt like Alice in Wonderland!  Back to nice roads, comfortable car, burger joints with playgrounds for the kids; our first breakfast of grits, sausage, bacon and eggs.  Florida sunshine and beaches…  Fried chicken and okra, big fat buttermilk biscuits and sweet tea… Peanut  butter!  The only foreign thing was the southern drawl our Midwestern ears weren’t accustomed to. 

Southern Alabama was lush with pine forests and the kudzu sculpted topiary gardens everywhere amazed me.  In the evening the choruses of cicadas, frogs and owls, as we sailed through the bayous in our Ford Galaxie, filled the warm air heavy with humidity and earthy odors.  We finally got to Opelika, after asking directions at a roadside restaurant where nobody knew how to get to Auburn.  Riding down the road toward the university, I wondered where all the houses were, since all I could see were trees.  I finally spotted them nestled among the pines and oaks.

In 1966 Auburn was a small college town, compared to the sprawling University of Illinois at Urbana.  Evening was closing down on us, and all we could do was go down College Street, see the quaint Sanford Hall, buy some milk and bananas for the kids, and go settle down at the Heart of Auburn Motel as we were directed to by the University.

We would spend over 20 years at our new home in Auburn, Alabama.  Albeit not perfectly happy in our relationship, those years were rich in spiritual and intellectual growth.  In the academic and Catholic communities we found colleagues and friends, teachers and pastors that helped us to grow, and learn, stretch our minds and our horizons, become good citizens of our adopted country.

In just a few weeks after our arrival we had bought a house on Ryan Street, furnished it with everything we needed, simply but comfortably, bought a VW Beetle, made friends with our neighbors, enrolled John and Miriam in public school and started living the American dream.

My Assistant Professor of Veterinary Pharmacology husband charmed everyone in his department and seemed to be engaged in being a good teacher and an excellent researcher.

Money was a little tight, after the expenses of settling down in our home, so I decided to look for  a job.  I knew that my knowledge of foreign languages was an asset, but suddenly I found out that I was pregnant yet again, and this time I was going into the 16^th week without miscarrying. My new gynecologist and obstetrician at the local hospital was hopeful, treating me with progesterone and other hormones, as I tried to restrict my activities, with renewed hope.  

One day, a black woman knocked at our door, and asked if I needed household help.  Her name was Louise, and she was a charmer.  We hired her to help care for the kids and help keep the house clean.  I went for a job interview, and was hired as an administrative assistant.

The week that I was to start working, the worst happened.  Cramps, bleeding, water breaking, and an emergency admission to the hospital.  This was the worst miscarriage I had ever had, and I was in great distress and in danger of bleeding to death.  The little baby I had already named Michael was dead, and I went into surgery to save my life.

After the pain and disappointment came the depression.  I was thankful I had Louise to look after the kids and help me to recover.  I had to call my would-be employer and explain that I had a health emergency and surgery, and had to recover my health before I could go to work.  Unfortunately I could not start then.

My physician, Dr, Russell, had a long talk with Waldir and I about my condition and the danger I’d be running having these miscarriages.  He advised one year of treatment with hormones, getting healthy again, and  then there was a procedure of tying up what was left of the cervix to try to go to term, or as close to term as we could go.  I agreed to that.

Growing in knowledge

 Waldir encouraged me to continue my education, supposedly to get my mind off getting pregnant again, and I enrolled at the University, as a languages major.  Since I had several years of French, I was placed on the advanced classes of my major and chose German as my minor.

The first quarter at Auburn University was rough; I had been away from any schooling in years. My only strength was that I had always been an avid reader of world literature.  I enjoyed the classes, was engaged in the discussions, but proved to be almost unable to take tests.  Multiple choice answers baffled me completely. I had some kind of disability, in this regard, but my teachers did their best to accommodate my needs. My writing ability saved me on the term papers and creative projects, though, and I completed my first year with reasonable success.  Actually I did so well on the English literature courses that I was invited to take a double major in English and French and added a second minor to my German – Secondary Education – which would help me to be certified as a languages teacher.

St. Michael’s Church was the only Catholic Church in town – being the Catholic student’s center it was a very active community.  Daily noon Mass became an oasis in the middle of my day.  The parish was involved in growing into the knowledge and the implementation of the Second Vatican Council’s mandates.  We had Bible studies, neighborhood church groups, and Family Life groups.  The Vincentian Fathers were good pastors, involving the parish in the ministries.

One day Fr. Gene approached me and said that he had heard that I played the guitar.  Surprised, I said that I played a little.

“We need to experiment with folk Masses,” he said, showing me the new People’s Song Book.  “We need to make our liturgies more appealing to the students and young people.”

“OK, I’ll bring my guitar, and we’ll try,” I said.

That was the beginning of my involvement with the music ministry in the church. 

“All I have is yours,” I said to my Lord.  “I’ll honor and praise you with my voice and with the sound of the strings!”  Soon, other, more skilled guitar players joined me, and we had a full-fledged folk Mass, to the students’ great delight.

I got a job at the Ralph Brown Library as a student assistant, based on my experience at the Classics Library in Illinois.  With a new sense of my own worth as a person endowed with gifts that I could use for the kingdom of God and the good of all his people, my self-esteem, squelched by so many years of disappointments and suffering, increased, and I dedicated myself to every service and ministry I could contribute to.  I was a very busy mom and student, but the kids thrived in school, Louise was a great helper, and I was on the go.

The Gift Ungiven – James Michael (April 17, 1970)

John and Miriam were excellent students, and Marcello was growing into a loving and lovable little kid, adored by his nanny Louise. 

Waldir was very busy teaching and doing research, and our relationship, although leaving much to be desired, was stable.  He was far from being involved in church things, and I knew he wasn't totally thrilled with my involvement.  This saddened me, but I was starting to come to a place of confidence in myself, in knowing what I could and wanted to do with my own dreams for my life. 

I forged ahead on my own, and educated our children on the faith I had received as gift from God.  They grew in grace and the knowledge of Jesus.  I never failed to invite my husband to Sunday Mass and to church events.  He wasn't interested, but he did attend John and Miriam’s First Communion Mass, Christmas, Holy Week and Easter liturgies.  Occasionally, he would give in, and agree to go on a family retreat, or a meeting in our friends’ homes.  But most of the time he was ill-at-ease in church meetings.

During my sophomore year I had my first break in my fledgling library worker career.  There was an opening as a full time library assistant position in the Social Sciences department.  I was hired.  Working full time meant that I had to take fewer classes, but we could use the extra income, and I enjoyed learning the different library management tasks.

I was surrounded by friends at work, at school, and at church.  Life was good.  Then tragedy struck at home in Brazil.  There had been a terrible accident.  My beloved cousin Norton and his fiancée Elsa had been killed in a head-on collision on a road trip.  My aunt Neusa was in critical condition and her husband, my uncle Jofre, was also badly hurt.  I was grief-stricken.  There was no way I could travel there to be with my aunt.  All I could do was pray.  I spent hours alone in the stacks, rearranging books and periodicals.  The automatic task of reading call numbers and rearranging the shelves was soothing to my depression.

Late 1969 I got pregnant once again.  I was by that time callous about expecting the worst.  But the weeks went by and I did not miscarry.  Dr. Russell, my gynecologist/obstetrician, was hopeful.  He advised that I should have the procedure of securing the incompetent cervix with a surgical procedure called a cervix cerclage.  When I made it to the 12^th week without miscarrying, my cervix was stitched up closed.  Everything went well, and my hope of finally having another child was revived.

Previously, when I was interviewed for the Social Sciences library position, the director, a real southern gentleman, commented, tongue-in-cheek:

“Mrs. Pedersoli, you are a young married woman.  How do I know you are not going to get pregnant right after I hire you?”

“Dr. Partridge,” I responded pleasantly, “I can tell you one thing.  If that happens, I will be tickled!  I couldn't hope for anything better!”

He laughed, and signed the papers.  I continued working, feeling well and hopeful, as the months went by and the cervix held.  The kids were looking forward to their new baby brother.  I named him James Michael and we started planning for the birth.  I was elated.  Taking violin lessons on my grandfather’s violin, I sang lullabies to the dream child that leaped in my womb playfully.

We made it to the 18^th week, and then I started leaking fluid.  Dr. Russell checked me out, and wasn’t too concerned.  I was sent home to be in bed rest as much as possible.  My neighbor Sheila and my other friends took turns caring for me.  I took solace in knowing that actress Sophia Lauren was going through the same trial, trying to have a baby.  Waldir was uncooperative.  To him the whole thing was a nuisance…

His attitude annoyed me, but I hung on, determined to give Jamie a better chance to life.  We made it to the 19^th week, but one morning, as I got up to go to the bathroom, the water gushed out and I saw blood.  Rushed to the hospital, I was treated with muscle relaxants and other measures to keep the baby in a few more days.  My friends joined in prayer.

 

At the beginning of the 24^th week, Dr. Russell told me he was concerned about an infection, that he thought the baby was already a good size, and that it probably would be best to carefully induce the delivery, ever so slowly.  We discussed the fact that St. Jude’s Hospital in Montgomery was doing miracles in premature baby survival.  If needed, Jamie could be taken there for newborn preemie care.

We agreed, and by the end of that week the cervix stitches were removed and I was put on an intravenous drip with the induction hormones.  The delivery was going to be a delicate procedure, to put as little stress on the baby as possible.  I was taken to the delivery room in a daze.  I pushed when told to push and held on when so directed.  

Finally the child was born, and my hellish nightmare started.  I heard his weak cry, like a little kitten meowing.   I was told nothing; instead, I was given a massive dose of what I believe must have been Demerol.  I could not move, or speak, I could hear the voices but could not understand what was being said.  I was wheeled back to my room, and when I arrived my roommate asked what had happened to me.  Through the fog in my head I heard the nurse say “she had a Siamese baby” when what she had said was actually “she had a premature baby.”  The enemies of my soul were at work.  I was in a tourbillion of darkness and sorrow.  I had selfishly insisted in having another child, when I already had three to care for.  I was being now punished for defying God’s will.  I had brought disgrace to my family and my children.  How would we ever cope with raising a Siamese child? Unable to fight off the demons in the dense fog of my brain, I surrendered to despair.

When I finally started to recover my senses, out of the grasp of the drugged stupor I found myself in, I was in my room, and I saw Waldir standing at the window, looking out, a sad look in his face.  I gathered strength to ask in a feeble voice:

‘’It is bad news, isn't it?”

He came over to the bed.

“No,” he said, excitedly.  “It’s good news!  The baby is alive and well, kicking his little legs in the ICU.  He is all pink and beautiful!”

An incredible joy flooded my whole being.

“Jamie?” I asked.

“Yes!” and he kissed me gently.

“Can I see him?”

“Not right now.  They want him isolated the first few hours, so he doesn't catch any germs.  Certainly by tomorrow morning we can go see him.  I’ll go home and tell the kids.  They are anxiously waiting.  You get some rest now, my darling.”

I could not sleep that night.  I sang praises to God in my heart and prayed for Jamie’s life, begging God to keep him safe, in the palm of His hands.

The TV in my room showed the Apollo 13 spacecraft, crippled by an explosion onboard, en route to splash down in the Pacific.  In my mind, I prayed for their safety, as a good sign that Jamie too would make his safe landing, and survive.  The full moon rose in front of my window when the cheers went up for the astronauts.

Early in the morning I got up, took a shower, got all dressed up, ready to go meet my son.  The first person to come into my room was my doctor’s partner.  He had seen me a couple of times, when Dr. Russell was on vacation, but I didn't particularly like him.  He was my roommate’s doctor and went over to check on her.  Afterwards he turned to me.

“You look well,” he said. 

“I feel great!” I said.  And then I asked:

“How’s my baby?”

He frowned.  “They haven't told you?”

“Tell me what?”

“The baby died…”

“No!” I denied.  “He made it.  He’s well, my husband saw him kicking in his ICU…”

Coldly, Dr. Jekyll picked up the phone by the bed and called the nursery.  He turned to me:

“The baby is dead. Sorry.”

As I exploded in tears of grief, Dr. Russell, Waldir, and one of our priests walked in the door.  They had been waiting for Father to get there so they could break the news to me, gently.

I went to pieces.  Dr. Russell had tears in his eyes as he hugged me, and then left, after his partner.

“I want to see my baby!” I screamed after him.  He gave the orders, and they brought him to me, wrapped in his baby blanket -- a perfectly beautiful child.  Soft dark downy hair.  Tiny hands with nails in his fingers.  Baby doll little pink toes.  I held him in the crook of my arm, made the sign of the cross on his forehead.  

“God bless you, James Michael, my little angel.  Mommy loves you.  Fly on, back to God…”

Coping with the post-partum depression was horrible.  I’d burst into tears every time I’d see a baby.  The kids were terribly disappointed.  They hugged me, and kissed me, brought me breakfast in bed and flowers from our rosebushes.  I thanked God I had them, but I wished I was dead too.  I stayed in my bed for days, gloomily mad at Jesus for denying me the desire of my heart.

One morning Fr. Bud came over to bring me communion and pray for me.  Waldir had been extremely insensitive to my pain, as he left for work that morning.  Grief exploded from my heart, as I sobbed and asked God to just take me too.  I wanted to die so badly.  I suppose it scared Fr. Bud.  He couldn't handle it, and just left.  Louise came in and took me in her arms, and comforted me.

“Now, now, Miz Ellie, you got to get ov’r this thing, honey.  Yo’ chillen needs you.  You jus pray to Jesus and he might of give you anothe babe, but even if he don’t, God loves you and wanna you to be a good mama to the uns you got already.”

She rocked me in her arms to the tune of  “Swing low, sweet chariot..”  I cried the rest of my tears in her embrace.

At my next appointment, Dr. Russell was very kind and apologetic.  He mentioned my request to have the baby sent to St. Jude’s hospital in Montgomery, but he really thought Jamie looked quite strong, and had every chance of surviving.  But he had just stopped breathing and unfortunately nobody noticed that.

I wanted to know if we could try again.

“Yes,” he said.  “We were so close this time.  But I recommend that you go to a fertility specialist in Columbus, Georgia.  Dr. Jarrell is very good.”

I had a few weeks of sick leave, so I lost no time.  Off I went to Columbus and an appointment with Dr. Jarrell, who then took over my gynecologic care.  He was a real southern gentleman, with a melodious southern accent, as gentle as his voice.

He examined me, and designed a plan for another trial at pregnancy.  As soon as I recovered, and was strong again, he would perform plastic surgery to remove scar tissue from the cervix, and when I got pregnant they would again encircle the cervix with a tightening device.  Meanwhile, he prescribed birth control pills, until I healed.

I was insanely reckless, though, and made love to Waldir furiously for the next three months.  I needed to feel pregnant.

Dr. Jarrell wasn't pleased, when I tested positive.  The next three months would be critical, as we waited to see if the uterus held on.  I quit my job at the Library as I finished the quarterly final exams, and stayed home resting, determined to see this one to term.  The cerclage surgery was scheduled as I reached the 14^th week, and Waldir drove me to St. Francis Hospital in Columbus, Georgia for the procedure.  He wasn't very supportive.

Everything went well, and I was supposed to stay in the hospital for one week, in total bed rest.  I was fully cooperative and determined this time; more determined than prayerful, really.  I felt safe in that Catholic hospital, with the nuns coming to visit and praying for me.  God had failed me with Jamie, and now I knew I could to do this on my own.

Four days later, though, I started cramping.  The doctors fought back with muscle relaxants and progesterone, among other things.  The cramps didn't stop.  Dr. Jarrell talked to me about some good results that had been obtained stopping a miscarriage by dripping alcohol intravenously, slowly.  I’d get slightly drunk, but it was something to try.  They put me on it in the morning, and by noon the cramps had all but stopped.  By evening, I was in a drunk stupor, and went to sleep, only to wake up in a sweat, and shivering.  I called the nurse.  By the time she got to me I was shaking uncontrollably.  

“I think I have the DTs,” I babbled.  “Please call my doctor.  Please stop the drip.”

“Oh no, honey, you don’t have no DTs,” she assured me.  “I think you have a temperature.  I’ll get you some Tylenol.”

“Yes, but please call Dr. Jarrell.  Tell him what’s going on…”

“It’s 3 in the morning, sweetie, and you are just anxious and nervous.  The doctor will be here in the morning.”  She left for the Tylenol.

Just then I felt a painful contraction and fluid gushed out.  I hung on the call button.  She returned with the Tylenol as I cried in frustration.

“My water just broke!” I shouted.

She peered between my legs.

“Don’t worry, honey.  It’s not fluid, you just voided in your stress!  Calm down!”

“If you don’t get a doctor immediately, I will yank this thing out of my arm right now!” 

I sat up, ready to get up, out of bed.  She rang the panic button and soon the doctor in charge came in, as I had another big contraction and the baby came out.  She gasped, as I looked, sorrowfully, on yet another lifeless, little baby boy.

Bleeding heavily I was wheeled to the surgery room where the anesthetic knocked me out of my misery, and another curettage was performed to save my life.

I was very sick for a few days, and when he took me home Waldir said, sternly:

“Leni, I don’t know if you’re intent in committing suicide, or what.  But I am no longer going to be part of this madness.  If you don’t think your three children need you, then you’re free to go find another partner for your craziness.  Not me.  I’m having a vasectomy.”

I felt chastised, this time, and humbly asked forgiveness for my reckless selfishness.  “Thy will be done, Lord.  Please forgive my pride.”

Dr. Jarrell was kind, but firm, when I went for my post-surgery appointment.

“Mrs. Pedersoli, it’s my judgment that you've given this as many tries as you could.  If you insist on going on this track you will die trying.  It’s obvious that your cervix will not hold a pregnancy any longer.  I recommend you have a hysterectomy.  Your uterus is badly scarred, and you might develop cervical cancer.”

We set the date, after I’d recovered from anemia, and the after effects of my alcohol binge, but just a couple of weeks before that, I came down with appendicitis.  Back in Columbus, I had a young Dr. Molnar (who I’d meet again in the future) do the appendectomy.  He promised to do a bikini incision that would never show up.  Two weeks later he said I was fit to go on a road trip to California with the family.  That was Waldir’s attempt to get my mind off having another child.  It worked.

Off we went to Mobile, New Orleans, Route 10 to San Diego, where we visited the famous Zoo, to Los Angeles where Waldir attended the Veterinary Medical Association meeting and I took the kids to Disneyland and Hollywood.  Then up the coast to San Francisco, Yosemite, and the Grand Canyon, and back home through Colorado and New Mexico.

Exhilarated, we got home just in time for me to rest for a few days and head back to the hospital where my dream of having another child came to an end.

It was during the days of my recovery that I had an epiphany.  I started reading Betty Friedan's The Feminine Mystique and page after page I excitedly found myself and my plight as a woman described in the book.  I stayed up all night to finish it, and in the morning I was ready to assert myself and take on the world.  
For the first time ever I started thinking of myself as a separate being, gifted and strong, independently of my husband.   I saw myself as a young teenager with a cause and a dream I believed in enough to fight for it and defend my right to choose.  And I saw myself as a young woman, abused and humiliated, even suicidal.

I liked the teenager best.  I decided to help that teenager to grow into a strong woman who, with God's help, would use all her gifts and talents first in His service, and in the service of my family, community, and country.  Healed and strengthened by my new self concept, I was ready to take on the mission.

At Waldir’s urging, I went back to school full time to finish the B.A.

 My senior year was a busy one, as I took a full load of courses, submerging myself in the French, English, Italian, Spanish and German literatures, as well as Astronomy, Biology, and Math requirements.

One course especially became my favorite – Advanced Composition, taught by Mr. Jerry Roden.

Jerry was a wonderful, gifted  teacher, who motivated his students to love the English language, demanding correct spelling, rhetoric, and perfect form. Recognizing the talented ones, he brought out the writing skills in his young (and in my case older) students.

We had to keep a daily journal, which, in my case, was an easy task, since I already did this almost faithfully.

I found a new joy walking to Haley Center in the mornings, through the shady streets lined with pecan trees.  Thankful for the gift of trees, I’d pick the nuts as I walked, and munched on them all the way-- food for my brain.

I wrote faithfully on my journal, glad to please Mr. Roden.  With his gentle mentoring he encouraged me to write, honing and sharpening my skills, even trying poetry.  Under his direction we started a poetry group where we shared our efforts and critiqued each other's poems and stories.  Members of the Poets Circle formed the editorial board of Auburn University's student magazine The Auburn Circle where we proudly published our creations.

Before the end of the term, Mr. Roden had arranged a niche for me as a columnist for the University's Alumni Association newspaper -- The Auburn Alumnews. God bless his soul!  I will see you in heaven, Jerry Roden!

The Promised Land

Landing in America

The Promised Land                Urbana, Illinois, August 1962

It was a bright sunny Sunday in Belo Horizonte when we left from the Pampulha Airport, but our sad faces were wet with tears as we said goodbye to parents, relatives, and dear friends.

Those last weeks of preparation, getting things ready for the move, were a blur.  My heart was full of apprehension and fear of what loomed ahead for us.  Fear of what I was getting into, fear of what kind of life waited for me in that distant, foreign land.  I busied myself with the babies, and with English lessons at the Brasil-Estados Unidos Institute.  Having been educated at Izabela Hendrix, a traditional Methodist American School, where we had English language lessons every week for 3 years, I wasn't exactly ignorant of the language and culture of that country up north, but culturally and politically, I was more inclined to the left, and not very excited about what I knew of American imperialism, Capitalism, racism, and political domination of our Latin American countries, especially the problems with Cuba. 

Yet, secretly, in a corner of my mind, I had not only a rather exciting expectation of this adventure into the unknown, but also a little grain of hope for a better life.  Would it be possible, as my dear friend Dea tried to point out to me, that this could be an opportunity to put together the broken pieces of our relationship, regain lost hope, rediscover and fortify my faith, resurrect love from the frozen ashes?

“Look at him,” said Dea, fighting against my skepticism. “He is your husband, your treasure, the father of your children, your life’s companion that you promised to love and honor, in sadness or joy, in happiness or adversity, and also in sickness and in health.  You must follow him, for your children, who need a father.  For them you must pick up the broken tools, and rebuild the home you dreamed of together.”

For João Marcos, the flying experience was a traumatic one.  He did not want to go into the airplane because he was sure it was going to crash.  He screamed in panic, and refused to be comforted.  The other passengers were concerned, and we were vexed.  Finally when we started moving, he buried his face in his father’s chest and went to sleep, only waking up when we landed in New York.  This was the child who would, one day, fly F4s and F11 fighter jets in the U.S. Air force!

Our arrival was a blur.  I remember eating hotdogs at a deli, and trying to get the children fed and settled in bed at the hotel.  Then I went and took a nice, hot shower.  Finally, when all was quiet, I opened a drawer and found a Bible.  I opened at random, and read Deuteronomy 8:7-10:

The Lord your God is bringing you into a good land, a land of brooks of water, of fountains and springs, flowing forth in valleys and hills; a land of wheat and barley, of vines and fig trees, and pomegranates, a land of olive oil and honey; a land where you will eat food without scarcity, in which you shall not lack anything. … When you have eaten and are satisfied, you shall bless the Lord your God for the good land which he has given you. NAS

Humbled, and with tears flowing from my eyes, I knelt down and prayed:  “Thank you, Lord.  I accept this word as your pledge to me.  I shall take the gift of this land from your hand, and promise to do my best to honor and bless you for your goodness unto us, your miserable children.  Forgive our sins and bring us into your promised land in freedom and peace.”

Waldir was asleep, with João Marcos cradled in his arms.  I climbed into the other bed with Miriam and fell into a soundless, exhausted sleep.

Next day we flew to Chicago, and I insisted we take a bus to Urbana, as I wanted to see the countryside, and the kids would be less tired.  So we did.  We went and settled in the back of the bus, with the Negro families.  I did notice that all the white folks were up front.  I had already noticed, with disdain, the restrooms at the airport marked “colored women.”  I had actually tried to go into one, when Waldir stopped me.

There was a cute little girl that kept looking at João Marcos, the two of them hanging out in the back seat.  “What’s your name?” I asked her.  “Diane,” she answered promptly.  She had understood me!  Her parents smiled, but said nothing.

“His name is Johnny,” I said of my son.  “How old are you?”  She showed three fingers.  “He’s two,” I said.

That was my first conversation in my new country.  Thank you, Diane!

Baby Miriam was looking out the window at the wheat fields flying by.  I looked out too, at that ocean of golden grain, undulating like waves, as far as I could see.  A land of wheat and honey…  For the first time in months, I felt a sweet peace fill my heart.

We settled in our brand new apartment in Orchard Downs, and since the university students were still on summer vacation, we were the first ones to arrive.  I’d look at the empty buildings all around the grassy mall, with their yellow lamps, and I wrote to my mother that it looked like a cemetery.  Not a living soul around. 

Waldir had to go present himself at the Graduate School, so I and the kids were on our own.  There was a playground nearby, where João Marcos and Miriam had fun playing.  My first conversation experience was with the milkman.  He wanted to know how many gallons of milk I’d like delivered.  I hadn't had the foresight of learning to convert liters to gallons, so I said two gallons of milk would be sufficient every day.  “Any cheese?” he asked.  Oh, yes, I did love cheese!

“Yes, one of those boxes [1 lb] every day,” I said.

Next day we found the order in the box outside our door.  How convenient!  I proudly opened the “cheese” container.  To my dismay it was filled with little pieces of tasteless white stuff, swimming in water!

“That’s cottage cheese, Leni,” Waldir said.  “You have to fish it out of the water and add salt.”  

Nothing like our delicious queijo de Minas which I wouldn't eat for years to come…

Finally the students started to return and I soon met my neighbors downstairs.  Barbara Wuttig, from Germany, and her little son Frank, same age as João Marcos; also Lily Kaminsky, from Israel.  Frank and Johnny became playmates right away.  John had no problems answering to his new name.  Barbara called him John-John the Leprechaun.

We practiced our new language as we watched our children in the playground.

Redemption – Spiritual revival

My heart was overflowing with thanksgiving for my new home, the new camaraderie with my husband, and the flourishing of my children.

Alone with myself, most of the time, I turned back to my first love.  I was truly full of sorrow for my sins, and begged God’s forgiveness.  How could I, who’d have given my life to Jesus, hurt him so grievously, forgetting the sacrifice He had suffered for me?  How could I fail so badly, at the first trial of my constancy?

What shall I do now, Lord, to redeem my guilt before your eyes, to pay you back with love for my most terrible offense?  I know that nothing in this world that I could do as reparation, would wipe out this stain, except for your most precious Blood poured out on the cross for me.  With David, in the Psalms, I’d repeat that “my sin is always before me, against you alone have I sinned...purify me with hyssop and I shall be clean, wash me and I shall be whiter than snow… do not take your Holy Spirit from me…restore me to the joy of your salvation, Lord! ”

What could I do in return for all that Jesus had done for me?  My life was nothing compared with His life poured out for me…  And I’d tell Jesus that if my life would be worth anything in his service, to please accept it, as an oblation, to love and serve him, to be consumed in his loving service.

“From this day forward, Lord, all my little sorrows, all my joys, all my sufferings, all my tears are 

yours.”

I had three books with me:  St. Therese’s autobiography, the story of St. Gertrude, and the Bible. I immersed myself in them, and prayed with Therese:

“I will go around the world preaching your Word, Beloved, and I will rise up in foreign soil the glorious banner of the cross.  I cannot accomplish great works.  I cannot preach the Gospel, or shed my blood, but so what?  My brothers work in my place, while I myself, a worthless child, stay at the foot of your throne to love you, for all those who are still in the shadow of death.”

Housework, which had been an unwelcome chore for me, became less of a burden.  We had washers and driers, and the little apartment was so much easier to keep clean, especially with the great cleaning products I found at the supermarket.  I was fast becoming a very good cook, also.

I found my way to the parish church and Sunday Mass.  I had to take the shuttle bus to town, but I had gotten used to it, having to go shopping at Kroger.  I could not stand staying away from receiving communion.  I stayed on my knees and wept, as the faithful walked to the altar.  And then one Saturday I humbled myself, and went to confession.  My English was still not that good, but the priest did understand me, and was most kind and understanding when I bared my sinfulness to him and asked that God would forgive me.  I had grievously offended my God through my fault, my most grievous fault.  He gave me absolution as I swore never to commit those sins again.

Kneeling at Jesus’s feet afterward, under His sweet gaze, His pierced hand extended to me, I prayed:

“My beloved Lord, thanks for forgiving me, and washing me in your precious blood.  Thanks for the renewed peace in my soul.  Now I want to do something for you, in reparation of my guilt.  I want to do something beautiful for you and your children here on earth.   Please show me the way to do this, even if it’s just a little tiny gift that I may be able to offer unto you.”

The answer was quick.  As I left the church, suddenly my eyes caught the title of a little booklet:  The Red Rose of Suffering. I took it home and read it – and excitedly promised Jesus that I’d be a co-missionary, like Gertrude, and St. Therese.  I filled out the form in the back and sent it to the Divine Word Missionaries.  Suffering?  That’s something I was very experienced in!  Soon I got a response and the name of the missionary I was to pray for, and joined in offering my daily prayers, my joys, sorrows, and sufferings for Father John Wald, a missionary in Africa for over ten years.

I was so grateful for God’s blessings on Waldir also.  His cruel abuse seemed to be a thing of the past.  He had been an instrument of Satan to destroy me, but now was becoming a good friend, a good father, and a faithful companion.  I still missed the ardent lover of our courtship.  No more fiery kisses and warm embraces.  I so yearned to be kissed, and hugged, not only in bed, but at any time, in sweet expressions of loving touches.  Sexual relations would leave me empty and tearful.  It was just carnal sex.  I was finding it difficult to control my yearning to be loved, admired, and desired.  Would this be my fate – to live a lonely life, incomplete and dissatisfied?

I also yearned to have another baby.  I wanted one that both of us would enjoy conceiving, and accept with joy, to make up for the sorrow of the previous pregnancies.  But the months went by, and nothing would happen.  I could not accept that I was now barren.  I prayed, and begged the Lord to give us another child.   I offered my frustrations for my missionary.

Pope John XXIII opened the Second Vatican Council and a new breeze of the Spirit refreshed our souls, as we got ready to deal with the liturgical changes.  But those were troublesome days for the country and the world.  The Cuban crisis, the missile scare, the Russian ships en-route to the U.S. --  we watched the news with concern – what should we do about fallout shelters?  I felt strangely detached from it all, except for the civil rights struggles which caught my attention.  I winced at the cruelty of the police, the dogs attacking defenseless women and men, the marches and demonstrations in the South, and I prayed for peace and justice, and wished I could be there, with them, helping the quest for freedom and equality of rights.

John had become proficient in English and was refusing to speak Portuguese, the language he was so fluent in.  When we’d speak to him in our native language he would ask “What?”  and we had to translate.  I was deeply concerned that he would not learn how to pray.  Then I decided to teach him the Lord’s Prayer and Hail Mary in English.  Success!  He was soon joining me at bedtime prayers.  Miriam learned English from him and the other playmates, so she also wouldn't understand our Portuguese.  I had hoped that they’d be bilingual, but not those kids.  We finally gave in, and started to speak English only.

I discovered the Public Library and became an avid reader in English.  I filled my days with American literature and history.  And I wrote tirelessly in my journals.

We met our host family – the Hilts – middle aged husband and wife who were childless, and who did enjoy taking us out to the University’s cafeteria, where I had my first taste of American coffee, strong and sugarless (I was too shy to say it needed sugar!) with my meal.  They also introduced us to the hamburger joints, which the kids loved.

Our first fall – wondering at the colors – bright oranges, gold, yellow, and the kids rolling on the piles of dried leaves, the crisp and cold days biting at our noses.

And then our first Christmas!  The three of us looking out at the first snowfall, our noses glued to the window.  John and Miriam couldn't wait to go frolicking in the white stuff.  And then we met other Brazilian students – Mafalda and Geraldo with their son, a couple of years older than John.

The stars on the children’s eyes, when we took them to the Mall to see Santa Claus and sit on his knee, our first little Christmas tree, and the small gifts we could give to each other, and the children’s excitement to find them under the tree on Christmas morning. I counted the small joys and my contentment grew.

Then a cruel shock – January 22, 1963 we had a phone call from Brazil – my grandfather Arthur had died of a massive heart attack.  The news was hard on me.  I cried desperately.  I couldn't imagine going back home and not finding my beloved Grandpa.  Waldir tried to comfort me, but I was inconsolable.  For many days I dreamed with him, heard his voice everywhere.  I knew he was home with Jesus, but it was difficult to accept that I’d never see him again in this world.  

Earlier in the year we moved to Orchard Place, to a one floor end unit, with the playground in our backyard. Our circle of friends grew; Manuel and Cecilia Sobral, Laura and Sergio, Cristina and Alex Kojin, among others.

In June, our beloved Pope John XXIII died.  He was our hope for a Church more open to unity and love.  His kindness and spirituality, his encouraging words to fight and pray tirelessly for peace and justice, inspired us.  But God’s ways aren't our ways, and he called His servant home.

Irritated at a “Letter to the Editor” in our newspaper, decrying the pomp and ceremony of Pope John’s funeral, I wrote one myself pointing out that this was like the precious nard poured upon the head of Jesus, to honor him, and that the poor would always be with us, and if we loved and honored God, not only in words, but in deeds, we would never forget to share what we had with the poor.  To my surprise, the letter was published.  I was proud of myself.

Another milestone was passing the driver’s license test.  I was now free to explore new adventures, and especially to go to church events without depending on Waldir to drive me.

In November, a tragedy:  President Kennedy’s assassination.  From my diary:

November 22, 1963

A wave of sadness drowned the country in grief and pain.  The young, lively, handsome President John F. Kennedy was coldly assassinated in the streets of Dallas, Texas.

It cut my heart to see him in the open limousine, smiling, so happy, his beautiful wife at his side, the people acclaiming their presence, enthusiastically.  And suddenly, it all came to an abrupt end.  A shot, coming from the 6^th floor of a building, out of a $12 rifle handled by a coward fanatic, ended the life, interrupted the career of a statesman admired and loved across the world for his charismatic presence, for his fearless dynamism, and the wisdom and spiritual energy with which he governed the most powerful country in the world for the last three years.

It still seems incredible that all this happened, before our eyes, on television, like a horror movie.

I was filled with admiration for his wife, Jacqueline Kennedy.  What courage, serenity, and fortitude of spirit that woman showed, even seeing her world coming to an end, her dreams ruined, her children orphaned, the love of her life bleeding to death on her lap, dying.  “Jack! Jack!  No! No!” were the only words she cried, in anguish.

But not for even a second, her soul of pioneers gave way to despair.  What great dignity she showed the world, as she followed the cortege that took the body of her husband to his final resting place in the cemetery of the heroes.

Her eyes dry from tears, her head raised, she showed to the world that the madness of hatred would not crush her.  John-John and Caroline are still too young to understand the extent of the tragedy that came upon them.  John-John’s salutation to the flag that draped his daddy’s casket will certainly become an icon of this moment of sorrow.  Rest in peace, Mr. President!

The struggles for Civil Rights continued all over the country.  We watched in suspense and awe, as Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. delivered his "I Have a Dream" speech to hundreds of thousands at the March on Washington.  And we shed tears of frustration at the Church bombing in Birmingham, Alabama, that killed four little black girls.  We Shall Overcome!  We’d sing and pray.

In December I had bad news. Certain that I was pregnant, I rejoiced at the prospect of having the child that would make up for the rejection and depression of the previous pregnancies.  But I started bleeding and had a distressing diagnosis from my doctor.

  “Women that have the surgery that you had – cervix radical amputation – cannot get pregnant, and if they do, the pregnancy ends in miscarriage.”

This was a cold shock for me.  I loved children.  I always thought I’d have a house full of them – four, at least.  And now, this sad news; I cried myself to sleep in Waldir’s arms.

I busied myself with raising the two beautiful children I already had, and with my social life with my friends (our home became a small “Brazilian embassy”) as we entertained and shared our lives with the other Brazilian and Latino students and their children.

As I celebrated my 23^rd birthday, there was a revolution in Brazil and President João Goulart was deposed.  Fortunately, there was no bloodshed, but a military coup, and we worried that the chaotic political and economic situation would take a long time to be corrected.  Unfortunately, Jango’s leftist leanings did not help his efforts to bring some reforms to the country – agrarian reform, rental property laws, food price controls.  He claimed that strong powers kept him from achieving his plans for the country.

Then General McCarthy, the hero of so many wars, was buried.

In July 2 President Lyndon Johnson signed the Civil Rights Act, ending years of discrimination against African Americans and women.  We rejoiced, even as we knew the struggle would continue for equal rights for years to come.

I was suddenly very homesick.  I missed my mother, my Aunt, my sister Lucia, my brother, all the warmth and delight of being home with my dear ones.  I took refuge in the words of the Imitation of Christ, the new book I had acquired, and that had brought so much consolation to my soul in its dark moments.  For dark moments I did have.  Spiritual dryness, the desert, it was called; very painful and depressing.  Once in a while a little ray of consolation would come through the darkness of my mind, but again I’d drown in despair and hopelessness.  More than ever I would feel my utter loneliness, in the knowledge that I had no one to share my sorrow with.  Waldir lacked the understanding that I needed.  I could not trust him with my innermost struggles, because I feared it would bring back the depression that almost destroyed our marriage.  Prayers were an exercise in emptiness.  Forlorn and forsaken, my heart would find no consolation in God’s word.  It seemed that Jesus only smiled at me, but left me alone.  His smile did not light up the fire in my heart that I had grown used to warm myself with.

Then, on Pentecost Sunday, I again picked up Therese’s Story of a Soul .  I had read this extraordinary book before, but only then its profound spirituality reached the depths of my hungry soul.  I learned, with the Little Flower of Carmel, to be patient and to love Jesus twice over during these arid periods that caused so much pain to Therese also.

When I received Jesus in my heart at that Sunday’s Mass, I finally felt a great peacefulness fill my heart, and feeling my Lord so close to me, I promised never to offend him again.  For, during these long periods of separation, one of my greatest regrets was of not heeding His call to go serve him as a nun.  How I would despise myself for not having heeded the call of my Lord to go serve him, dedicated to His service as a Franciscan, betrothed to Him, body and soul.  I’d remember how I felt, when I entered the church as a bride, on my wedding day.  How tears filled my eyes as I realized that I was renouncing forever the invitation to be His bride.

Yet, I knew that I could very well serve him in my married state, through my husband and my children, serving them as I’d have served Jesus.  But so many times I would yearn for that complete union with Him, like Therese’s, that complete renunciation of the world and all its pleasures, possessions, and allurements, that could not truly happen while I’d be in this world.

My prayer to my God was that His love and His grace would be enough for me, and that he’d fill my heart to overflowing with His love that would thus flow out to all those around me.

Especially, my Beloved, please help me to guide and mold those two little jewels that You have given me – John Marcos and Miriam, help me teach them to love and serve You always.

The Little Tale of John Marcos and Mahmoud (Moumou)

One Sunday, as I was returning from Mass, I had a problem with one of my neighbors that made me more than a little displeased.  She reported to us that John Marcos had been rude to her, and talked back, not only to her, but also to other neighbors who, she said, were complaining as well.  I was shocked and surprised for I had never noticed my son being rude to anyone.  When I talked to him about it, John Marcos cried, offended, and said he had never done anything like this.  I went, nevertheless, and investigated, asking the other neighbors if my son had been rude to them.  Not one of them had any problems with the child, saying that he was one of the nicest little boys around.

Finally I discovered the root of the problem.  Recently, an Arab family had moved next door to us.  This one young woman, the one complaining, had shown total intolerance and rejection of their children.  She complained of everything the little boys did, wouldn't allow her son to play with them, and would like to have everyone else to follow her prejudice and aversion to the kids.

John Marcos was the only friend Moumou had.  The Arab boy (they were from Iraq) wasn’t exactly an angel, but his behavior wasn't much worse than that of the other children.  They were allowed to run amok in the playground, without much supervision from parents.

In the beginning I had tried to restrict John Marcos’ playing with Moumou, because the boy liked to play rough, and had hit John in the head, causing a bleeding wound, which I showed to the mother.  Moumou got punished.

But when Moumou would look at me with his big brown eyes, shy and hurt, without understanding the rejection he was feeling, my heart would melt, and tears would come to my eyes.  When I started seeing the Child Jesus in that little brown skinned child, I never could refrain from loving him, or impede my own son to be his friend.  I asked the Lord to protect John Marcos from evil, and help him to be a good influence on the little Arab child.  And good friends they became.

That summer we did some fun things with the kids.  We went and bought some camping equipment – a tent and sleeping bags – and started to explore the State Parks around, such as Turkey Run and Indiana Dunes.  John Marcos adored the outdoors.  For his birthday we bought him a musket and a Daniel Boone hat.  He’d run around the woods, “hunting.”

I could not, therefore, complain about my new life.  Waldir and I had become better friends.  The fire of the old passion had died down, but was replaced by a warm relationship, a partnership as parents, a mutual caring and supporting each other’s emotional needs and, in his case, his struggle to finish his studies.  We had made good, loyal friends, and filled our lives with good things to enjoy. 

Feeling some need to do something other than mothering, cooking, cleaning, etc., I became an entrepreneur, as an Avon lady.  From that I graduated to a Jaffra beauty consultant. The work of walking around, visiting people, and selling my wares, was a new experience for me, and I felt proud of making a little money for myself.

But that didn’t seem enough to fulfill my need to learn, to expand my horizons, to finish my education.   I was an avid reader, and I was able to read the world literature I loved in the original languages – Spanish, French, Italian.

“If you want to do something really constructive and use your gifts and abilities, think about taking some courses at the University.  You can, you know.  We get free tuition.”   With that Waldir lit a little light in my mind.  Could I?  Should I?

The kids were old enough to go to nursery school…  A long time ago, when I was a school teacher, before marriage, I dreamed of going to library school… The University of Illinois had a good school…

Before the spring semester started, I found myself sitting in the Library School Dean’s office, talking about becoming a librarian.  He said I had a good background to pursue my degree, but first I had to finish a Bachelor’s Degree.  That was the first step before enrolling in the Master of Library Science program.  What I had done in Brazil wasn't enough. 

“I have two little kids,” I said, tearfully.  “My husband is working hard on his PhD.  I don’t think I can do this now…”

He was very kind.  “If you wish, you can audit a couple of courses, and decide whether this is  really what you want for your life…”

I had a choice between the Philosophy of Library Science and Library Administration.  I enrolled on the latter.  He also told me to go speak to Ms Freeman at the Classics Library, since I knew Latin and had a background in foreign languages.  She hired me as a student assistant on the spot.

Those were the most enjoyable and fulfilling three months of my budding intellectual life.  I could truly apply my knowledge of Latin and I taught myself to read Greek, as I filed catalog cards, and shelved those marvelous books I knew existed but had never had a chance to put my hands on the originals.  The Greek New Testament, the Latin Vulgata, St. Thomas Aquinas Works, St. Augustine, Aristotle, Cicero, Plato, were all at my fingertips, as I read each one, here and there, with wonder, as they went through my hands.

At the end of the semester, I knew I could not go on, not right then and there, but I promised myself that, one day, I would be a librarian, like Ms Freeman.

There was only a dark cloud in my soul – the desire to have another child.  Every month that I’d miss a period, new hope would flood my heart, only to be dashed a few weeks later by an early miscarriage.  I would weep bitterly, and question my God why?  Why wouldn't I be allowed the joy of experiencing a pregnancy that was truly wanted by both of us?  Why couldn't I bring another child into our family in peace and love?  I yearned to feel the pride of being an expectant mother, to be pampered, instead of despised, cared for, rather than rejected.  But over and over  again, my prayers would not be heard.  As I knelt at the foot of the cross, in frustration, I found some comfort in the words of the Imitation:

“If you will gladly bear this cross, it will bear you, and will bring you to the end you desire, where you will never afterwards have anything to suffer.”

Once again my physician told me that I shouldn't expect that I’d ever have another child, and if we really wanted to have another one, we should look into adoption.

My heart weeping inside me, I still said that in everything God would be praised, and His will would be done in my life.  I was glad He had sent me this suffering so I could atone for my sins, and love Him more and more.  I felt so unworthy to be allowed a little taste of Jesus’ Chalice of pain to drink.

In September, 1965, John Marcos went to his first day of Kindergarten.  He was very nervous to be left all alone at the school.  We had prepared him, visited the school, met his teacher, but he was still jittery and tearful.  My heart ached for him, but I knew this was a rite of passage into childhood, and my sweet baby boy had to face this new experience with courage.  We prayed together that he would have fun and enjoy his school.  Miriam went to nursery-school also, but since her little friends were with her, she didn't mind.

Then, in November, I had bad news from home.  I received a letter from my mother giving me the saddest news I had ever had, since my grandfather’s death.  My beloved brother Helcias had a nervous breakdown and had to be admitted to a psychiatric hospital.  He had been married for a year, and I had been so glad with the news of the birth of his first child, who I named Jacqueline, in honor of President John Kennedy’s wife. I wept when I read my mother’s letter, telling of Helcias’ sufferings and trials.  He had been diagnosed with schizophrenia.  I pleaded with Jesus to please heal him, so he could take care of his wife and child.

As if this hadn’t been enough bad news, we also heard from my brother-in-law that my beloved sister-in-law Vanda had lost her first child, a little boy, who lived only 5 days.  I could feel all the pain my mother and Vanda were immersed in, and all I could do was beg God to take care of them and give them the consolation of the Holy Spirit.

For the next few weeks I went to church every day, and was on my knees, praying the Way of the Cross, and a novena to Our Lady of Perpetual Help, for my brother and for Vanda.

Two weeks later I wrote on my journal:  “Blessed be God, my Savior, who hears the prayers of his unworthy servant!  Today Jesus sent a sunbeam into the darkness of my soul.  When I came back from church, there was a letter from my mother telling me my brother was well again and back to work.  Vanda was recovering her health, physically and spiritually.  Thank you, Jesus, and Mary!  My God, you are so infinitely good and merciful that I am awed by the showers of gifts you pour down on us.  Thank you!  I love you so much, that my heart is just bursting with love!”

That Christmas season, my dear friend Cristina and I were hired to work at the local department store downtown.  We’d split an eight-hour shift and take care of each other’s kids while the other worked.  That would give us some Christmas money, even help me send some to my mother and Helcias, as well as give us some experience.  We loved it, and our system worked fine.   Her husband was OK with it, but Waldir balked.  He couldn't see the need I had to be doing something like this, out of the house.

He ranted, and raved, and I wondered if we were returning to the abusive ways, but I refused to give in.  In my heart I knew I was doing the right thing.  Yet, I struggled through days of a terrible spiritual dryness that I still wasn't accustomed to.  All I could do was tell Jesus over and over how much I loved him, even if I found no words to praise him, and he had hidden his beloved face from me.

Therefore, I was surprised when Waldir, as if in reparation, gave me a guitar as a Christmas present.  I had one in Brazil, and had taken lessons, and I really missed playing an instrument.  The gift even came with several lessons at the music store, so I was impressed.  I could sing Puff, the Magic Dragon and Blowing in the Wind with the kids, as my fingertips got scars and stopped hurting so much.  I was proud of myself!

Love returns

December 15, 1965 – from my journal:

Today was so wonderful I could cry with joy.  When I thought that all was lost, and I was the unhappiest creature on the face of the earth, last night Waldir took me in his arms, and told me, his voice quivering with emotion:  “I love you, darling! I didn't know before, but I know now. I love you very, very much!”

Tears filled my eyes, and I didn't know what to say.  It was so marvelous!  Suddenly I knew I had waited all these years, patiently sometimes, sometimes desperately, for this moment.  And now Jesus gave me this gift. Indeed, a truly wonderful Christmas gift.  Waldir was now my true spouse, and our marriage was complete, in Christ. I stayed there, quietly snuggled in his arms.  I don’t cry too easily anymore.  Like St. Therese, Jesus helped me conquer this frailty. I just lay there, thinking how wonderful my Lord was, and then I said – to both of them – “I love you too, very, very much.”

April 7, 1966:

My birthday!  I am 25 years old today.  This morning, at Mass, I talked to my Beloved, as He came to my heart, in the Holy Eucharist, and thanked him for His immense love, and for all the graces and gifts He had poured on me all these years. I asked Him to keep me, and all my dearest ones in His care, to hold me in His heart forever. To my sweet Mother Mary I offered myself again, to help her in Jesus’s service, to save souls for Him.

I prayed for Cecilia, my dear friend, whose trials and sufferings I empathized with, and pleaded to the Lord for her.  Jesus was so marvelously good to us, granting all my wishes, keeping their marriage intact, bringing them together, and giving her peace.  Only one thing I keep praying for still – that she may come to love Jesus as I do, so that her sins may be forgiven. And that she may find peace, true peace of heart and soul.

Oh!  That I could win such a gem for my Lord’s crown! She is such a kind, marvelous soul, so good, so considerate of others.  I learned many things from her, especially how small and unworthy we are, how prone to evil, how easily led astray.  Only God’s grace can give us strength to resist all temptations.

My friends gave me a surprise party, brought me a gift, made me so happy!  Thank you, Lord of my heart, I love you so much!

I am reading the Acts of the Apostles, in preparation for Confirmation.  Jesus, I pray that you feel me with your Spirit as you did at that first Pentecost.  I want to be in that Upper Room, with your disciples, and be touched with the fire of your love.

In the power of the Holy Spirit

May 8, 1966

I was confirmed today by John Francis, Bishop of Peoria, Illinois, together with some 20 other adults, mainly university students.  Socorro Germano was proxy to my sponsor, Zizinha Brandão, my dear Madrinha, from Pitangui, who had been instrumental in helping the 14 year old convert to grow in the faith.

The Confirmation Mass was so touchingly beautiful!  I was so elated that I would finally have my Pentecost, and the Holy Spirit would dwell in my heart.  It took so long, Jesus, but here I am!

As I had prayed for, the instant the sacred Chrism touched my forehead and the Bishop said the words: “Agnes, I confirm you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,” I was inflamed in love, rapt in awe, and I do not know how I got off my knees and went back to my seat.

Of course I had to be called Agnes.  I am not pure like her, not like when I’d kneel at her altar at St. Sebastian’s, talking to my little friend, and she’d smile at me, her beautiful face illumined with the holiness that shone all around her.  I can close my eyes and see her in her red robe, her hair flowing from under the glorious martyr’s crown her Spouse had given her, one little hand at the heart that loved Him unto death, the other holding the lilies, symbol of her chastity.  I’d kneel there for hours, talking to her.  Agnes was the most precious friend I had.

Now, I don’t know how a wretched, sinful creature like me would choose her as my Confirmation patron saint; perhaps because she was my ideal of purity, an ideal I failed to achieve.  But still, I know that she loves me, and, accepting me as her friend, she offered my life to Jesus, with her merits, to be a victim of love.

I forgot you for a long time, Agnes!  If it hadn't been so, perhaps I’d have drawn strength from your courage, and resisted all temptations.  But now, my dear friend, humbled and ashamed, and with the misery of all my sins before my eyes, I come to you again.  Look down from your throne near the Lamb’s, and turn your tender eyes upon this miserable sinner.  I know Jesus forgave me, as he forgave Mary Magdalene and the Samaritan woman.  I was washed in His Blood once again, and with tears of repentance I was welcomed once again in my Father’s house.

Please pray for this your friend, Agnes, that I may have the courage to resist all evil, all temptations, that courage that enabled a girl of thirteen to shed her blood for the love of God.  Please, Agnes, pray for me, always!

June 1, 1966

Eleven years after I had been baptized with water and became a Catholic Christian, I was praying in my living room, after Waldir and the kids were asleep.  I had done this often, as it was the only time I could be alone with the Beloved of my soul.  I was on my knees, before the Sacred Heart, my own heart still burning with the fire of the Holy Spirit.

“Jesus, Yeshua, Rabboni, you know how much I love you.”  I contemplated the flame burning in his Sacred Heart and I asked:  “Fill my heart with the fire of love that burns in your heart, Beloved!”

Suddenly I was surrounded in a bright light, like stars dancing around me.  A rapturous feeling filled my mind, an indescribable joy burst like fireworks in my whole being, and I knew the power of God’s love beyond the shadow of a doubt.  I could not move, even if I wanted to.  I just blurted out “Oh my Lord! I am not worthy! But I love you, love you, love you, forever and ever!” 

There are no words fit to describe that feeling.  It was as if my soul had been separated from my body, and it floated like a balloon, so light, so light, while all my senses were concentrated in that luminous Heart, and I knew that light was you, Lord Jesus, your Holy Spirit I had yearned for.

I don’t know how long I stayed there, at His feet, in that rapturous embrace.  I was only afraid Waldir would wake up and find me there, like that.

“Please, Lord, let me go.  I will die of love right here, right now.  I do not deserve this, but I praise and thank you for showing me how much you love me.”

I tried to move, but all I could do was raise my hands in surrender.  My soul you had it in sweet captivity, in the palm of your hands, my Beloved.  Resting in Him, I do not know how long I stayed there, in adoration.  When the light went off, and I could get up, a bitter sweet sadness for my sins and extreme joy for knowing the power of God’s love lasted until I finally fell asleep in my bed, wrapped in peace, beside myself with joy.

That sweet loving-kindness of my God stayed with me, sometimes so intense, that I had to stop what I was doing and go lay in my bed, face down, in ecstasy.  I would read the Psalms, and truly understand David’s poetic utterances “Bless the Lord, my soul, and do not forget any of his benefices … he anoints my head with oil … my cup overflows…”  I had none to share my experiences with, though.  And I’d sometimes be afraid of being led astray by my own imagination.

That week I stopped at the bookstore and browsed the religion shelves.  I found St. Teresa of Avila’s Interior Castle, and The Book of My Life, and St. John of the Cross’ Ascent of Mount Carmel and Dark Night of the Soul.   I devoured them all in one week.  I learned with Teresa that this prayer of union was a gift from God, not to be despised, or be afraid of.

Let nothing disturb you

Nothing affright you

All things are passing

God alone suffices

Patient endurance gains all things

She who God possesses

Wants for no thing

God alone suffices.

Teresa’s advice to find a spiritual director in whom one could confide being essential, I decided to go talk to our Spanish student chaplain, Fr. Velazquez.  Being Hispanic, I thought, he’d understand.  Fr. Velazquez’s opinion, though, left me more confused.  He told me that I shouldn't be praying so much, and especially this form of prayer, of union with God.  In his opinion, I should work more and pray less, offering my work to God as prayer.
  

I came home disturbed and worried.  Was I being led astray by my own imagination?  Was I simply so needy of love I was seeking these spiritual experiences?  But how could I renounce this intimate communion with the God who was my all?  This was what gave me strength to face the daily struggles of my life.  I am nothing if I am away from Him, drawing grace and courage from His presence with me.  I remembered the times I had been away from the source of all graces.  How bitter and unable to do anything good I had been… how sinful!

“Lord Jesus,” I prayed.  “Not my will but yours be always done in my life.  You are my light and my salvation, and without you I am nothing.  I love you so much that sometimes I feel my heart will explode with so much yearning for your presence.  The greatest desire of my heart is to see you in heaven.  What ineffable happiness to look into your eyes, full of kindness, kiss your divine feet that trod this earth for love of me, to sit at your feet and listen to your voice, Rabboni!  This is supreme happiness!”

It was St. John of the Cross who really spoke to me in his Ascent.  I immersed myself in his poetry, and his Dark Night poem totally described what was going on in my prayer life.  Thus, in darkness and secure, I also climbed the secret ladder, ''without light or guide, save that which burned in my heart. That night also guided me, that night more lovely then the dawn, that night that joined Beloved with Lover, Lover transformed in the Beloved.  With His gentle hand he had also wounded my heart, causing all senses to be suspended.  Remaining lost in oblivion, I reclined my face in His bosom.  All ceased and I abandoned myself, leaving my cares forgotten among the lilies.''

I read St. John’s words as if they were my own.  I could have written these verses myself, I thought.  And a new kind of peace, a quiet and sweet joy entered my soul.  I thought how silly I was, worrying about this.  Why didn't I leave all my cares to my Lover, since He was so anxious to take them upon Himself?  I was literally afire with His love, but wasn't it this fire I had asked for, the fire that burned in His heart and which I wanted to share?  Why was I complaining, then?  I kept reading St John’s works, over and over, but I couldn't concentrate.  Every mention of His Name, every consideration of His love for us, would throw me into such a state of fervor that I thought I could go crazy. I wept, and I prayed, and I asked Jesus to have mercy on me.  Couldn't He see that I was a poor, miserable creature, so imperfect, so sinful, that I was unworthy to taste even a little crumb fallen from his table?

I went to confession, and Fr. Velazquez told me to be at peace, and gave me a special blessing.  That evening we had a beautiful crowning ceremony for Our Blessed Mother.  John and Miriam took flowers to her statue.  She looked so beautiful, Our Lady of  Fatima, and I held the crown of flowers I had made for her myself, so Terezita could place it on her head.  We sang, and prayed, and the joy of the Lord filled the place.  

That Saturday morning I went to the convent after Mass, to say goodbye to Sister Filomena who was leaving the next day.  She had been a blessing to our Hispanic student community.  She was so happy to see me, and said that she had a young woman with her who was going to be married in one hour.  She was from the Philippines, and had no family with her.  She was staying at the sisters’ house and was getting dressed for the ceremony.  Sister asked me if I could help, because she knew nothing about these things, how to help a bride get prepared.  I said I’d be glad to help.

As we worked together, helping the bride, Sister asked me, very tactfully, why I had been so perturbed the day before, if something was wrong.  I had been anxious to talk to her, and she made everything so easy.  I told her all my problems and all my uneasiness about those spiritual experiences.  She was so kind and understanding!  Her counsel comforted me and gave me new hope. 

 “Let go, Heleni, and let God.  You have been gifted with the precious gift of Jesus’ love.  This can only be the work of the Holy Spirit in you.  Surrender yourself totally, and be at peace.”

She hugged me and gave me a holy card that had a monk leaping up in the air, kicking his heels: a quote from St. Augustine stated:  “The Christian should be an Alleluia from head to toe.”  My heart was singing alleluias, as I left Sister and the little bride, ready for her wedding, and went home to prepare breakfast for my family.

I was still on fire, but I was at peace.  Why worry when I am loved by Someone as marvelous as my Savior and Lord?  I reclined my head on His shoulder, and “left my cares among the lilies.”

That last summer we did something exciting that would be the first of many travel adventures. Together with the Germanos and their little daughter Idilva, we took a four week long camping trip around the east coast. From Illinois to Ohio, Philadelphia, Washington D.C., New York, Massachusetts (Cape Cod), New Hampshire, Maine to Quebec, Montreal, Ottawa, Toronto, Niagara Falls, and back through London and Detroit.  That settled it for me – this country was my country, from north to south, east to west.  A precious gift from God.  America, my adopted country.

John Marcos’ Miraculous Healing

Miriam and John came down with a bad case of the mumps and were just about well enough one afternoon when I took them with me to pick up Waldir at the School of Veterinary Medicine.  They were so happy to be outdoors, and romped on the grassy hill outside of the building, rolling down, laughing and carousing.

When we got home, John started complaining of a headache.  I gave him some baby aspirin, but that didn't seem to help.  In a few minutes the poor little boy had his hands on his head and was screaming with pain.  I don’t panic very easily, but I became really frightened.  His pediatrician was nowhere to be found, so we took him to the emergency room at the hospital.  The doctor on duty examined John, and when he was telling John to bend over and touch his feet and the poor child could not do it, the phantom of polio, or meningitis, set my heart in a panicky throb.

“I sincerely cannot make a diagnosis right now.  Guess we need some blood tests, and keep him in observation,” the doctor explained.

It was then that Waldir had the idea of mentioning the mumps case they were recovering from.

“Aha!  So that’s it.  The child has encephalitis, a common result of the mumps.”

He prescribed Nembutal to make John sleep, and absolute rest in a dark room for 48 hours.

Back at home, with John Marcos safely and quietly asleep, Waldir explained to me what encephalitis was, and its risks.  My children had never been seriously ill, except for the case of gastroenteritis seven-month Miriam had almost died of.  I recalled my fears when I’d held her limp little body, her weak crying, and the night at the hospital, her little body stuck by many needles trying to feed her intravenously, as she struggled to survive.  I remembered my tearful prayers for my baby, and I shivered.

The night was calm, and John Marcos did not wake up.  He slept through the next day and night in his darkened room as my nervousness grew.  Forty-eight hours seemed like a very long time…

The next morning he was still asleep, and wouldn't even wake up to have a little milk.  Thirty-six hours later I called the doctor, but he assured us that it was all right.

“Let him sleep,” he said. “Sleep would be the only cure for this illness.”

In the evening he still slept, so I stole out to the church and fell on my knees before the crucifix.  I couldn't pray at first.  In my mind I could see, as in a movie replay, my little João Marcos as a beautiful baby, the way he frowned at me, nursing greedily, the noises he’d make sucking his pacifier, falling asleep.  I remembered the first time he smiled, and laughed, sat up and said “Mamãe…”  His first stumbling steps and the way he learned to walk, at nine months, having barely done with crawling.  I recalled his spirit, his intelligence, and his vivacity.  Salty tears rolled down my cheeks and then I prayed:

“Lord, please do not ask this sacrifice of me!  Remember how much I suffered to bring this child into the world… the bitter tears I cried expecting him, the agony of his birth.  You have asked a terrible sacrifice of me, already, when I was told I can have no more babies.  Please do not take my little boy, my love, my pride and joy, from me.  Anything but this!  You are our healer, the Lord of Life.  Save John Marcos from death, Jesus! Take me, instead...”

For a few moments I remained on my knees, quietly, unfeeling, with the bitter taste of tears in my mouth.

“Let’s compromise, then,” I said humbly.  “Tomorrow we must go to Chicago to see the baby you have reserved for us.  If it is really your will that he be ours, if you really want us to adopt a child, if this is really for our good and that of the little baby, then please, make João Marcos better.”

I remained quietly before the altar, until I felt peace flood my heart and mind.

The moment I opened the front door and stepped in, I could hear his crystalline laughter, and the next moment he was running to me yelling “Mommy!  Mommy!”

I hugged my baby close to me, and my eyes met Waldir’s.  By the smile in his, I knew all was well.  I covered my sweet little boy with kisses, as my heart sang a song of praise to my God.

John was perfectly well the next morning, eating his cereal greedily, as I packed them to go stay with Socorro Germano, so that we could make our trip to Chicago's Foundlings Home to see a little baby boy.

The gift from God – Marcello Andrew

11:30 p.m.

We brought our little adopted son home.  He is fast asleep in Miriam’s old crib, and I look tenderly at his chubby, olive colored face, the fat little thumb stuck in his mouth, the long eyelashes making shadows on his cheeks.

Andre is five months old, and weighs 11 lbs.  He is the warmest, friendliest baby I have ever seen.

From the moment he was brought into the room, dressed in his blue suit, a little baseball cap on his head, and I could hold him in my arms – all smiles, cooing gently, pumping on his strong little legs, I fell in love with him, and knew he was the one God had sent us.  I didn't want to wait any longer, search no more.  I wanted little Andre with all my heart.

“It’s amazing how our Lord works his designs,” I wrote on my journal.  “It has been more than one year that we had applied for adoption, and I had already given up hope.  We could not apply through a private agency, and the State of Illinois took too long.  We are due to return to Brazil in December, so there wouldn't be enough time for the experimental period of one year, before the adoption becomes legal.  When we told the social worker – Mrs Snow – that due to this we’d have to give up, she gave us new hope, saying that the waiting period could be waived, and that we could go to Court in 30 days.

So we have our little, wanted, prayed for, dreamed of, son.  I pray that I can be a good mother to him, and that Waldir will be a wonderful father.

I have busy days ahead – taking care of Andre, preparing for the return to Brazil (already our apartment is a mess of boxes and things to be packed) so I am sure I won’t be able to write so often.  I am very happy and fulfilled, I do not know how to properly thank Jesus enough for all his love and the graces he has poured upon us.  Praised be his holy Name forever!”

September 6, 1966

Marcello Andrew Pedersoli was baptized today by Fr. Martell at St. Patrick’s Church.  Socorro and Germano were proxies to his godparents Vanda and José.

Marcello was the name I had chosen if I’d ever have another boy child.  I kept the English spelling of Andre, the name his birth mother had given him.  We call him Andrew, and his siblings are thrilled to have a baby brother.    He is a wonderful baby, calm, sweet, and lovable.

As for John Marcos and Miriam, they are gifted students at school.  John was an avid reader at 5 and I was surprised when Miriam’s teacher told me that my rambunctious little daughter was quiet and rather shy at school.  They totally enjoy watching kid’s shows on television.   Captain Kangaroo, Daniel Boone, and a heap of cartoons.

I was thankful for the health of John Marcos who showed no damage from his brush with death.  It was sobering to hear that one of my friends had lost her 13 year old daughter to encephalitis.

December 10, 1966

We will leave tomorrow for Brazil.  Unfortunately, Waldir had some trouble finishing his dissertation and he must stay a little longer.  I dread the long trip with the three children and lots of luggage, but I hope we’ll manage.  It will be sad arriving home without Waldir, but we simply cannot wait for him.  The apartment has been given up, and the kids don’t even have a place to sleep.

I am sad to leave this wonderful country where we finally found peace and happiness, to go back to Brazil and start all over from where we left.  Where we left was not a good place, but we have now grown up and changed much.  I have no idea what that not so good place has in store for us.  I miss our relatives, of course, and it will be wonderful to be with them after these four long years of separation.

But it was here, in Urbana, Illinois, that our marriage, which was at the breaking point, had a turn for the better.  Here we were able to forgive each other, and to find a common ground of understanding and agreement that gave us a chance to grow in friendship, if not in passionate love.  

Although our relationship is not exactly what I had dreamed of, I thank God for the peace, understanding, and togetherness that, as parents of three wonderful children, have helped to keep us together as a family.

Waldir now affirms his love for me, and I know he’s proud of me.  He has matured, and turned out to be a wonderful father and a thoughtful husband.  Gone is the monster that made our first two years of marriage insufferable.

As for me, the little romantic 18 year old bride has turned into a woman.  The disillusions, the intense suffering, the disappointment about what I had expected of a blissful married life, have sobered my too romantic soul, and strengthened my worth as a person.  I am a balanced human being now, although God only knows how the process almost broke my spirit. 

 I understand my duties as a wife and mother, and I know now that I am able to be a good one.  The things I have accomplished gave me confidence in myself and now I know what I am and what I can do.  I do not love my husband with the fervor and the passion of years ago.  I suppose I could not, not after what I have been through.  But what I feel for him now is a more stable sentiment, one that will not be hurt by words or actions, because it is absolutely unselfish and altruistic.

  I admire him for trying hard to make our life together better, and for what he has accomplished in the last three years of study.  He is now a doctor, a PhD in Pharmacology. I am proud of him for having achieved the highest goal of his academic career.  I was right to think that under all that skepticism and hardness of heart, he is basically good, and able to love and accept love.  I still wonder what thwarted his nature to the point where his heart became gelid, and his self-esteem almost null.  I shudder to think how much he also suffered through no fault of his own.  I am certainly thankful that God has granted me patient forbearance to help him overcome this misery.

Thus I can now say that I will be able to live in Brazil.  I am sure that it can be free from interferences and full of joy.

Today I went to church to thank Jesus for all the wonderful blessings and graces he granted us, and ask him for his guidance and protection in our new life.  But as I knelt there and prayed, tears rolled down my cheeks.  For I understood how much I love this country, this beautiful, wonderful U.S.A. that accepted us, and sheltered us, sharing with us knowledge, wisdom, faith, friendships, and the richness of a life full of accomplishments that were always rewarded.  I know in my heart that I’d rather stay, and live here forever.  I know I’d like to be an adopted American, because that’s how I feel now, after these years where I found my home in its soil, a home where I found happiness and stability, where I found myself.

But I also know that we have a debt to pay to our native country, our debt to Brazil.  It is our duty to go back and share the acquired knowledge and experience, to help our country grow.  Although my heart is breaking to leave, I am also looking forward to seeing my loved ones again.  I missed them so much in the beginning!  But as we busied ourselves with our lives here, that yearning for their presence was dulled, and easier to bear.  But we had Arthur’s death, that we weren't around to grieve over, marriages and births we failed to celebrate.

 My grandmother had opened her home to us.  We could stay there again, but I wondered how that would work out.  It will be nice seeing Lica again, I mused.

As I left the church, my cheeks moistened by the unrestrained tears, an older woman approached me, and asked if she could help me with anything.  I suppose she thought I was in some kind of trouble.

I smiled at her, and told her I was only sad because I was about to leave her wonderful country, where I had been so happy.  I know, by her puzzled look, that she didn't quite believe me, but her gesture of concern confirmed for me the inherent goodness and helpfulness of the American people.  Her gesture of concern will be a nice thing to remember.

All is ready, now.  Through the windows of my living room, I contemplate the blue sky and the bare branches of the trees in the dry lawn.  I wished my last glance would be of this country in full summer, so green and luscious, or in the spring, when the earth breaks out in a carnival of colors.  But it is winter, and it hasn't even snowed yet.  I still remember our first snowfall.  How I sat at the window with John and Miriam, hypnotized by the beautiful tiny snowflakes falling from the sky to cover the landscape with that white and smooth beauty.

Our first Christmas here – the tiny Christmas tree, the little gifts for John and Miriam, their eyes open in wonderment at the myriad of colored lights shining in the cold nights, at Santa Claus holding them in his knee, listening to their expectations.

Miriam’s first uncertain steps were tried there, in the Orchard Downs apartment.  Her first words were spoken in English, learned from her brother, rather than the Portuguese we tried to teach her.

My first friends – Barbara Wuttig from Germany – her little Frank was John’s inseparable friend.  Lily Kaminsky from Israel.

John and Miriam’s first birthday party and my first experience baking a birthday cake – the face of Huckleberry Hound designed in colorful glaze.

My first formal dinner for Dr. and Mrs. Link and Dr. and Mrs. Huber – a taste of our Minas Gerais’ cuisine, and even a masterpiece dessert – homemade spumoni ice cream that took me a whole day to make.

Our first car – a blue 1950s Plymouth that could go no faster than 40 miles/hour and gave us more headaches than pleasure.

And we finally moved here, Orchard Place, where our Christmas trees became ever bigger and brighter, as the years went by and we became wealthier.  We now have everything our hearts could ever desire, too much, I’d say.  I have now all the records and books I ever dreamed of owning, and I am only sorry that I won’t have the pleasure of sharing them with my grandfather.

Our house was called the little “Brazilian Embassy.”  Our Brazilian friends – Germanos, Paivas, Sobrals, Kojins, Carvalhos, etc were always welcomed here.  Together we carved a niche for ourselves, and enjoyed each other’s company, helping each other overcome the adjustment problems to a foreign country.

It has indeed been a good life and a nice time.  Thank you, Lord, for the United States of America!

I don’t know if I ever will keep a journal of my daily life happenings.  It was good to write when I felt lonely and when I needed an outlet to my sorrows and sufferings.  I am now happy and contented.  Ours will be just a simple life, with no great happenings, worth of a record.

So, probably, this will be your last page, Journal.  You have been a faithful recipient of my joys, sorrows, and dreams.  Thank you for being my friend.  Adieu!

PART III  --  Return to the Promised Land