CHAPTER 3 (Part 1)
A
stretched hand
My
father used to walk through the downtown area of São Paulo city
during his lunch break. It was part of his routine to observe the
different workers busy in their activities. Construction workers
remodeling old buildings that would soon become expensive real
estate; executives in their suits and suitcases on hand, speeding by
as they had no time to stop and take in the sunny sky or feel the
mist splashing from the sprinkling water in the park's fountain.
Even
though downtown was packed with people, it was also a very lonely
place. The physical distance was not correlated to the psychological
distance as you could see people from all walks of life in the same
space but not necessarily interacting with each other. The emotional
distance decreased the pressure of the physical proximity in a packed
space.
The
downtown scene was the same day after day, much like my father’s
modest middle class life and his routine back and forth to work. He
dreamed of owning a home, paying off his debt and upgrading the old
car, but he did not have any more dreams of running away from
civilization and being self-sufficient in the country, as he had
before. When I was born they were living such dreams in a remote
region of the country and it didn't take long for them to find out
that the reality had been less dreamy than they had expected. So now
it was time to leave behind their aspirations to change the world and
work hard to keep the family, raise the kids and maybe someday enjoy
a decent retirement.
After
his lunch break, in a hurry to walk back to his office table filled
with documents and obligations, my father had no thoughts of slowing
down his pace as a street seller tried to stop him to sell some
magazines. But this particular seller was insistent enough and took
over my father's time and space as his own. Tired of trying to run
away from him, my father decided to give in and allow the seller to
make his offer. Aware of his urgency, the seller quickly presented
all his magazine collection, assuring that they were worthy every
cent. He kept insisting on the idea that a future of happiness
awaited those that had access to such quality content reading.
My
father wasn't interested in anything that was going to cost him extra
bills at the end of the month, but a picture, a peculiar picture, at
the cover of one of the magazines, as purposely placed there, called
his attention. In the picture a homeless boy, at most five years old,
looked for his next meal among a garbage pile. The underweight and
sorrowful appearance that the boy carried was not different from many
that flash everyday on the news. However, this particular boy, did
not looked like a stranger to my father, he seemed to say something
without any words. Maybe he carried a message, a message that would
reach my father's heart.
The
picture touched my father in a different way, it was so strong, alive
and real that caused a reaction. A child, a human being full of
promises revolving around the putrefying material and death. Surely,
this was not the first time the picture of a child in distress had
crossed his eyes, but this one went straight inside his being, before
it was blocked out by any rationalization.
The
insistent seller, trying to talk him into subscribing the magazine,
was not the problem anymore. The boy in the picture was now bothering
my father much more. The magazine cover was the image of a huge
problem, a chronic problem. A problem bigger than all of my father's
problems put together.
My
father finally gave in and subscribed to the magazine while still
taken by the picture of the boy in the cover. As he walked away, the
magazine in his hand, he could not stop staring at the picture. On
the way back to the office,
he read the article about homeless and abandoned children. The
article stated that some of them had no place to live, eat or sleep
and had to fight for their own survival.
He
thought about his own kids, my brother and I, giggling as we played,
jumping and running around so happily. He surely did not want
anything bad to happen to us, ever. We meant everything to him and he
could not imagine seeing us around garbage piles looking for our next
meal. Nobody deserved that, every boy and girl should have the right
to a childhood filled with good memories and not horror scenes.
As
the sun gave place to the grayish skies covered in traffic smoke, the
bus taking my father back home passed through avenues and bridges and
noises and flashing lights. He kept his eyes closed while in his mind
a whirlpool of thoughts were inundating his entire brain. Over and
over again he asked himself who would make a difference to the
children left behind, those who were nobody's problem. Probably
someone should do something to help them, he concluded. He knew that
there were professionals specialized in helping to bring up a fair
society. But, what if he did have a share of responsibility in the
problem?
Arriving
home he still felt confused, however, when he saw my brother and I
running into his arms, he smiled. He hugged us in a special way like
if he had spent years away from home, such was his gladness to see
us. He knew that he was blessed to experience happy moments with his
children and yet he felt guilt at the same time. He felt a wave of
relief for being able to care and protect his own kids from the
terrible life the boy on the magazine was living, and yet a burden
haunted his mind for not caring for the orphan and homeless children
living without love and without hope. Even though we had no idea of
the things that troubled my dad's thoughts on that day, we gladly
received the extra special attention.
As
he sat down with my mom after dinner, he shared his worries. He told
her everything that had happened during his day and showed the
magazine he had kept. She could see that he seemed to be really
touched by that, and she understood his point of view. She also felt
sorry for children in such terrible situations, but what could they
do? They could hardly pay off their own bills, much less solve the
problems of the world. She would love to think there was a solution
for that, but she had to be realistic and keep at least one foot on
the ground.
Talking
about it helped him to see where those feelings were coming from. He
was being carried by a lot of emotions and it was not rational,
thinking like that. It was surely easier to dream day after day, than
to face their own hard reality. So he set his mind to look at the
problem from a more rational perspective, an intelligent path to
produce concrete ways to help, less tears and more results. His first
step would be to sleep through it, let the ideas settle down. Maybe
tomorrow, when he woke up, he would have found a solution or just be
happy to move on with his life, keeping himself apart from problems
he could not solve.
However,
the next day did not bring the numbness of conscience he expected; it
shed more light on the matter, bringing out more ideas and goals. And
with a more rational line of thought he saw an idea taking shape. If
they could not help all the children in the world, at least they
could try to help one, someone that really needed help. They would
not be offering anything different than what they were already
offering my brother and I: love, care, and food on the table.
The
idea would be to adopt a child, but not any child; he thought about
adopting someone nobody else wanted. To have one extra child in the
family would not add a whole lot more bills to the balance, and my
parents would like to have another child anyway, so why not another
one through adoption?
Being
six years old at the time, I already knew something about adoption.
Sometimes Maria, a friend of my parents, stayed at home and would
bring with her a boy that was her adopted son. Physically he was very
different than her, but he would call her mommy just like we did to
our mom. With time, I got used with the idea of them being a family
just like mine. However, I never thought about having a brother
through adoption. This was a kind of dream I never had as a child.
As
my parents thought more seriously about adopting a child, they were
constantly faced with doubts. Wouldn’t an adopted child get in
conflict with their other children in the future? Wouldn’t the
child, when reaching adolescence, have the tendency to rebel against
them and get in trouble? Would the child love them as his own
parents? Questions and more questions.
There
was no easy way out. To adopt a child would be to position themselves
under certain risks. However, not to adopt that child would be to
ignore someone that was already under risks. My parents knew that any
child could become a disgrace to his or her parents, adopted or not.
It did not matter if the child was biologic or not. They knew cases
of biological kids that had killed their parents, and also cases of
adopted children that as adults took great care of their aging
adopted parents. There were no certainties, and it was not really
about them, it was about the child in need.
The
verb “to help” is put in practice by some through opening their
wallet and offering money; by others, it is through opening their
schedule and offering time; or like happened at my home, by opening
our arms and offering ourselves. At first, my parents didn’t give
any step in the direction of the needy. They prayed daily to God to
show them the way. And then they just waited. It was part faith, part
fear, part trust, part doubt. They were afraid of asking for it too
much and end up receiving it! But they could not live anymore without
asking.
They
didn’t stipulate an age frame, gender or race. The child could be
anyone, but someone that really needed help. They started praying at
morning time, in the afternoon and at night. They would pray by
themselves, they would pray as a couple. I prayed too. In the
occasion I didn’t know exactly for what, but it seemed to be
something worthy of praying for, the right thing to do. We just
didn’t tell anybody. It would be our secret and God’s.
In
the meanwhile, one day we went to a Bible study. Nobody there knew
about our prayers, not even our relatives knew at the time. Someone,
during the Bible study, brought up a special subject to be discussed:
Adoption. He used the figurative narrative of a child being adopted
to exemplify the Bible passage read – “Having predestined us to
adoption as sons by Jesus Christ to Himself.” Ephesians 1:5.
Someone was aware of the things going on in our home!
Many
days passed by, then a few months, and nothing else extraordinary
happened. My parents started to ask each other if they should start
to actively search for a child. Or would that be lack of faith? The
subject of adoption was taking over all our lives. From our family
meals to car rides, we would be talking about who would be the chosen
one to be added to our family. How would God answer the prayer?
Sometimes we would imagine ourselves as heroes helping the one in
need, other times we would picture ourselves in the future
overwhelmed by problems and worries that would have come with
adopting the wrong person. And sometimes we wondered if we would ever
even have an answer to our prayers!
That
is when Maria steps into the story. She that had already adopted a
few children would say, every time she visited us, that she never
regretted adopting any of them. Maria, her husband, her six adopted
kids and two biological sons looked like a happy family. They were
far from a normal family, according to society parameters but I think
that every day at their home was like living an adventure. More
exciting then watching TV. It would be hard to get bored with so much
going on.
They
were a highly educated couple, but had adopted a simple lifestyle so
that they could be generous towards embracing more kids. At meal
times, her husband would bring the pot directly from the stove to the
table center. All that you would see was only one pot. Inside it, all
the ingredients were cooked together. The method, a little bit
simplistic, seemed not to be a problem at all, but the solution to
feed so many mouths without taking too long.
Maria
and her husband hadn’t adopted Caucasian babies with blue eyes.
They chose children that really needed a pair of parents. One boy was
mute, other two deaf, and one blind. My parents had met Maria while
they were living on a farm located in the center of Brazil. Those
were times of adventures and contact with Nature for my parents. From
those times remained good memories, a few regrets, and me! I was born
at that time. But that is another story.
The
example that couple showed to my parents certainly influenced in the
adoption decision they were about to take. However, more than from
Maria's example, it was from Maria herself that we got the answer to
our prayers. Without being aware, she would be the end to our
waiting.
Book: A fight for Life
CHAPTER 5 (Part 2) coming soon...
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