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