April 30, 2017 - Coffee With Anna

Coffee With Anna

If you know me, you know I have made friends from all over the world.  Somehow they see my posts, probably because of hashtags.  I have friends I have never met in Ecuador, Colombia, India, and Nepal, beside the friend I made in Romania.  He encouraged me to visit Romania, and it became one of my favorite vacations of all times.  Just this week someone added me from South Africa wanting to know more about Bolivia.  I hope to meet theses friends I have made face to face one day.  Anna was one of those friends.

Anna is a missionary in Bolivia who encountered my blog one day shortly after I arrived in July of 2016.  Suddenly, there was a woman I had never met who not only liked my blogs, but commented with details that made my blog come alive.  Often these were memories of the place from years ago.  As we became friends on Facebook, she gave me suggestions of places to visit and ideas to research.  But we had never met!

Anna has been sick and needed to visit a doctor near where I live.  The doctor’s visit took longer than she thought it would, so she decided to stay the night at the New Tribes Mission House, around the corner from where I live.  I was out late with my Bolivian family.  We ate dinner around 11:00.  I usually have my alarm set, but turned it off this morning.  At 7:30, my phone was screaming at me that I had a message.  I almost ignored it, but now am glad I didn’t. 

“I’m at Starbucks for the next half hour if you want to meet.”

It was from Anna.  I almost ran the whole way.  That is how excited I was to meet my dear friend.

Anna is one of those special people that I am honored to know.  She is about my age, maybe a year or two older.  She has been in Bolivia since she was 8 when her parents came here to be missionaries.  She went to Tambo, a boarding school between Cochabamba and Santa Cruz.  After college she returned to Bolivia, and has been here ever since.  My total time here is only about 6 years, but because I was here in the 80s, we know a lot of the same people.  In all of our conversations, I am surprised we haven’t met in the past.

While we were talking, two young ladies, who are Jehovah’s Witnesses, joined us at our table.  I met one of them, Alba, a year ago when I came to Bolivia for a week to decide if I wanted to return to Bolivia or not.  Since then we bump into each other all the time.  The other lady is named Sarah.  She is married to a Jehovah’s Witness missionary.  Sarah is one of those people skilled in getting people to talk.  She did that with Anna.

I learned many new things about Anna as our coffee waxed cold.  When she was a girl, her father was asked by the Bolivian government to broker a peace agreement between the Yuqui Indians and settlers encroaching on their traditional homelands.  Many had been killed on both sides.  Imagine a time when a president asks missionaries to do what the government can’t!  Anna told stories about translating the bible into every language in Bolivia.  The translation continues as young Bolivians improve on the translations and make them more accessible to different dialects.  Think of a Bible translation in Texan or Australian, rather than British English of 1600.  That is what some are doing now.

Here I am writing and travelling, enjoying being retired, sitting next to a person responsible for the gospel message reaching so many people in this land I love so much.  I am humbled.  Even today she is teaching young men and women from Bolivia, and other places, to be missionaries to their own people.  This is what it should be like.

As I am writing this a week later, while visiting Cochabamba, a city she loves as much as I love Santa Cruz, I think of the places she told me to visit and the stories she told of when she was a girl here.  It makes the place come alive for me.  I know Anna and I will be friends for many more years to come. 

By the way, I stole these pictures from Anna's Facebook page.  I don't know if she will come after me or if she will like them.  But this is what a missionary looks like.

April 29, 2017 - The Sixth Commandment

The Sixth Commandment

The commandment is only a few words long, “You shall not murder,” but so much is within the bounds of these words.  It is about respect for the preciousness of human life, under every circumstance.

The dictionary defines murder as “the unlawful premeditated killing of one human being by another.”  This does not include a court of law sentencing a person to death.  Though if I ever were to serve on a jury, with this decision, I would find it difficult to sleep for a long time.  Murder does not include the killing of someone in a car wreck or some other accident.  It does not include a soldier or police officer killing someone in the line of duty.  It is a premeditated act of hate. 

Jesus makes it clear in the Sermon on the Mount (Matthew 5:23) that in God’s eyes, hating another person is murder.  Hatred makes us not value that person’s life.  If we don’t value it, we would not care if that person were to die.  That is murder.  In 1 John 3:15 it says, “Anyone who hates a brother or sister, is a murderer, and you know that no murderer has eternal life residing in him.”  God sees our hatred as not seeing the value and preciousness of that person.

For believers, this commandment is the reason we are against abortion.  Psalm 139:13 says, “For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb.”  And in verse 16, “All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.”  God addressed Jeremiah with this, “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart.”  God knows the individual before he is even conceived.  I know for the pro-choice people, it is considered an option for a mother to not have an unwanted baby.  But it is a baby.  It is a life.  It is precious in God's eyes and should not be taken in such a light manner. 

I read an article about George HW Bush.  He was in the hospital and being visited by his son.  I read the comments at the end and was astounded by people who were appalled to see a picture of an elderly man, very sick, and possibly dying, in the hospital.  They did not want to look at a picture like that.  Yet his life is precious.  Physically, he might not be beautiful now, but the life he has led is a beautiful thing.

If you were to meet my Grandma now, you would see an old woman with growing dementia, who repeats the same stories over and over, often mixing them up with other stories.  She doesn’t do much other than sit in front of the television for 20 hours a day.  She never leaves the chair she is in now, except to warm her tea.  Yet this same woman took me to Israel when she was 50 and I was 13.  She went to a synagogue in Dallas to learn Hebrew, so she could better understand God’s Word.  Before her heart attack, which probably included a stroke, she read the Bible through twice a year, in different versions, all so she could know God’s Word better.  If you wanted to know where a verse in the Bible was, you could give her a few words and she would quote it perfectly and give you the reference.  To family she will always be our grandmother who loved us unconditionally.  That is how precious her life is.

People are increasingly wanting our handicapped or disabled to be gone.  Out of sight, out of mind.  But even in someone who is not what we consider normal, you can find such beauty.  By the way, what is normal?  I would love you to visit Bristol Baptist Church one day.  If you come early, you will most likely see Brother Ed sitting out front.  He is a deacon and takes care of the technology, and he is in a wheel chair, because of a disabling accident.  You will find in him a prayer warrior; if you ask him to pray for you, he will.  If you come in about the time our service starts, you will meet Brian, in his wheel chair.  He wants to be at the door as a greeter.  He has been wheel chair bound his whole life.  He can’t sit in his chair properly and needs to be helped by one of the men in the church to get in a comfortable position.  He can't shake your hand well.  He cannot talk clearly.  Yet this precious man loves God and loves Bristol Baptist Church.  Visit this church and you will see others, young and adult, with handicaps.  In God’s eyes, they are as precious as the college educated.

I wrote this a week ago.  One thing I wanted to include is how we often dislike those who are not like us.  We don’t trust people who are richer or poorer than we are.  We might be afraid of someone whose skin is a different color.  Since our most recent election, there is real hatred of those who believe differently from us politically.  Yet they are all precious in the eyes of God. 

Specifically, I was thinking of Nestor.  He is probably about 19 years of age; a Bolivian boy who works as doorman at my building.  He makes 900 bolivianos a month, which is about $120.  He works 7 days a week, for 12 hours a day.  He gets only one day off each month.  I don’t see others in the building greeting him.  I would wager they don’t know his name.  I’ve seen one tenant angry at him because he was not opening the door for her because he was unloading another tenant’s car of groceries.  I know his name.  It was cold this morning, so I bought him a Starbucks coffee.  I doubt he can ever afford to buy one on his own.  His life is precious and I want him to know that.

As I hope you now see, this commandment is not just about murder, but about the preciousness of human life.  Every life is precious in God’s eyes.  That includes the jerk who is driving badly next to you.  That includes the waitress who got your order wrong.  That includes the lady at the post office who doesn’t seem to have people skills.  For my many teacher friends, that includes that one kid, you know who I am talking about. 

We could rewrite this commandment as, “All human life, every single one, is precious to God.”

April 28, 2017 - Dragons!

Dragons!

I was standing under the great beast, feeling its deep call across the dry valley in Chuquisaca, near Sucre.  Every time it called, I could feel it in my bones.  But I was not afraid.  This beast made me feel warmth and protection, as strange as that seemed.  Yes, Job said they could not be trained, but who would want to?

In Job chapter 40, it describes an animal much like the titanosaur I was standing under.

“Look at Behemoth,

which I made along with you

and which feeds on grass like an ox. 

What strength it has in its loins

What power in the muscles of its belly!

Its tail sways like a cedar; the sinews of its thighs are close-knit.

Its bones are tubes of bronze,

Its limbs like rods of iron.

It ranks first among the works of God,

Yet its Maker can approach it with his sword.

The hills bring it their produce,

And the wild animals play nearby.

Under the lotus plants it lies,

Hidden under the reeds of the marsh.

The lotuses conceal it in their shadow;

The poplars by the stream surround it.

A raging river does not alarm it;

It is secure, though the Jordan should surge against its mouth.

Can anyone capture it by the eyes,

Or trap it and pierce its nose?”

These creatures must have survived the Flood of Genesis for Job to witness them in the waters of the Jordan, which must have been a more powerful river than it is now.  I can imagine standing under his belly and hearing, as well as feeling, his echoing call across the Jordan Valley.

Today, November 25, I visited the Parque Cretácico, Cretaceous Park.  I was told by friends that I could see a place where thousands of dinosaur tracks have been uncovered.  The cement factory, which surrounds the park, uncovered the footprints.  A vertical slab of rock, hundreds of feet long and over a hundred feet high, contains tracks of 15 species of dinosaurs, including a 347-meter trail of a T-Rex, nicknamed Johnny Walker.

As a creationist, I believe these were most likely laid down during the Flood of Genesis.  Many evolutionists won’t agree with me.  I won’t argue with them about it, or go into all the details that make me believe in the Flood, but the historical record of men like Job, so perfectly describing one of the great dinosaurs, makes me believe.  There are other historical accounts besides the one of Job.

The prints are not well-preserved.  It is estimated that most will be destroyed by erosion by 2020.  Bolivia is a poor country and lacks the resources to preserve them.  At the moment, half of Bolivia is suffering a severe drought, leaving a large portion of the population with little or no water.  I doubt Bolivia can do anything to save the tracks.

This little park, with dozens of life-like dinosaurs, will make you dream of a time when man walked with the dinosaurs.

 

April 27, 2017 - A Tour to Remember

A Tour to Remember

A young man arrived at my hotel at 8:30 to take me on a walking tour of Sucre.

“Hello, my name is Camilo,” he said as we headed out the door.  My first impression was that he was a rough looking street kid.  He quickly changed my opinion and reminded me not to prejudge people.

“Nice to meet you,” I said, shaking his hand.  “Will we join the rest of the tour at the Plaza?”  I had purchased a small group tour.  The website said there would be between five and ten people on the tour.

“The rest?  You are the only one.”

It turned out to be a private tour, with one of the nicest young men I have met in Bolivia.  He loves photography and travel.  We talked about both a lot.  Who could ask for better?  As we stopped at churches or monuments, he knew the right place to stand on the correct side of the street, or out of the sun.  He was always patient, making sure I was comfortable, that I understood what he was saying, and that I was happy.

Our tour began at the market, where he treated me to a traditional Bolivian breakfast, a corn drink that tasted like tapioca and banuelos, a delicious sweetbread.  We stopped at a fruit vendor who gave me bites of chirimoya, peaches, and papaya.  Before leaving we had an explanation from a potato vendor about the varieties and preparation of different potatoes.

Past the market is Bolivar Park, the Old Supreme Court Building, arches resembling the one in Paris, a grand Theater, and the national asylum.  In the park were statues that reminded me of ones from Versailles and a miniature version of the Eiffel Tower.  This one is more accessible, easier to climb, and you don’t have to wait for hours to visit it.

We then took a city bus to La Recoleta.  I spent the afternoon there the day before, so I didn’t take a lot of pictures.  He explained to me about indigenous weaving, the art of the region of Chuquisaca, and about the founding of the city at the site of the Recoleta, or resting place.  The view from La Recoleta is stunning.  White arches overlooking the beautiful city below and mountains of the Andes.  The school on the plaza let out and children invaded to play soccer or laugh at each other’s stories.

Our tour ended with a visit to the cemetery.  My guide impressed me as we were entering.  There was a blind man looking for a taxi, but of course, he couldn’t tell which was a taxi and which a car.  Camilo stopped my tour to help the man with a taxi, making sure he was comfortably inside and sent to his destination.  It looked to me that he paid the driver too.  Impressive.

I have mentioned before that the cemetery in Santa Cruz is beautiful, but the one in Sucre is gorgeous.  Tall trees line the walks creating a shady park.  If I were to ever live in Sucre, even for a short time, I would regularly visit the cemetery to write in solitude.  Camilo said he has come there to study at times.

That is where the tour ended.  Camilo talked to me about places I should visit on a future visit to Sucre, and promised he would show me his photography one day.  I thought that was the end of the tour.

The next afternoon he texted me to ask if I were free.  I was writing in my hotel room, so I said I was.  He came over to show me some his photography.  He sells them very cheap, but he is talented.  Someday he could make money off his photographs.  Before he left he invited me to taste some real Bolivian food for dinner, so again I had a guide.  I was surprised that when the bill came, he was going to pay.  I didn’t let him of course. 

Sucre is definitely on my list of places to visit again.  Camilo already has an entire week planned for me.  I am truly grateful to him for opening my eyes to such a beautiful city. 

This was also the day that I decided I could be an author.  I might not ever be financially secure writing, but I now know I must write.  I fell in love with Sucre and Bolivia.  This is where I want to be, for a while at least.  While I am here, I know I must write.

 

April 26, 2017 - The White City

The White City

After twisting and turning through the dry, brown hills, my taxi turned a corner and before me was a white wall with green words that read, “Welcome to Sucre.”   In front of the sign were the skeletal remains of someone’s car.  There was nothing left.  I was beginning to wonder what I had gotten in to.  Was this the ruins of a once great city, or something else?

The hills of Chuquisaca are beautiful, tan and brown, dry from lack of rain.  From the plane, I saw a valley that made me think of the Grand Canyon; the valley scrapped by the Flood, thousands of years ago.  There are houses on top of ridges, but I didn’t see roads.  How did they get there?  How do they live in such a remote place with so little water?

My first impression of Sucre was the brown adobe and brick houses that lined the highway entering the city.  They were simple places of poverty.  So much brown blending with the dry earth.

Then it happened!

We turn a corner and we were in the Plaza of the Recoleta, the original settlement of Sucre, about 480 years ago.  I was looking down on the White City.  So much white!  Red tiled roofs.  My taxi driver said the Spaniards arrived here in 1538.  As we drive along, he points to buildings and tells me dates that predate Texas by 200 years.  I am lost with the age of the city and so much white.  I would think of bleached bones, except so many doors are open, revealing the traditional colonial courtyards and patios, lush with flowers.

My tour guide from the next day would tell me it was not called the White City because there is so much white, but because the original Spanish founders were from Andalusia, in Spain.  I have been there and remember the white cities of Ronda, Arco de la Frontera, and Medina Sidonia.  They built this city to remind them of home.  And yes, it looks like Andalusia.

I stayed at the Hostal de Su Merced, two blocks from the Plaza.  I gasped as I enter the place.  It is what I have always dreamed of for my house.  There is a patio in the center of the hotel with stairs going up in various directions, everything open to the central patio.  Rooms open through French doors.  Cascades of roses and bougainvillea greet my eyes.  After settling in to my room, I climb the stairs to find roof top terraces that give me a stunning view of the White City.

I am hungry so I go searching for food.  My pastor and his wife recommended the Joy Ride Café, an eclectic little place.  I end up having three lunches there over my stay in Sucre.  Matilde, another friend, texted me to try another restaurant just doors away for dinner.  I ate well my three days in Sucre.

Before taking my siesta, so I can explore all afternoon, I made a quick turn to the Plaza.  I’m in love with Bolivia again.

I can’t sleep.  I have to go explore!

 

April 25, 2017 - Friends, Old and New

Friends, Old and New

When I woke up Saturday morning, I was met by sunny skies and a cool spring breeze blowing in my window.  I had plans for 11:00, but at 7:15, I decided I needed to get out of the house and enjoy the gorgeous morning.

I had plans to meet two different groups of people for lunch.  Mary, a coworker, has her parents visiting.  Ron and Lisa, former missionaries, are thinking of returning to Bolivia.  I was going to meet both for lunch at the Plaza and take them on a little tour.  Lunch was Lisa’s idea and the tour Mary’s.  Both sounded good to me.

By 8:00, I was out of the house taking pictures of a cute little church called La Pompeya and heading over to Starbucks for breakfast.  I wasn’t there long before I had a destination in mind.  The sky was gorgeous, so I wanted to try again to see if I could get a picture of the Cristo.  That is a long walk so I took a taxi instead. 

I walked around the neighborhood of the Palacio de Justicia, taking pictures and discovering barrios I haven’t visited before.  There are some beautiful condominiums in that part of town.  Lots of flowering trees.  Clean streets.  And cool restaurants.  I found a statue I had passed a few times, always promising I would return to it one day.  It is a knight on a horse (or half a horse) with his lance in the air.  He somehow reminds me of Don Quixote, the Spanish knight who fought windmills.  Until someone tells me differently, that is who he will be.

Not far away was the Cristo statue.  I walked to the chapel, who a friend told me was built for the Pope’s visit, so he would face the Cristo when preaching.  It was closed, but there was a young guard on duty.  I asked if I could come in to take a picture of the Cristo.  He said I wasn’t allowed to do that.  He looked nervous, then whispered, “if you do it quickly and leave.”  I had not intended on pressing the issue, but I am thankful to a young man who allowed me to take a picture.

After more walking, I was again in a taxi, heading to the Plaza.  About two blocks from the Plaza, I noticed the young lady that had been doing immigration work with me, Tabitha, who works with El Alfarero.  So I got out of the taxi (I paid of course) and hurried to meet her.  She was going to the Plaza to change money, but I tempted her to sit and have a soda with me at my restaurant, La Pascana.  We talked about the ministries of the Learning Center and El Alfarero, which works with college students.  And we talked about seeing the country, places like Samaipata and we talked Thanksgiving for those of us living outside the USA.  After an hour, she had to leave, but it was good catching up.

Ron and Lisa, and their daughter Rocio, are very Bolivian in one thing, promptness.  They were half an hour late, but that is something you learn to accept here in Bolivia.  Ron and Lisa attended CFNI with my sister, Glenda and her husband, Andrew.  Later they attended the same church in Rockwall.  When Ron and Lisa decided to move to Bolivia, Glenda directed them to meet me.  My last year in Bolivia they worked here with a deaf ministry and when I returned to the States, they took my dog, Shadow.  They left in the 90s, but now want to return.

Ron peppered me with lots of questions about Bolivia, from the perspective of an American living here.  Lisa is also interested in teaching at the Learning Center.  Their daughter, Rocio, is now an adult and just wanted to get to know the place where she was born.  They had questions about how things work now, compared to the 80s.  Lots of things have changed.

Mary and her parents weren’t able to show, but I still gave a little tour of the Plaza to Ron, Lisa, and Rocio.  I told them stories about the Toborochis, how the Manzana Uno was once a jail, and introduced them the Mojon con Cara.  To top it off, I took them to the hospital that Rocio was born in, the Clinica Foianini, which is across the street from my apartment.

I got home around 2:30, exhausted and slept the next two hours.  But it was a beautiful day to spend with new and old friends.

Ron and Lisa, hurry down here so we can do this again!

 

April 24, 2017 - The Castillo Azul

The Castillo Azul

In October, when I was in Tarija, I saw from my hotel what I thought was a blue and white stripped church.  So one of my days there, I went searching for it.  It seems it was not a church after all, but a Victorian mansion.  Several friends suggested I do some research.  Hmmm?  Good idea.

It seems I am not the only one who has thought it was a church.  One of the owners tells the story that regularly when campesinos (people from the country) walk by it they cross themselves.  On more than one occasion, someone has knocked on the door to ask when is the weekly mass.  From a distance it does look a bit like a church.

It was built by the Navajas family around 1910 with materials left over from another house they built.  At the time, this house was outside of town, though today Tarija surrounds it.  It was bought by the Rengel family in the 1960s, who spent a dozen years restoring it to its Victorian glory days, or more accurately, early Art Nouveau.  They added further living quarters in the back, so no one lives in the house itself now.

Patricia Ibáñez, of El Pais, said that the Blue Castle is “imposing, disturbingly solitary and suitable for a ghost story.”  Objects are found moved from where they were the day before, or lost for weeks.  Sounds are heard in the middle of the night, like doors opening and closing, or footsteps approaching.  People who spend the night there report a feeling that they are not alone in a room.

Doña Bertha Reinoso, who lived there many years, recollects the many nights the dogs went crazy, barking in fear and desperately trying to escape from the house.  A neighbor borrowed their bread oven, outside the house, and reported a shower in an unused bathroom turning on.  Sounds of furniture moving, things breaking, or heavy breathing, occurred often, though always nothing was moved, nothing broken, and nobody was present.  The stories continue until this day.

But with a clear blue sky, on a sunny Tarija morning in October, seeing the crisp blue and white house, that I thought was a church, it is hard to imagine ghosts and phantoms.  Instead I see a beautiful Victorian mansion gracing this lush valley in the Andes Mountains.

 

 

From elpaisonline.com

April 23, 2017 - Pastor Dave's Method of Preaching

Pastor Dave’s Method of Preaching

I doubt Dave knows I’m writing about his preaching style.  I am not sure what he will say when he discovers that I am writing a blog about it.  But he is a good man and I think he will understand.

The year was 2008, my stepfather had just died and my mom wanted me to move into an apartment she has attached to her house.  She loves living in the country, but doesn’t always feel safe.  I moved in over the Christmas holidays.

Dave and his beautiful daughter, Heather

For months, my mom had been talking about how amazing Dave was as a pastor.  I had met him before and he didn’t impress me that much.  He seemed an ordinary man, down to earth, and friendly, but I didn’t see him as the pastor type.  I should have remembered the scripture that says God uses the foolish things of the world to confound the wise.  I guess I was a confounded wise man.  But I did visit over the Christmas holidays.

I was hooked the very first service.  When Pastor Dave gets up to speak, he is a different man.  Watching him week after week and year after year, I realize what it looks like to be filled by the Holy Spirit.  Weekly Dave allows the Holy Spirit to guide what he says to the congregation.

There is a method that Dave uses and I hope he never stops using.  He teaches through a book of the Bible.  He doesn’t teach a chapter a week.  He goes into more detail than that.  When I first started attending Bristol Baptist with him as the pastor, he was starting in 1 John.  It is one of my favorite books of the Bible.  It is only 5 chapters long, but that doesn’t mean he spent the month of January on that book.  Instead he spent an entire year!

Some Sundays Dave will teach only two or three verses and the next week five or six.  But the week after that he might go back to the verses from a week before and teach it from a totally different angle.  His idea is that God’s people need to understand God’s word deeply, not just a few feel-good passages here and there, but get to the meat of the word.  That means he teaches it all; the good, the bad, and the ugly.

Learning 1 John with Pastor Dave caused some changes in my life that I am ever grateful for.  There was a person in my life, a fellow Christian, that I hated.   In 1 John chapter 4 it reminds us that if we love one another, the love of God is in us.  What kind of Christian hates another Christian?  That caused me to do some serious praying.  I can’t say I changed, but God changed me.  I can truly say I love that person dearly today.

Since then Dave has taught other books of the Bible.  Mark took two years!  He was teaching in Matthew when I left for Bolivia in June of 2016.  I told Percy, my Bolivian pastor, that Dave was in chapter 5 and I thought he’d maybe be in chapter 10 when I returned for Christmas.  He was!  So I am guessing now, he is somewhere around Matthew 15.  Will he be finished when I go home for a visit?  I doubt it! 

What Dave has taught me is that the Church needs to know God's word.  They need to be as familiar with it as they are their children's faces.  They need to know that the plan of salvation is not just found in the Roman Road, but in every chapter, every verse of the Bible.  Teaching Sunday school for a few years at that church showed me that the teaching Pastor Dave brought to his flock made them stronger.  It is what the Church needs today, not feel good sermons.  The Church needs meat.

Thank you Pastor Dave for teaching us week after week and helping us learn to live God’s word.

April 22, 2017 - The Fifth Commandment

The Fifth Commandment

On this cold autumn morning in Santa Cruz, Bolivia, I am thinking about my parents.  The older I get, the more I discover what a blessing I have been given.

My father, Dr. Paul Potter, is a professor of communication, and radio and television production.  When I was a child, my friends always commented how intelligent he seemed.  He has a way of speaking that draws you into his stories.  Maybe my writing abilities comes from years of listening to him speak.  My father introduced me to both Tolkien and C.S. Lewis, though when he did, I thought they were just kiddie literature, never realizing the depth of spiritual meaning behind those great works of literature.  Today my father is looking to change from being a professor to being a pastor.  He will make a wonderful pastor, because he has a caring heart and he believes in the power of prayer.

My mother, Shirley Pennoyer, is now retired.  That is after my mother learned to be a single mom, caring for three teenaged boys, one with epilepsy and cerebral palsy.  She experienced having no money, even as doctor bills piled up.  She taught me the love of simple things like a grilled cheese sandwich with tomato soup.  My mother learned to care for her family, working long hours and learning the business from her boss, Jim Gray, eventually starting her own company and earning a six-figure income.  As I said, today she is retired, caring for my aging, forgetful, and irascible grandma, and my younger brother.  If you were to meet her, you would soon learn that she knows every verse of every song in the hymnal.  She has a passion for praying for the salvation of her children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren.

Both of my parents taught me a love of art, Brazilian jazz, classical music, and good books.  I think my desire to see and experience so much of the world is a byproduct of the things they taught me.

The Fifth Commandment is about respect for parental authority.  While the first four teach us about our relationship with God, the last six teaches us about our relationship to our fellow men.  This commandment opens the door, by introducing us to one of the most important relationships we will ever have.  It reads as follows:

“Honor your father and your mother, so that you may live long in the land the LORD your God is giving you.”

This command teaches us the fundamentals of respect for our fellow man.  It is intended that we learn this early, as children.  Someone who learns respect early, becomes a person who respects his whole life.  This commandment teaches us how to submit to others, even when we don’t want to.  It teaches us respect for our teachers and mentors, necessary for us to grow as individuals.  This commandment gives us a lifelong pattern of respect for rules, traditions, principles, and laws.  Learning these things is a normal part of life.  By learning them, we can lead a truly happy life.

You will notice that someone who has no respect for authority, also has no respect or honor for his parents.  As a teacher, I have seen this too many times.  That child might say he loves his family, but when you first see them together, as a family, you realize there is no love or respect there.  That person will lead a bitter, difficult life, unless he learns what he did not learn in the home.

This role of parent and child never ceases.  It is not meant to cease.  Our parents cared for us when we were little and they taught us when we were older.  How often did they step in financially to rescue us as adults?  But eventually things change. If you knew my Grandma Rosinbaum, you would never recognize the woman she has become in the last few years.  That is what old age and dementia do to people.  My mother, not so young anymore, has taken the burden of caring for someone who rarely appreciates it.  I know my duty will be to step in and do the same for my mother one day.  I probably won’t stay in Bolivia that long.  I feel the need to honor that relationship by being closer to home.

Our families are our community.  One of the things I enjoy most in life are the summer cookouts at my mother’s big house in the country, with all the family gathered.  I know I can count on my nephews buying several hundred dollars’ worth of firecrackers.  Or when we all get together, like we did the day after Christmas, to visit the Dallas Zoo. 

After writing this, I suddenly feel homesick.

April 21, 2017 - The Legend of the Toborochi

The Legend of the Toborochi

It is mid-April.  In Central Texas, that means bluebonnets.  In Santa Cruz, Bolivia, that means the pink blossoms of the toborochi tree.

The scientific name is ceiba speciose and it is called the silk floss tree in English.  In Argentina, they refer to it as the palo borracho and paineira in Brazil.  It is found across tropical and sub-tropical South America. 

The most notable characteristic is the swollen trunk.  It also has spikes along the trunk and branches that deter animals from climbing the tree.  Young trees have green trunks due to high chlorophyll contents, making it able to photosynthesize when it loses its leaves. 

Depending on the specie, the leaves have five to seven leaflets.  Bolivia is tropical, but the tree will often lose its leaves in July or August, South American winter. 

The flowers, which bloom in April, have a creamy white center and pink tips.  They can bloom as early as February and as late as May.  The fragrant flowers are beloved of bees and hummingbirds.

The fruit is in the form of an ovoid capsule containing black seeds surrounded by a mass of cotton-like fiber.  That fiber has been used as stuffing, paper, and as ropes. 

In Bolivia, it is called the toborochi, from the Guarani language, meaning sheltering tree.  And that is where the legend comes in.

According to the Guarani legend, when the world was young, evil spirits liked to torment and murder humans.  When these evil spirits discovered that the beautiful girl Araverá was pregnant, they decided to kill her.  She was the daughter of the cacique Ururuti, had married the god, Colibrí.  They had heard a prophecy that Colibri’s son would punish them and kill them.  So, they harassed her and chased her from village to village. 

She became tired and hid in the trunk of the toborochi tree.  It was there that she gave birth to a son.  The large trunk gave her room to rest.  The thorns protected her from the evil spirits.  Her son did eventually destroy the evil spirits. 

Araverá never left the shelter of the toborochi tree.  It was there she died and was buried.  Each spring she comes outside in the shape of a fragrant flower that is loved by her husband, Colibrí, the hummingbird.

Santa Cruz is filled with beautiful toborochi trees.  Here are a few from my neighborhood.  The really fat one stands at the entrance to Espiritu Santo school, a lower elementary school a block from my house.  To me it seems appropriate that the fattest one around is sheltering the school for little ones.

Two blocks away is this beauty in front of the Pompeya chapel.

I cannot express to you the beauty of these trees.  Pictures don’t do them justice.  You’ll have to come visit some April to see for yourself.

You can learn more about the legends of Santa Cruz in my new novel, The Mojon con Cara, available on Amazon.