My Cop Buddy

It was August, and I was settling into my third month at my new office job. I had a brief past with office life, but never before had I truly dived into “Cubicle life.” 9am-5pm, the real deal. Staples, paper clips, legal size hanging files, and paper cuts. A monstrous leap from my jean wearing, kid bouncing nanny days. My hands were shaking the first time I had answered the phone, terrified that the client would run their mouths about investments that I had NO clue about. For the first few weeks I was exactly right. I just told them I needed to review their account or speak with “another department” and stuck the black receiver on hold. Most of the time my supervisor took the call and I listened, attempting to get a grasp of the client’s train of thought. It was rough to wrap my 23-year-old brain around retirement life and alternative investments.

Rector McCollum called the main line, and I was fortunate enough to answer. He was in a pickle, and I helped walk him through the process of paying his dues to his particular investment. He talked fast and told witty one-liners, instantly setting me at ease. He was a retired cop from Dallas, swore like a sailor, knowing no bounds. I sat in my gray cubicle cracking up, not wanting the conversation to end. We talked on the phone for nearly ten minutes, and he kept me laughing every second of it. I hung up with the urge to take a couple laps around the office, smile plastered on my face. A few days later his payment came through in the mail and the paperwork landed on my desk. A small note accompanied it:

“Thanks for all your help. Let me know if you ever need a cop.” – Rector McCollum

This client was officially my first favorite.

A year later he wanted to stop by the office to get some more assistance. We met in the conference room, and he instantly showed his respect and gratitude for our company. His investment had been giving him some trouble, and he looked to me to bail him out. Bail him out I did, and because of his kindness I quickly completed the paperwork for him right there on the table. He pointed to my turquoise half-sleeved sweater. “Kim, when are you going to get a raise around here so that you can afford sleeves on your sweater?” His gray mustache perked up above a dorky smile, and I laughed, happy to be in his company.

He relaxed in the comfy chair, wearing a “retirement-style” Hawaiian shirt and jeans. He had big glasses and a glassy baldhead. He started sharing stories about traveling to Uruguay, Europe, and unique places around Texas. He gave me tips and unbridled opinions about food, people, and the culture. I relished the few moments away from my desk, and he was glad to spill the guts on some of his police buddies with a few of his cop stories. He’d been on the job long enough to have seen pranks and shenanigans that are downright hilarious. (Or evil, depending on how you look at it). One of his friends strategically placed empty rifle shells in the bushes at Dealey Plaza in downtown Dallas (the tourist site where JFK was shot). It wouldn’t take long until someone poked around and excitedly demanded to a local police officer that they had solved the assassination of JFK.

I picked his brain for a few minutes about his work on the Dallas Police force. He talked about the days chasing fugitives and working on a Tactical Squad. He said the most fun he ever had on the job was running down people with felony warrants and hauling their butts to jail. I am not going to lie, that sounded pretty exciting compared to my line of work. I suddenly wished we could pull down the projector screen and watch a movie reel of HIS shift on the job. I told him I would love to do a Ride-along and experience a day in the life of a cop. He wrote down his branch where he was stationed and the number to call for a Cop-Ride-along. (Even though anybody can apply for a Ride-along, I felt privileged that I had a personal referral from a decorated Police Officer.)

A surprise came a few days later when someone gently placed a vase of flowers on the top of my desk. Luckily the phone call I was on was just ending (terrible timing), and my mind reeled about whom the flowers could be from. My co-worker gasped because she thought she might have missed my birthday. Or my anniversary? I cupped my hands over my mouth when the call ended, shocked. The card read, "Thank you for your help. I couldn’t have done it without you. – Rector" What? Flowers from a client? Was this legal? My co-workers laughed and applauded, as this was a first in the office. I blushed and couldn’t wait to take them home to show my husband. He wouldn’t mind, right? (No, he didn’t.)

Rector weaseled his way into my heart pretty easily. His kindness was always bursting, with little on my end to deserve it. He respects and holds others higher than himself at all times. He has friends in high places, friends in low places and everywhere in between. He spent 33 full years on the job and retired with honors. Everyday he was laying his life on the line for the city of Dallas, on the streets doing dangerous work.  I looked forward to seeing his name on my desk and eventually in one of the investments that paid out and gave him a decent chunk of cash. I was truly thrilled for him.

One time I was having trouble getting a hold of him and received an email from his broker. He broke the news to me that Rector’s wife had just passed away from cancer. It was so sudden that she was sick for 3 weeks, diagnosed, and died 2 short weeks later. I ached inside and reached out to him. I contacted the investment to hold his position because of extenuating family circumstances. I waited. I said a prayer for him. I couldn’t begin to imagine the devastation he must be going through.

I saw him soon after around Christmas time and he brought me a gorgeous orchid plant. I accepted it with a heavy heart and hugged him. The holidays for him this year would be so very different. Cold. Quiet. Lonely. Out of all the friends Rector has in his world, he just lost his very best one.

Since those days, we have seen each other a few times. When we left Dallas, I told him that I would always remember him. He had the type of personality that reached and touched you in a very personal way. He could make you laugh in a heartbeat, but in the same conversation speak into your life in such a positive and inspiring way. Rector is a crazy uncle mixed with a tender-hearted friend. His compassion has reached to so many people that I am sure I won’t be the last to write about this man. He’s a hero. He’s a blessing. He is someone I hope to meet up with again, and surely someone I will never ever forget.

MIA: Missionaries In Action

           I felt like I was in a foreign country. Ever since I walked in I soaked up the sights, sounds, language, culture and everything about these beautiful Brazilians. Latino-sounding music blasted from the speakers making conversation impossible. A band with accordions and singers lined the front of the stage. Stage right, there was a man dancing. The designated dancer, I suppose, who was hired to set the atmosphere for the evening. He was having a blast, and it was rubbing off on me. The white tables and chairs were tightly packed and all the families had brought their own food and drinks. I munched on an egg roll and gazed curiously toward the middle. All the teachers in matching t-shirts were guiding little kids around.  It was almost our turn to watch.

I hurried to scrunch up close to the rope as the music thundered on. My eyes peeked over others in search of a special little girl. Her classmates filed on ahead of her, and I saw the familiar bright yellow skirts and gorgeous blue tops. I saw curly brown hair tied up in precious pigtails and faces dotted with fake freckles. I heard Portuguese all around among the children and their parents. Suddenly, blonde hair appeared from amidst the Brazilians, and her milky skin shone bright under the lights. Her smile was almost as big as the blue bow in her hair when she saw her Daddy. She waved enthusiastically, unable to contain her excitement. The band on stage behind them took a brief pause as the kindergarteners lined up in rows. A new song began, and tears of pride slowly welled up in my eyes. Evelyn danced and sang her little heart out that night. She laughed and smiled for pictures, then repeated the performance on the car ride home and over the next few days.

I am amazed at the way Evelyn adapts to a life in Brazil. One second I am playing in the sandbox with her speaking English, and the next she is rattling off in Portuguese to her friends and to adults. She doesn’t stop for a second, but converts her thoughts and her words directly into another language. Sarah said that when she turned 5 years old, she hadn’t spoken much Portuguese at all. As soon as she was immersed in “Conviver”, her Brazilian public school, she was fluent within 2-3 months. All that Portuguese had been welling up inside her for years, and Sarah knew it was just a matter of time for Evie to start speaking like a natural. She was right.

What is it like to raise your family in a foreign country? What parts of life remain the same as if you were in the States, and which parts are drastically different? For David and Sarah Carrel, I venture to say that raising their kids in Brazil has been a positive, and somewhat “normal” experience for the whole family. Diving into the day-to-day with them was eye opening, humbling and thrilling. We came back to America feeling blessed in multiple ways.

David has always been someone that I deeply look up to. His drive to work hard, reach people and achieve great things is admirable. He truly is like David from the Bible because he does NOT give up when faced with obstacles. My greatest privilege was watching David teach Brazilians how to play American football.  These natives grew up with soccer without much exposure to American Football, so this is new and exciting for them. The whole team can’t afford equipment yet, so only a few of the guys have their own shoulder pads and helmets. They run routes, joke around with each other and love the Hail Mary passes. When a touchdown is scored in scrimmage, it feels like a bomb went off. The guys are thrilled that the play worked and they whoop and holler for a few minutes. David sometimes plays quarterback at practice, and does a phenomenal job. He is quick and when he takes off running, the whole army of defense races to tackle him. His tattered college t-shirt lives on, but not for long.

He has a passion to reach people, and he always finds a way to relate to someone and convince them to attend one of his events. I love his smile and the way he jokes with the Brazilians. He is not afraid to do whatever it takes to get on their level and make a friend. I watched him eat traditional “Buxada” which is also known as cow intestines. He had a stomachache that afternoon, but he was willing to give it a try! (Gross). He spends hours per week teaching English in a local school. He drills those kids with questions, but makes them laugh and enjoy the journey. To them it’s school, to David, it can feel like school too… but he goes through curriculum even when he doesn’t always agree with it. He does whatever it takes to have a chance to meet and reach people. He is in a new territory and will try anything. No idea is too big or too small.

Sarah takes care of business like a professional. We drove into town one morning and I joined her on her errands. She bought foam for window seats, negotiated prices, and covered the entire grocery store in seconds, all the while planning each meal for the week in her head. I had trouble keeping up with the woman! I felt like she ran the town and I should have been groveling at her feet. Portuguese flowed naturally and without hesitation or question from the Brazilians. She plans play-dates for her friends and their kids, and she runs nursery in their home on Sunday nights for Bible Study. My greatest joy was watching her translate “Only a boy named David” into Portuguese on the fly. We sang it in English first, and then the little Brazilian girl attending asked to sing it in Portuguese. Sarah racked her brain for each phrase. She looked at me puzzled, “There is no word in Portuguese for ‘round and round!” She laughed and then made it work somehow. The kids loved it! Her family is her number one priority, and she does not let them down. Fresh fruits and juice, homemade desserts, and big hearty meals are at their fingertips. She has taught her girls how to help her in the kitchen, and Evie’s homemade Lemonade is on the weekly menu in their house! Impressive.

David and Sarah overcome cultural barriers on a daily basis. Faucet water is unsafe, and purified water is a luxury. Everything involving water involves careful planning and thinking because they live in a desert area. Brazilians desire to practice English, so their ears must be trained to hear the Brazilians and then respond in a way that they would understand. Pronunciation is hugely important and often can interrupt a somewhat decent conversation. David and Sarah constantly have to be translating in their minds so that they can communicate clearly with their friends and neighbors. They have to be patient as they pray for God to move through the hearts of the Brazilians they are trying to reach. They literally have to be patient because Brazilians operate on a more “leisurely” view of time and scheduling. They set boundaries for their family and spend hours a day cultivating a deep relationship with each of their little girls. David’s bedtime Bible stories are precious, and so are Evie’s questions afterwards. Anna Claire loves the company in her home, and gladly gives out hugs and kisses to everyone in attendance. They are blessed little girls.

David and Sarah may be missionaries, but they raise their kids too. They have challenges as they are on different soil and immersed in another language. They give up the comfort of family close by so that they can grow the family of God. They work hard at their jobs, just like us. They snuggle up, pop popcorn and watch movies on a Friday night. They giggle at the dinner table and beg their children to finish their food. They potty train and read books over and over. They patiently help their children with their homework in a different language. They fight for what they believe in and they do not give up easily.

They make me PROUD.

Related Post: A blink of an eye: My short stint in the Amazon

A blink of an eye: My short stint in the Amazon

Piled on the living room floor were several photo albums filled with exciting and mysterious memories. My mom had painstakingly taken the pictures, storing them forever in burgundy and dark blue albums for her kids to rifle through. I wonder if she ever became curious about the way we would remember our time in Brazil. Dad and Mom took all seven of us kids (and a teacher) with them to Santo Antonio do Ica in 1993 for a two month long trip. Dad’s medical skills were needed in the local hospital, and his heart felt the tug to bring his family on a missions trip. Well, a long missions trip. A couple years later in 1996-1997, six of us kids went back to the same area for six months.

1993 Trip- Left to Right: Kim, Jennifer, Mom, Dad holding Jeff, Shawn, Dan

Joe, David, Philip 

As an 7 year old, my blonde hair was stringy, my personality wild, and my mind open. Between the plane rides, overnight boat rides, and a plank we had to walk across to arrive on land, the voyage to South America was long and tiring. As soon as we settled in a house near the jungle by the Amazon River, my dad got right to work in the local hospital. We threw ourselves into the local church with the help of missionaries already on-site. Mom homeschooled us kids during the mornings, and we eagerly explored our temporary home.

I soon realized that Brazil was nothing like America. The people were dark skinned and gorgeous. The tiny houses were mostly on stilts, and had tin roofs that seemed to ROAR when the heavy rains came. Soccer ruled the country, and the people worshipped the game. The juicy Jambo (similar to an apple) soon became a favorite fruit. We watched in amazement as locals climbed the trees to gather food for their families. A huge grilled fish graced our table for dinner—with the head still on it. It was Tambaki, and our Brazilian maid had worked hard all afternoon perfecting the fish. Piranhas lurked in the brown Amazon river, and we heard stories of vicious injuries about my Dad’s hospital patients. (That didn’t stop my brother Philip and me from swimming in the water one afternoon). How do you get used to living in a place where the natives cut grass with a hand machete? Or where we only had powdered milk for cooking and drinking? Or where having a pet parrot is normal? (Ours was named Yoda, and we kept it in a sunroom connected to our house.)

Adventures are a little different in a foreign country. We walked a beaten path in the jungle to a nearby swimming hole that was a clean water source. We spent hours with other Brazilians, having the time of our lives and enjoying a short relief from the relentless heat and humidity. My brothers thoroughly enjoyed the daily run-in with the beasts of the field. Frogs croaked loudly as we ventured into the jungle. Various types of poisonous and non-poisonous nakes slithered in and out of our yard, and they often lay dead on the road. We adopted puppies and affectionately named them “Little Guy” and “Little Girl.” Skinny cows and chickens lined the streets. Animals wandered in and around the natives’ homes and left their mark everywhere you tried to step. Mice at one point made their home in our attic, but few survived. Spiders, tarantulas, and even a rhinoceros beetle were objects of wonder. The fact that we all made it back home safely is a miracle in itself, considering the curiosity and fearlessness of my brothers.

Rook became a favorite card game in our new home. Even at a young age, I learned to play and enjoy the strategy and comradery with my family. Once my little brother Jeff and I were teammates in a tournament held in our packed out house. We played, we fought hard, and we achieved dead last place. The variety of prizes that night was outstanding, but Jeff and I came out with a win. We got our favorite suckers and we were the happiest ones at the party!

The language barrier didn’t stop me from making as many friends as I possibly could. Their names were strange and our friendship just as unique. Nazima, Nazilane, Marivalda, and my “boyfriend”- Ronaldo. I had a massive crush on that boy, and everybody knew it. We played Red Rover in the street, and ran around incessantly in our backyard, laughing and tagging each other. They invited me to their houses to meet their families, and I was shocked at the size of each tiny room we walked through. I learned words in Portuguese, and we played like best friends. I grew to love them and saying goodbye was heart-wrenching.

Our next door neighbors were a missionary family that had served in Brazil long before we arrived. Tom and Beth Peace were dedicated, old school and so immersed in Brazil they could have fooled me if they told me they were actually Brazilian. They raised their four kids in the Amazon, and we enjoyed working with them and two of their grown kids: Lloyd and Philip. Phillip married a Brazilian native named Gecilia. She was beautiful, and my little brother Jeff frequently left our house early in the morning to go next door and play Go-fish with her. It was nothing less than adorable, and Gecilia cherished those precious moments with him. Since Gecilia’s family was nearby, my older brothers got to know her brothers, Alfredo and Francisco. They all frequently played soccer together. And this wasn’t just any backyard kick around. The boys were dead serious, competitive, and clad in spikey cleats. Phillip Peace’s body was built like a truck, and the grown man sweat like a pig. I consciously avoided the massive force of nature as he sprinted down the field, his muscular thighs gleaming and the lethal look of determination on his face. I loved playing soccer and running the field with everyone else, but he scared me to death. Some games were best left alone to the big boys.

Occasionally my mind jogs back to the moments I spent in Brazil. When I smell fresh bread, sometimes my memory plays tricks on me, and it smells like the bakery where we bought the most heavenly tasting bread daily. I see a green and yellow Brazil flag, and my heart skips a beat. I see colorful hammocks and smile at the three that hung in our basement for years after we returned home. The creak of the metal hooks as I sway back and forth rings in my ears. I spent hours in those hammocks. For some reason, when I smell a fire or gas burning, I feel like we are back in the jungle. The moment passes, but the emotions are still there. The Amazon is a treacherous and dangerous place to live, but as a family, we were able to enjoy our time there. I take great pride in the special memories that we all have and am deeply grateful for the twice-in-a-lifetime opportunity we had to live in the Amazon!  

Related Post: MIA: Missionaries In Action