Crônicas do Cotidiano

Growing up in the Faith. A Farmer’s Daughter but also Child of the King

I spent several hours recently interacting with our oldest son, very grateful because he decided to update the version that my blog is made in. I’m quite proud of the fact that I have learned to post by myself (and even insert images!), but I always end up confronting obstacles—be they small or big. My italics disappear, the spaces between the paragraphs vanish, I add an image and the entire text gets centred, the information on the right decides to take off to the bottom of the page… I fix everything and, then, when I push “save,” it all goes back to the wrong way it was before…. Since David lives on the other side of the planet, I often have to wait for him to wake up or come back to the computer to help me. In less than two minutes, he works with the “html” (something that I understand very little of) and everything is wonderful again.

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The promise is for you and your children and for all who are far off.

—Acts 2.39a

An Album full of Memories (1941)

(I have translated the previous blog posting in order to share thoughts and memories of our spiritual legacy with the non-Portuguese-speaking members of my family (and any others who may be interested). Please feel free to comment at the end. Other postings in English can be found through the link “English” on the right-hand side.)

Ever since we moved (over a year ago) to our current apartment in São Paulo, Brazil, I have been occasionally intent on examining and re-organizing the contents of dozens of boxes that are the fruit of the accumulation of 35 years of marriage, four children, documents for companies where my husband worked, bills paid since 1974, etc., etc. So much stuff! I rarely have time to dedicate to this task but now and then I enjoy the pleasure of filling a garbage bag with paper items that are no longer relevant to our lives.

I bought some pretty (and smaller) boxes to substitute the old, mouldy or ugly ones which have stored the special memories of our lives as children and adolescents, of our siblings and children, of our parents and grandparents….  The memories of births, marriages and burials of the persons that were, or are, part of our family, both here and around the world, are being moved into these, as I discover the treasures in the middle of the “stuff”. And it is about one of these that I want to write this time.

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Posted on August 17, 2008 on the blog www.cronicasdocotidiano.com
by Elizabeth Zekveld Portela in São Paulo, Brazil

A few days ago I was reminded of the impact on my life of six little words, spoken by a lady that I actually never got to know very well. This happened when my sister forwarded me a thank you note that she had received via e-mail from the wife of a former college professor of ours.

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(Meu Filho traduziu o post anterior e resolvi postar esta adaptação para meus amigos e parentes que apenas lêem inglês).

(This blog posting was originally written in Portuguese and translated by my son in Bangladesh for his own use. I decided to “double-post” it so that family and friends might also have access to it, as well as other interested English speakers. These reflections came about after a three-week trip, from São Paulo, Brazil to the USA, in order to participate in our youngest son’s wedding in Boise, Idaho, at which time we also did some sightseeing in New York and family visiting in the Tacoma, Washington vicinity.)

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I thank my God every time I remember you…. Philippians 1.3

I wrote a thank you letter a few days ago. It was to one of my father’s sisters, a Christian lady, energetic and active, that lives in Canada. This aunt and my mom were born about a month apart, but she actually married after I did.

When I was a girl, Aunt H worked with her brothers on my grandfather’s farm (my grandpa died when I was about three). Besides milking the cows, she took care of an enormous garden, drove the tractor, worked in the field… She also helped her mother with the housework. She was always a cheerful and vigorous person. I thought that this would be her destiny forever.

Picture of me in front of the hospital where my brother was born. Taken by my Aunt.

Since she left Holland before finishing her studies, Aunt H did not have a high school diploma. I didn’t accompany the details of this phase, but I later learned that she studied at night to receive this diploma and, one day, she appeared in our home to say goodbye. We all were sad, not understanding…

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