Five Minutes Away

I've been considering my life here in Brasil – the realities of this culture – the beauty and desperation – in terms of what I encounter daily as I walk or drive within a five-minute radius. In five minutes I'm able to see and experience the different levels that make up the lives of Brazilians and help define our ministry here of bridging the gap – in ways that are spiritually, economically, and socially relevant.

I leave the house in the morning at 7:45 am for a five minute walk down Rua Salesopolis to Escola Americana Campinas where I teach high school English to children of upper middle class Brazilians and an eclectic mixture of ex-patriot families who have paid a matriculation fee of $10,000 U.S. dollars and hefty monthly tuition fees to ensure an education for their children that will allow them to attend college in the U.S. or make them more competitive as they attend university and enter the business world here in Brasil. The school is surrounded by a wall with an electric fence and a round-the-clock team of security guards. It has no placards indicating "The American School of Campinas" and the students do not wear uniforms – both are precautions against kidnappers. On the three blocks to school , I pass the overly friendly guard who sits in a small guard shack in front of our neighbor's house, he trades shifts with two other much more silent, worn-out looking older men who always leave us wondering what anyone might expect them to do in a real crime situation. These men work at least 10-12 hours daily and probably make about $200 U.S. dollars a month – the same as the street sweepers and garbage men who clean our streets. Sometimes on the walk home I see the older woman who pulls an oversized cart digging through the garbage bin outside the parking area of the school or on the side of the corner restaurant for recyclables that she might sell for a daily take of about five dollars.

Five minutes walk in either direction of my house is a padaria – a bakery – where we buy fresh, warm pao frances (French bread rolls) or my personal favorite, broa – a crusty cornmeal roll with a moist center. The workers, mostly young women, know us and we exchange greetings and kisses and are scolded if we've been absent a few days.

Five minutes away in the other direction – up Salesopolis and across Jose Bonifaco, then down the hill a bit is the center "Nova Jerusalem", where our Master's Commission team helps supervise 500 children from the favelas and serve them perhaps only the meal they have daily. Down the hill a little further is the favela where Sean and Chris watched movies with Gustavo and William, two guys on our team, at their host home the other night. They walk, but they won't allow me to drive my car down there.

Five minutes by car or bus, shadowing the favela, and looking very grandiose and pretentious, is Shopping Iguatemi, an upscale mall where Brazilian women push designer strollers down marbled corridors wearing stylish maxi dresses or designer jeans and high heels. They purchase $R 10 lattes at the new Starbucks and pay premium prices for Nike shoes (U.S. $200) or French linens.

Five minutes away, on my way to the grocery store, I pass an intersection and look for Julio – a 13-year-old street kid who we've been trying to get to know and get into a restoration house. I keep packages of cookies in my car because some of the young men on our team – ex-street kids themselves – have asked me not to give money to these kids who attack my car windshield with a dirty rag for spare change to support a crack addiction.

Five minutes away is the neighborhood of Cambui, the upscale area of the city with expensive boutiques, pilates studios, elegant cafes and apartments that span an entire floor. Five minutes from here is the "Centro" – the downtown area with cheap "dollar stores" run by Chinese merchants, numerous tall colorless buildings and a square with steps leading up to an elaborate cathedral on which many of the center's street people sleep each night. Our team is here on Thursday nights, spending time with some of the most genuine people you'd care to meet as they arrange their cardboard bedding.

Just over five minutes away, in any direction, are the many gated condominiums – closed communities – of lavish homes, skate parks and country clubs. You can't enter unless invited – and only then after your identification is presented, photos are taken of you and your car, and your invitation is confirmed by a call.

Five minutes can be a lifetime in a country where people live side by side, but worlds apart.