Remember Jeferson

Close friend of WMF Brazil Staff

Date of Birth: Sept. 3, 1989

Date of Death: Sept. 2, 2005

Cause of Death: Gunshot wounds

Memorial by: Ben Miller

Two years ago, I met a young man named Jeferson. He had just turned 14, and was living on the streets of Rio. He soon became a big part of my life; seeing his playful grin and hearing him laugh as he yelled my name across the square were signs that it was going to be a good day.

I remember sitting with him on Mother’s Day. I was asking some of the boys questions about their mothers – things they liked about them, things they missed, fun memories, etc. We laughed and got sad, and a few of the boys asked me about my mother who died when I was young. They wanted to know how she died and how I felt about it. Jeferson didn’t say much. He just sat quietly next to me. I answered their questions as best as I could and was touched when one of the boys sympathetically patted Jeferson and me on the shoulder and said in a soft voice, “It’s hard to lose a mom.” With those words, and the compassionate touch, Jeferson began to cry. So we sat on a moldy, falling-apart couch with our arms around each other’s shoulders, and we cried and laughed, and remembered.

I remember eating spaghetti and pizza with him (his favorite meals). We buried each other in the sand at the beach. We played card games and board games and computer games. We watched Batman together. We teased and joked and laughed. We prayed together. We sang together.

When he was over at our house, he heard one of the Servant Team members sing the worship song, “O Praise Him.” Jeferson loved to have me sing it. “Sing that song – you know ...” So I would, and when I reached the chorus, he would join in. Somehow, I feel he’s still singing.

Friday, Aug. 26 was his 16th birthday. I saw him the day before his birthday, and we made a plan to spend the day together on Saturday. I was supposed to go downtown and pick him up in the morning. From there we were going to go to the beach for a swim, watch a movie, then go back to my home and have pizza and a pie that Jenna (WMF staff) baked for him. As I walked away that Thursday night, I yelled to him “Happy Birthday! Don’t forget! I’ll see you on Saturday …” But I didn’t see him – that night was the last time I ever saw him.

He didn’t show up Saturday. I couldn’t find him. None of us saw him the next week either. Wednesday, Jenna (WMF Brazil staff) was downtown and ran into Monique and Very, Jeferson’s sisters. They had bad news. Jeferson was dead. He had been killed – another victim of Rio’s senseless drug wars. He was killed because of where he was from and who his friends were, and because he ventured into the wrong neighborhood. Jeferson lived in a CV-affiliated favela and was invited to a party in an ADA-affiliated favela, with a group of friends. They went, not realizing it was an ambush. Jeferson, along with four of his friends, were killed.

The funeral was the day after we heard the news. As I stood beside the coffin, the reality of Jeferson’s death fell upon me. Looking at him lying there, covered in white flowers, a bruised lump on his forehead, his eyes closed, his skin cold to the touch, I wept. He wasn’t going to wake up. I wept over lost opportunities. I wept because I missed my friend. I wept because he was alone and in pain when he died. I wept because I had not been able to save him. I wept for the pain of his sisters and his friends. I wept.

In his book, The Prophetic Imagination, Walter Brueggemann states that tears and mourning are acts of prophetic criticism, because they emphatically declare that all is not right with the world. Something has happened that should not have happened, and tears are our acknowledgement of that. They are the starting point from which we must travel on our search for hope. And that hope, though hidden in the most unlikely places, still remains.

I know Jeferson was washed in the blood of the Lamb. And I cling to the promise for him:

Jeferson is before the throne of God and serves Him day and night in His temple; and He who sits on the throne will spread His tent over Jeferson. Never again will Jeferson hunger; never again will Jeferson thirst. The sun will not beat upon Him, nor any scorching heat. For the Lamb at the center of the throne will be his shepherd; He will lead Jeferson to springs of living water. And God will wipe away every tear from his eyes (adapted from Revelation 7).

I know that one day, I will see him again. But not yet. There is still much to do.

Ben has serves among youth who live and work on the street in Rio. He is the Servant Team Coordinator. Please pray for our Rio staff, they live in dangerous “red zones,” drug war zones where they witness much violence and experience much loss.

A Poem for Jeferson, by Rich Nichols

In the madrugada hours
An ambush on the morro of Quitungo
Taken by armed banditos
Humiliated, ridiculed and tortured
Murdered over opposing drug factions

His body pierced by the bullets
His blood spilled on the ground
The rejected son, the lonely child
Dumped in the back of a truck
Buried to be remembered no more

In the twilight hours
An ambush in the garden of Gethsemane
Captured by armed soldiers
Mocked in trial, abandoned by friends
Flogged and hung on a cross
Crucified over opposing religious factions

His body pierced by the nails
His blood poured from his side
The Son of Man forsaken by God
Laid in a tomb, the stone rolled shut
Buried to be remembered no more

In the darkness linger confusion and fear
Uncertainties, questions unanswered
Searching, only leading to frustration
Yet in death, life – In pain, hope
In uncertainty, mystery

Tears from the Father, for His Son, for His sons
He calls to the oppressed of the world
Behold my Son!

The Christ of Calvary
Died for the Jeferson of Lapa
The captives of death now freed to life anew
Christ no longer bound by the grave
Risen to be remembered forevermore.

Rich and his wife, Rebecca, are the Rio Field Directors.