matter. It would be necessary to contact Brasilia, the nation’s capital, which could take several weeks. We just had two days to make the trip. All of my pleading was of no avail. I told the official I was a former missionary with the Indians and was part of the group that had made the first contact with them. The official said his father also had been in the same area years ago. I asked his father’s name, and when he told me, I asked the official how old he was. Then I asked, “Did your mother have a hard time bringing you into this world?” He said, “Yes, in fact, my mother nearly died.” I answered, “My wife brought you into this world and saved your mother’s life. You were a breech baby and there wasn’t a doctor around for hundreds of miles.” A big smile came on the official’s face and he said, “Look, you just go ahead, and I’ll be responsible for whatever happens. Have a good trip.’’ When we touched down at the little airstrip by the Xavante village, my heart pounded with anticipation. Would there be anyone I knew? Would anyone remember me? I didn’t have to wait long for the answer. I had no sooner stepped out of the plane, when I heard some of the older men yelling, “Aroldo, Aroldo.” I was among friends! The next half hour was spent being introduced to all the new members of the village. Many years had passed, and there were many new faces. But instead of being met by hatred and threats, I was greeted with love, smiles, and embraces. At sundown, we went to the little church - really just a mud hut where the villagers met for worship services. Years had gone by since the last missionary was asked to leave and, though the Xavantes had been on their own, God had kept them. A Xavante elder stood up to lead the song
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