Port of Two Brothers by Paul Schlener is the story of two brothers and their families who went out as pioneer missionaries under ABWE on the Amazon River in Brazil in the 1950s. They had to name the piece of land when they bought it, and “Port of Two Brothers” seemed the most natural name. Paul spent all of his missionary career in Brazil,. John had to leave earlier due to health.

I am grateful for the publisher who tapped Paul on the shoulder after church one day to tell him that his experiences should be in print. Though I love the “classic” missionary books, I’ve long been an advocate of modern-day missionaries writing their stories as well, to show that God still does work through willing vessels to accomplish His will, and His power and grace are the same as they have ever been.

Paul writes about the details of establishing a pioneer work in a primitive area realistically though uncomplainingly. He and John found themselves many times facing experiences outside the primary missionary tasks of preaching, teaching, and discipling that they were not prepared for, from boat repairs to building to establishing a school to providing medical aid, but in each situation they sought the Lord, got the best information they could, and plunged ahead.

Humor is sprinkled liberally throughout.  His account of his first experience pulling teeth is hilarious to read, though I am sure it was not so funny at the time. He had wanted to avoid dentistry, but when a dentist gave him unsought books and equipment, and he saw the people in such dire need, he felt he really had no choice but to do what he could.

But more important than the needed physical help the brothers were enabled to provide was the light of the gospel they brought. What a thrill and a blessing to read of those who believed and whose lives were changed. In one instance, two visiting preachers wanted to observe a Brazilian festa. Neither the missionaries nor the national Christians thought this was a good idea, but the visitors pressed, so they worked out the details to go. The ritual “celebrating” a young girl’s coming to the full responsibilities of womanhood at puberty was macabre and ghastly, and the Christians could not even stay for the worst of it. Yet within twenty years some of those involved in that ritual had become believers. As Paul visited the same village, he wrote:

I saw again the transforming power of God in the lives of these people. I could never refer to them as uncivilized, for their lives were on a far higher spiritual and moral plane than many people educated and steeped in an industrial society.

My thoughts went back to the drunken orgy held in this place 20 years ago. No one could read. There were no Bibles, no Christians, no knowledge of God and His plan of salvation; there existed only fear, superstition, witchcraft, knife fights, and drunkenness. I lamented that Jessie (his wife) wasn’t with me to see this; John would have appreciated it as well.

I approached the little table and asked Franciso to lead in another hymn while I gathered my thoughts. I still have the little index card with my few notes on the first sentence of Psalm 23: “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.” They listened as I made it through the short message without choking up.

That’s what it’s all about.

(This review will be linked to Semicolon’s Saturday Review of Books.)