Though his left eye is clouded and never quite in sync with the right, Sebastião sees things very clearly. He and his wife Hilda live on an island in the middle of the Amazon River, in the little fishing village of São Miguel. They have plenty of fruit, plenty of fish, and plenty of slippery, bright-eyed kids. (Seven, I think.) But most of all, they have plenty of faith.

Sebastião and Hilda welcomed us into their home as though we were royalty, shooing out the children so that we could hang our hammocks in their one and only bedroom. Like other houses along the shore, theirs is raised on pilings — rough-hewn poles sunk into sand. Thus, the floor of their house sits about two meters off the ground.

As we climbed the steps in back and entered the kitchen, I noticed that the wooden floor and walls leaked sunlight between the boards and the metal roof was pocked and streaked with rust. While Betty hung the hammocks, I poked my head out the rough-cut window and took a look around. With the rainy season only half-way through, the river was already slipping up around the house, creating little islands of sand and grass. On these the chickens were nervously congregating, accompanied by a pair of dull orange pigs and a dog that hadn't tasted protein in months.

Sebastião says that come Monday he'll be moving the livestock — including his horse, Canela — to higher ground. By the end of the month the river will be a meter deep around the house, cutting them off from their neighbors. At that point they'll have only two ways out: by canoe, which can be conveniently tied off at the back door, or by catwalk. The catwalk (suitably named, I think) is a rickety assembly of elevated boards and stakes that winds its way inland, through the papaya trees, past the latrine, to higher ground.

That night, after a fine meal of peacock bass (tucunaré), we turned in early. Despite the mosquitoes, I slept fine for a while, until — sometime after midnight — nature called.

I'm here to tell you, old friend, that rousting yourself out of your hammock in the middle of the night to use that latrine is like riding Splash Mountain in the dark. Armed only with a flashlight, a roll of toilet paper and the urge to go, I discovered that the catwalk was only two boards wide and sagging under my weight. All around me was the pitch black expanse of the marsh and the river beyond, filled with all sorts of eerie noises. How could I help but wonder, in such a wild place, if maybe a gator or snake wasn't lurking up ahead? I began humming to myself — not a good sign — and to imagine strange and embarrassing epitaphs:

Gator got him
Near the outhouse

On the whole, I think constipation might be easier....

* * *

We were guests of honor the following night at the Paz Church. Though it was raining, the little building was jammed with about 50 adults and too many kids to count. Many of them had walked or paddled for miles to be there, and would walk or paddle home again. We were told that about 80 percent of the adults in São Miguel are born-again Christians and that most of them are members of the Paz Church.

Since there's no electricity in the village, we met by candlelight. The cross beams above us were festooned with candles of every sort. White candles and blue, some old and some new. Red candles and brown. Stubby yellow candles that sputtered and dripped. It was a dazzling display of flames and shadows.

Sebastião and Hilda showed us to the front of the church, where a bench had been reserved for us.

Being a white-skinned gringo who speaks clumsy Portuguese and is taller than everyone else, it was easy for me to be inconspicuous.

We sang and sang — praises to the Lord — and danced some too, led by a nimble and happy guitarist. That the boy was able to get such joyous music out of such a lousy old guitar was proof that the Holy Spirit felt right at home.

Sebastião shared a short message from the Word, which was followed by lots and lots of prayer.

Can you guess, perhaps, the focus of their prayers?

Before you answer, I want to remind you that their village has no electricity, no running water, no municipal sewage system and no schools beyond the fourth grade.

Wait! Don't answer yet. Let me just add that the village has no doctor, no dentist, and no drug store, and is six hours by boat from any place that does.

Wait! The list goes on. The people of São Miguel have no retirement plans, no health insurance, no cars, no refrigerators, no telephones, no TVs, no iPods, no food pantries, and no idea what they're going to eat tomorrow if the fishing doesn't go well tonight.

You get the idea.

So what do you suppose they were praying for?

The answer: diesel fuel. Diesel fuel for their little mission boat — called the Journey of Faith — so they could carry the Gospel to a neighboring island, where the people had never heard about Jesus.

By the time the service was over, Betty and I were so deeply humbled that we could scarcely speak. We managed just enough words to thank them for their kindness, to bless them, and to assure them that the tears in our eyes were from joy, not sorrow. Which wasn't altogether true.

Sebastião found me outside, alone with my thoughts. The rain had stopped. A mighty chorus of bullfrogs was singing along the river.

"You liked the service OK?" he asked.

"It was beautiful," I said. "I'll never forget it. Ever."

Above us the clouds were scudding off to the west and a million stars were out.

"What are the people like where you come from?" Sebastião asked.

"The United States you mean?"

"Yes."

"Well, before we came here, we lived in New England," I explained.

"And are the people of New England people of great faith?" he wondered.

I felt as if my heart were being squeezed by a pair of invisible hands. "No."

He stepped in a little closer, the way Brazilians do, and touched me on my arm. "No faith in God?"

The pressure on my heart was pushing tears out the corners of my eyes. "Not really," I admitted. "Not many."

His good right eye strayed into the heavens above, looking for answers. By and by his left eye followed it up. "If not in God, where do they put their faith?"

I shook my head. "I don't know. In themselves I guess. In their stuff."

He cocked his head in a peculiar way. "Stuff?"

I shrugged. "Money. Cars. You know ... stuff."

A long moment of silence passed, with only the bullfrogs sounding. Then he said, "But it all goes back to dust."

"Yes."

Revelation bloomed across his face, then irony. "So we're the wealthy ones!" he laughed.

"Yes. You're the wealthy ones," I agreed. "Richer than Bill Gates and Warren Buffet combined."

He wasn't familiar with the names, but seemed to catch my drift. "If you should ever go back to New England," he said, "tell them we're praying for them. That they might become people of faith."

Like I said, here's a man who sees things very clearly.