Straight Talk

Being in a foreign country makes me feel very fragile, helpless, and human. For someone who’s been told all his life that he can do anything he puts his mind to, it’s a good but tough lesson to learn that I have my limits. I’m being humbled very much.

For instance, when I try to converse in Spanish, I’m sure I sound to native speakers more like a crazed pagan with Turretts than a sane and healthy Christian. Because of the all too-slowly dissolving language barrier, I’m holding on to many un-communicated thoughts in my mind like my dad holds on to the oversized and unwanted zucchinis in his August garden.

I often feel like a helpless fool, tripping over pronouns and conjugated verbs and my very own tongue (who seems to have gained some measure of independence in this foreign land). No longer does my tongue listen obediently when I try to say something smart. Instead, he now squeaks and squabbles and hobbles and does his best to make a fool out of me. I’m certain my tongue is not Spanish. Rather, he’s got to be Hungarian, German, or Irish just like me, because he’s very stubborn and is obstinately taking his time in adapting to the new life here.

Already, I’ve said plenty of things in Spanish that I look forward to laughing about in a few years. When I was in the first grade class sharing about my favorite food, for example, I told them I like ensalada taco, taco salad. Unfortunately for the Paraguayan pupils, they were unfamiliar with the Mexican taco tradition and thought I meant shoe heels salad, the literal translation of ensalada taco. They got a good laugh from it.

Another Spanish-blooper moment, shared with a young lady from the church in a much more serious conversation, was also a much more embarrassing mistake. She asked how my transition to life and to the church here was going, and I responded as best I could that the church was amazing and welcoming me with open arms. The trouble was that I accidentally substituted the Spanish word for “legs” when I meant to say “arms.” I very quickly realized my mistake and profusely apologized for what I said. She understood that I was a bit confused with my words and was very gracious in correcting me, but it still didn’t help the embarrassment of the whole thing.

Here, I am no longer the eloquent and intelligent fellow that I am in English-speaking lands. My trendy idol of speech, built from flashy smart words and large clever turns of phrase, has been smashed to smithereens by the blunt and often traumatic force of this new language. I know neither the tongues of men nor angels in Spanish, but praise God that, as 1 Corinthians 13 suggests, this isn’t the most important thing. Although my speech in Spanish isn’t worth anything, I am getting to know better the privilege and opportunity of sharing in the love of God, which is worth everything. It’s a love that I’ve felt through all the awkward times when I stand alone, when my tongue fails me and I can no longer speak. Wonderfully, it’s a love that is stable and strong and persists. When all my showy plastic English words cease in silence, this life-giving love springs from within and speaks something different and true. For me, el amor de Dios, the love of God, gives the grace to “bear all things, believe all things, hope all things, (and) endure all things,” even when my words cannot.