La Hermosa Aventura / The Beautiful Adventure

I woke up on Sunday morning ready for mi gran aventura, a visit to a Spanish-speaking church on the other side of town. Though I felt a bit nervous about meeting so many strangers, I was mainly excited. Regarding myself in the bathroom mirror, though, I sighed heavily over the black eye I had given myself on Christmas Eve.

What would people think? If they had my vivid imagination, they might think that I was dragging myself to church after being battered in a domestic dispute. I'm not sure why I felt so embarrassed over that hypothetical assumption; if I ever met someone who'd gone through that, my reaction would be compassion and not judgment.

I've had to explain the eye a lot of times in the last two weeks, but that's because I've been around people who know me well enough to ask, and well enough to believe my bizarre, but true explanation: For some inexplicable reason, I shut my head in my car's passenger door. Once I had stopped seeing stars, I tried to piece together how it happened, but I couldn't make sense of it. Here's what I do know.

After parking my car in the garage, I went back outside and pulled in my empty trash bins. Then, in the dim light of the one remaining functional fluorescent bulb, I quickly opened the door to retrieve some books I'd left in the passenger seat. Backing away from the car with my precarious armload, I awkwardly slammed the door with my right hand, and the metal corner connected solidly with my left temple.

After dropping the books, I clung to the passenger seat's plastic seat belt loop with one hand and covered my eye with the other one. "Oohhh.... Nnnnnh," I moaned as tears gathered in both eyes. "Ow ow ow!" I whined.

When I finally walked inside, I was surprised to find blood on my hand. Would I need stitches? I peered into the mirror in my dining area. No, the only mark was a small, raised lump that was oozing blood. I quickly made an ice pack and pressed it gingerly against my throbbing temple. Good thing I missed my eye, I thought. That could have given me a nasty shiner!



I soon learned that black eyes can develop over the course of days. (Did you know that?) I woke up on Christmas day with a small, purple bruise on the outer corner of each eyelid. Luckily, it was on the same side as the thick swoop of hair that usually covers part of my eye. If you weren't looking for it, you might not even know it was there.

Indeed, when I saw my family that evening, I had to point out the bruise to them. By the next day, though, the bruising had spread to the center of each eyelid and was very difficult to miss.

Now, six days after my injury, I knew that anyone who looked at me straight on would surely notice my black eye before they noticed anything else. Ugh. I knew they would never ask me about it, and I could scarcely introduce myself over and over by saying, "Hola, I'm Sarah and I somehow slammed my own head in a car door." Even if I could, I wasn't sure how to say that in Spanish.

I needn't have worried about the Spanish. To both my relief and my disappointment, virtually everyone I met at the church spoke English. I wanted to ask them to speak Spanish, but it was so much easier for all of us to use English. I did use my Spanish to explain my purpose for visiting: "Los padres de mis estudiantes hablan español. Por eso, necesito aprender. (My students' parents speak Spanish. For this reason, I need to learn.)"

I quickly forgot all about my eye. The church was delightful. It's very small, just one room plus a narrow entryway. It was nearly full, with perhaps 75 people of various ages, all Hispanic. I was definitely the only white person.

Images used with pastor's permission

Of course I knew beforehand that these were not really strangers, but I did not expect to feel literally like a sister. Each person who greeted me, whether male or female, young or old, said the same thing, often in delightfully accented English: "This is your home." Most of them either hugged me, kissed me, or took my hand in both of theirs. It reminded me very much of the affection I experienced in Costa Rica this past summer.

A kind, strikingly beautiful young woman sat next to me. "I'm Edna," she said. "I will try to help you understand the sermon."

"Thank you," I replied, returning her hug. "I understand some Spanish. I can read, write, and speak it, but I have a lot of trouble understanding it. I need more practice."

She smiled. "Here they usually speak very fast," she said. Boy, was she not kidding! But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I loved the passion and fervor of the worship. The shouting and clapping reminded me of the Pentecostal churches I grew up in.

Thanks to my new friend Darwin, who was running the slide show, I was able to understand almost 100 percent of the words to the songs even though most were unfamiliar to me. I felt both pleased with myself for remembering or deciphering so many words, and thrilled to be worshiping God in a different language. Again, I marveled at how we serve the same God all over the world, and he is Padre Celestial (Heavenly Father) to all of us.

Any illusions I'd had of being nearly fluent were dashed when the pastor stepped up to the mic. He spoke faster and faster, and louder and louder, the more excited he got about... I don't know. Something about God, I'm sure! I could catch a word I recognized here and there, but without understanding the context, I had no clue what he was talking about. The only exception was when he was quoting or reading from the Bible; I could often recognize entire verses.

I don't know how it could be humanly possible to both comprehend that rapid speech and repeat it in another language without falling hopelessly behind, but Edna made a valiant effort. She had to use a pretty loud voice in order to be heard over the pastor, and I was distracted by worries that we would be a distraction to the people around us. At my own church, I get really frustrated when people are talking during the sermon, even if they are only whispering.

I did understand enough of the sermon to give my visit spiritual value in addition to the language practice. I also greatly enjoyed meeting all of Darwin's friends. When they invited me to return to the special New Year's Eve service the next evening, I readily accepted. Allyson would be with her dad, and my only plans had been to watch Netflix in fluffy pajama pants. Worshiping God with new friends sounded a lot more festive even if it would keep me up past my bedtime.

I arrived the next evening around 9:02, two minutes late, but I was actually one of the first ones there. I had time to visit with Darwin and a kind man named Juan before the festivities began around 9:35.

My favorite part of the worship service was the grace and pageantry of the dancing. Women and girls of various ages wore shiny vests of metallic fabric over their ivory dresses and flowing pants. They wove patterns in the air with long white ribbons and waved colorful banners overhead while they danced. The youngest dancer looked about 7 years old, and her graceful movements and sweet smile brought tears to my eyes.

Since the lovely Edna was one of the dancers, I figured I'd get a chance to practice my listening skills that night. At the beginning of the short sermon, a kind woman named Leslie started to translate for me, but I told her a little fib: "I think I've got it. I'll ask you if I have questions."

I focused mightily on Pastor Carlos's words, which seemed a little slower this time. (Maybe that was for my benefit.) I found that I could comprehend a quarter to a third of what he said, but again the lack of context made it difficult to put together the big picture. What frustrated me the most was that I missed all but one of the jokes. I think he must be very witty based on the frequent laughter that broke out around me, but all I could do was press my lips into a sheepish smile.

I wasn't too alarmed at my lack of comprehension. When there are points God wants me to hear, I know He helps me understand. The rest, He can tell me at my regular church or during my private Bible study. And I trust that I will understand more and more if I keep trying.

After a raucous countdown, everyone exchanged hugs and "Happy New Year" greetings in English. I was forgotten for a minute, but then I must have received 30 hugs and half that many kisses. It was wonderful.

The best part was coffee and sweet breads after the service. I had my first champurrado, a Mexican drink similar to hot chocolate, but much better. Darwin told me it contains masa, a very finely ground corn flour. I greatly enjoyed chatting with Leslie about how she learned English after immigrating from Guatemala to California in her teens. She recommends watching cartoons and listening to Spanish radio.

I used to assume that most of the people I think of as Hispanic come from our nearest neighbor, Mexico. Actually, they come from all over Central America. At Palabra Viva, I met people from El Salvador, Guatemala, Honduras, Mexico, and Puerto Rico. I didn't meet anyone from Costa Rica, but I bet there could be people from there, too.

At 12:45, I bid everyone a reluctant good night. "So soon?" Darwin asked.

"I'm old. Sometimes I have trouble sleeping," I replied. "If I get home too late I won't be able to sleep because I'll be afraid that I can't sleep. But I'll be back for Bible study on Wednesday."

On that third visit, I was happy to find that I understood just a little bit more of the sermon. I was moved by the message that we have not because we ask not. One of the things I want for 2019 is to be bolder in making requests of God. As Pastor Carlos said, we have a Father who delights in giving us good gifts, and when His word remains in us, we can ask whatever we wish, and it will be given to us (John 15). This is what God wants for us, and it brings Him glory.

The most entertaining part of my visit on Wednesday was singing one of my favorite worship songs. I recognized the melody immediately and expected that my familiarity with the song would make it even easier to understand the words on the screen. It wasn't true, though. I found it impossible to think of the English words while seeing, hearing, and singing the Spanish words. It's like trying to remember one song when a different song is playing.

Familiar or no, I had no difficulty understanding the lyrics until we came to this slide:

Al que es digno
Incomparable
Poderoso
El Gran Yo Soy

The first three lines were easy-peasy : The one who is worthy / incomparable (duh!) / powerful

But what could that last line mean?

The... big or great?... I am?

I was stumped. I was positive that yo soy means "I am." Why would we switch from singing about God to singing about ourselves? And it wasn't even a complete thought. The great what?  I am what?

That line drove me nuts every time it came up, on multiple slides. What on earth did it mean, and why couldn't I figure it out?

About the fifth time I saw it, we came to the part I love most in that song, a triumphant declaration that we shout as much as sing.

First we sang this:

Tiembla ante ti la tierra - The earth trembles before you
Demonios huyen ya  - Demons run away
Al mencionar tu nombre - At the mention of your name
Rey de majestad - King of majesty

And then this, the part that always makes my heart pound:

No hay poder infernal - There is no power from hell
Que pueda resistir - That can resist
Ante el poder y la presencia del…  - Before the power and the presence of the... 

Here is the shout:

Gran Yo Soy
El Gran Yo Soy
Gran Yo Soy

I laughed out loud when I finally understood. Of course! "The Great I Am." That is the name that God revealed to Abraham; I think that was the first time He ever told a human one of his names. It is also the way Jesus identified himself to the religious leaders who opposed him. "Before Abraham was, I AM."

I sang at the top of my lungs to El Gran Yo Soy. More than ever, I felt that I could be taken up to heaven at any moment. In fact, I sort of felt that I was in heaven, with believers from all over the world and all across time.

Singing with my new brothers and sisters to the God who transcends culture and time was one of the most thrilling things I have ever done. It helps me to understand that although I find joy in experiencing a different culture, we are all part of a bigger culture. We are one, as Jesus and the Father are one.

¡Que hermosa aventura! What a beautiful adventure!

P.S. While I was writing this entry, a woman from the church called to see if I had any questions or prayer requests. I thought that took a lot of courage, and I look forward to getting to know her better.