THIS CHURCH, WING OF LIGHT OUTSTRETCHED OVER STREETS AND TOWNS,
THIS CHURCH EXTENDS BEYOND ITS WALLS, ITS ROLL OF MEMBERS, MEETING TIMES, TO SHELTER AND GUIDE ALL WHO'VE EVER ENTERED,
ALL WHO MIGHT DRIVE BY,
ANYONE WHOSE THOUGHT IS TOUCHED, UPLIFTED
WITHOUT EVEN KNOWING WHY.
One of the things I have loved doing here in Francistown is visiting the sick and homebound every week. Some are deaf or blind or both. Some are elderly and afflicted with pain. Some are young. But all can no longer bring themselves to the church, so the Church must come to them. A couple of weeks ago, Fr. Sylvester knocked on my door very early in the morning. He told me that Sister Wivine (who I accompany to visit the sick) was feeling ill herself and that I would need to visit the sick alone. He told me that he had asked one of the parishioners to lend me her car (since it is an automatic) and that one of the older ladies who also goes with Sister Wivine to visit the sick would go with me to give me directions. Of course I felt a little anxious. Not only would I be driving in a city I don't know (and on the opposite side of the road sitting on the opposite side of the car), but I would be taking communion to people whose language I can't speak. But ministry beckoned, and of course, I said it would be no problem.
Driving was a hoot. I was a little nervous at first because I had to keep remembering to turn onto the left side of the street, and I kept hitting the windshield wipers instead of the blinkers. Once I got a hang of the turns and the roundabouts, it actually was a pretty fun experience.
I expressed to the lady who was with me that I felt bad that I couldn't speak seTswana. She told me not to worry and to just do the services in English; the people would follow along as best as they could. That didn't sit right with me. For most of them, this is their only opportunity each week to pray in community and receive the sacraments. I couldn't help but feel I was robbing them of the experience by praying in English. As we pulled up to the first house, I made my decision: I would read the prayers in seTswana and do my best. My insecure self expected laughs or at least giggles at my attempt to pray in seTswana. There was nothing of the sort. Where I stumbled, the people helped me, and in the end, they smiled and thanked me. "Ke a leboga, rara. Thank you." The lady who went with me was so encouraging: "You are really trying. You are becoming a seTswana! That is wonderful!" she kept saying. Of course it would have been the same Jesus, the same sacrament, regardless of whether it was in English or seTswana. But somehow, it feels like it wouldn't have been prayer. It would have just been me speaking the words and them listening. Instead, we prayed together.
This experience made me think of the great debate of language in the US and how impatient we get with people who can't speak English. I thought of all the times I got annoyed because I couldn't understand someone or because I thought they were being inconsiderate and disrespectful by wanting to speak their native language. God hears all of our languages. God speaks to us in all of our languages. Whether we say God, or Modimo, or Dios, or Diyos, or Deus, we are all children calling to our one Father. How beautiful is that?! I am proud of my culture and my language, but I hope this experience has taught me to be patient and understanding. To be encouraging to those who are trying, just as they were patient and encouraging to me here. I'll be starting Spanish in the fall...with a renewed sense of why.
The Lord's Prayer in seTswana:
Rara wa rona yo o kwa legodimong
leina la gago a le itshepisiwe;
puso ya gago a e tle;
thato ya gago a e dirwe mo lefatsheng
jaaka kwa legodimong.
O re fe gompieno bogobe jwa rona jwa malatsi;
o re itshwarele dibe tsa rona
jaaka le rona re itshwarela ba ba re leofetsheng;
o se ka wa re isa mo thaelong
mme o re golole mo bosuleng. Amen!
