When I Least Expected It

Before the beginning of the Race, I found myself wishing I could speak Spanish. ‘It would make this trip so much easier. What’s the point of me going when I can’t even communicate with the people I’ll be meeting?’ 

Then we were on the Race. In Honduras. Watching my squad mate, Josh, who speaks Spanish fluently, communicate with the people on the mountain, developing solid relationships and getting to have more-than-surface-level conversations, made me crave the language of Spanish even more than I initially thought. 

‘God, please, place a supernatural understanding of Spanish in me,’ I prayed. ‘Allow me to suddenly understand and be able to witness to people.’ Regularly checking myself to make sure that this wasn’t coming from a place of pride, I continued to play fervently for the understanding of Spanish. 

And I’ve picked up bits and pieces. Telling people the Gospel isn’t a level of Spanish I’ve unlocked quite yet, but only having started learning Spanish since January, I can make some solid conversation. 

This, though, was something different. 

Our first night in this hostel in Panama, I turned on some Spanish worship music as I began cooking dinner. My teammate and beloved SQL, Madison, walked by and I grabbed her arm. 

“Pray I can speak Spanish,” I whispered to her. 

And would you listen to this: I could. 

I was in the kitchen of our hostel the next day, mincing garlic to throw into a heated pan. A man walks in and begins washing his hands. He either spoke Spanish or English. His wavy dark hair and café-con-leche-colored skin proved he was not one of the Germans that were staying at the hostel, so I could rule that out.

“Looks yummy,” he says, nodding to my garlic. 

Yep. Spanish.

“Thanks,” I smile back.

“What’s it for?” 

“The food over there,” I gestured to the bowl of chicken and pasta sitting beside the skillet. 

“Ah nice,” he said, washing his mango and grabbing a knife. “What’s your name?”

“Sarah,” I said, walking over and sliding the garlic into the pan. As garlic met the hot oil, his eyes lit up. 

“Sarah!” he said. “Do you know where your name comes from?”

“Yes, it’s Biblical.” I said, eyeing him curiously. The only people I had encountered in this hostel were Atheists. 

“Yes!” he gasped. “The wife of Abraham.”

“Yes,” I gasped back. We stared at each other for a brief moment, runny mango and spatula in hands. “Are you a Christian?”

“I am…”

“No way. You’re serious?”

“Yes! Are you?”

“Yes– In fact, I’m a missionary!” I squealed, stirring my garlic. “I have a team here with me but they just left for a coffee shop. There’s five of us.” 

We looked at each other with astonishment. 

“That’s crazy– you don’t meet a lot of Christians here,” he said. 

“I know,” I said, still amazed. 

“Where are you from?” 

“The United States. Do you live here?” 

“Yes. Well, not here here, like the hostel, but here, in Panama City.” 

He explained that he had a friend from Missouri that taught him very little English who had worked with an organization called Hands of Hope. He had been wanting to learn more English, “but I know I need to practice more. I keep telling myself, ‘Gabriel*, you need to practice more.” 

I looked down at my chicken. ‘I can understand him perfectly. Holy Spirit– keep doin’ whatcha doin’. Oh my gosh.’ 

“Me too, me too,” I laughed. “I only started learning Spanish since the beginning of the year.” 

His eyes shot up from the mango he was cutting into a blender. “Since January?! That’s not long at all, but your Spanish is incredible– I can understand you perfectly. My English is terrible– I can understand it well, but I can’t speak it. You speak such good Spanish for only having learned it this year. Keep it up!”

And I realized: my Spanish wasn’t broken at all. I was speaking perfect Spanish. My grammar was correct. My vocabulary hadn’t failed me yet. Even my articles were what they needed to be.

What. The. Heck. Was. Going. On.

Eventually, we ended conversation as both our meal preparations came to a close, and while we didn’t eat lunch together (much to my regret), it’s a small hostel. Maybe I’ll see him again.

Team Daughters of Zion has been in Panama on our own for almost two full days, and the ways that God has showed up and showed off– Phew, guys. It’s legitimately overwhelming. I tell this story to brag on the Holy Spirit. He didn’t need to help me– I’ve figured out enough Spanish (still, all glory to God for rapid comprehension) I could have told him most of what I said in grammatically incorrect sentences. But I didn’t. Maybe He just wanted us to feel less alone, so we talked effectively. Maybe there was something that I said that encouraged Gabriel, and he left with a little more faith than he had twenty minutes prior. If not any of that, then for me: to know that I’m a working vessel of the Spirit. The Lord saw me in that moment. Months of asking for a supernatural understanding coming to full fruition. The Lord will give you the desires of your heart when we seek Him first and foremost. And He does it when we least expect it: not on the dirty streets of the Dominican Republic, but in the working kitchen of a wondrous hostel. 

All glory be to Christ. 

*named changed for privacy reasons