"Excuse me, sir," I spoke to the man pushing his buggy in the dairy aisle. "I love languages and I couldn't help but overhear you folks," I said. "What language were you speaking?"
I admit a wave of embarrassment swept over me when they both smiled and he responded, "it was French". "French," I said to myself, "why didn't I know that? I studied that language for years!".
I've put it down to the possibility that they spoke a slightly different dialect or, as a last resort, to the fact that my hearing isn't quite as good as it once was. In any case I put on a great show and we conversed for a few minutes en ´Ú°ù²¹²Ôç²¹¾±²õ. It felt good.
Earlier this morning I'd greeted a member of our congregation in my limited German vocabulary. We chatted for a while and I felt rather pleased with myself that although English is my mother tongue, I'm not totally restricted to that mode of communication. As I've already stated, I truly enjoy listening to languages; understanding everything that is being said doesn't even matter that much because no translation is required to grasp the power of a smile or the pain of shattered dreams.
In a world where technology facilitates global communication, too many voices go unheard; disguised as successful and in control, too many broken hearts struggle in silence. No matter what the language, hurting people need someone to love them unconditionally.
When I was growing up the message of the church I attended was that God was primarily interested in my "being good" and my job was to live up to that criteria. Thankfully I've learned that the central message of the gospel, in any language, is that God so loved the world, He sent Jesus Christ to impart the message of salvation.
