In your love, my salvation lies in your love

I've had so many memories creeping into my thoughts lately. Are they important to record? Sometimes I find myself wanting to chronicle my stream of consciousness consistently so I can go through it later and connect the dots (nothing gets crossed out) and see what the picture is stretched out in the sky of my mind. I was remembering a trailer park I used to tract with Hermana Gaw on Sunday evenings in Katy. Nights there were so thick black because no one ever turned their porch lights on. We always talked to a number of men in various stages of intoxication. Some of them were so tender with us and asked if God would forgive them. Others felt compelled to explain their entire life story and philosophies on the world. (Someone very wise once told me that anyone inebriated is automatically attracted to the missionaries. Truedat!)

I was still green teetering on anxiety and choking out my testimony in feeble Spanish. We taught two men in a tool shed; they stopped their work and pulled out stools for us and sat on the floor at our feet. The wind whistled through the walls and I remember feeling so exhausted and hurt. Gaw tried to share a scripture and they explained that they couldn't read. She and I looked at each other weary. I shivered. For some reason the first lesson that night didn't seem to fit, it was too heavy for them, so we sang Accompaname (Abide with me!). That song cut into my heart and embraced me so much as a missionary because it's the song of a frightened child calling out--the night is coming, I'm afraid, please stay with me. I'm incompetent and awkward and I can't express myself. Please love me anyway, please help me shoulder these hard things. Please keep me close to You. I felt tears stinging my eyes and I promise I felt warm arms around me right then, gentleness and light. I remember thinking the shed must be glowing, such a brightness crept in. "En las tieneblas accompaname..." The two men we were teaching had tears glinting in their eyes as well. "Pero ustedes cantan como angeles!" They cried, You sing like angels. The only obvious thing to do was testify of the Savior. This feeling is real, He loves you. If you are patient we can explain our message, it is of Him and it will bring you joy. I remember feeling my heart unburdened as I spoke of glad tidings in less-halting Spanish. The words were there hanging in my mind like ripe fruit and I spoke them.

I think this came to my mind because I had an experience this week where I was struggling to express myself. I am very exigente (demanding) and a little snotty about my Spanish. It kills me whenever I mess up. In this situation last week I felt intimidated and embarrassed of my Spanish and I chose to harden my heart and become prideful and sullen and annoyed at myself instead of being patient and letting it come. Whenever I did that as a missionary, my Spanish became even more mangled and I lost the words. Sometimes I wonder if I really know this language at all or if "here by the grace of God go I"--if it's not a crystallized skill but the gift of tongues still in effect. I think speaking Spanish is like the Liahona for me--it stops working as well when I doubt or become prideful. And its main purpose is to edify and to testify of Christ. On my mission a very dear friend wrote me something simple but profound that always knocks my perspective back into place with regards to Spanish. He said, "The thing about languages is...there's always more you can learn." I LOVE that because it neither extols me falsely for my accomplishments nor allows me to sulk over my imperfections. It's inspirational, a reminder that there is always more terrain to climb. That's true with anything we "master," we never really arrive anywhere, but keep climbing. I love the gospel of Jesus Christ and continually seeking more light and truth. When I fall back a little I lose so much ground. If I am really bound for the promised land I need to understand that it will be a hard climb, and I know there will be times when I need to force myself to stay humble and cry out for that brightness I felt that night in the tool shed. I know He will always come to us.