Found in Translation

by Roger Bruner

  I giggled to myself. What kind of counter did God intend for us to use on those four hundred and ninety offenses? Probably just something that registered zero or one. One meant “not forgiven.” Zero was “forgiven.” Did the human side of Jesus have to struggle with forgiveness? I had to believe He did, and I worshiped as I considered that mystery.

  Whether I’d helped anyone in Santa María or not, this trip had done more for me than I could comprehend. I’d heard other people—kids and adults—talk about mission trips they’d gone on. Almost invariably they’d said, “I went to be a blessing, but I came away blessed. I’m different now. I’ll never be the same again.”

  How true that had been for me—infinitely more than any other mission trip I’d ever been on.

  I didn’t realize I’d gotten lost in thought until Anjelita stopped and I kept going. The blanket pulled so taut that two-thirds of the flowers spilled, and I plowed straight into Geoff.

  I’d never noticed how tall he was. Of course, everyone was taller than me, but he was a skyscraper now compared to single-story me. I thought guys his age weren’t supposed to grow more, especially in the short time we’d been in Santa María.

  I looked into his eyes, and they looked clearer and more carefree than I’d ever seen. Maybe not carefree, but … forgiven.

  On his way to pack, he’d looked so burdened down. Maybe I’d never seen him look any other way. I’d never seen him stand up so straight before. As if he no longer bore the weight of his mask.

  No wonder he looked taller.

  chapter fifty-one

  I sat down on the hard ground in front of the church with the Santa Biblia on my lap, braced my back against the hot building, and prayed my body wouldn’t start aching hours before I finished for the day.

  Geoff had graciously left that spot bare for me. He smiled and gave a thumbs-up when he saw my Bible. I couldn’t believe it. He wasn’t just different from yesterday; he was night-and-day different from earlier this morning. Maybe Rob had explained his change of mind about sending Geoff home.

  My reading spot was several feet from the doorway a steady stream of laborers would soon pass through for water, snacks, and shade. Because they often stayed inside during their breaks, I’d have to project my voice through the open door.

  Only Anjelita would hear every word. If she could stand listening to me butcher her precious heart language for hours at a time, that is.

  Everyone else would hear my reading piecemeal—with a number of pieces missing. I couldn’t imagine what good that would do, but this was God’s project, and my assignment was to obey and leave the results to Him.

  The other team members might think I was crazy, but that didn’t faze me. If they didn’t already know the truth, maybe it’s high time they learned it.

  Although Aleesha knew me better than any other living person but Betsy Jo—parents don’t count because they think they understand more than they do—I didn’t tell her my plans ahead of time. God’s plans, that is. I’d get her reaction later.

  Anjelita plopped down awkwardly at a spot where she could see people coming and going. My back was to the door. I wasn’t sure our positions were the best.

  Where should I begin? Genesis? No. Revelations? Absolutely not, and you know better than to put an s at the end of that name.

  Flipping through the pages, I wondered if I should focus on familiar passages or read a Gospel straight through. Like other Christians who’re willing to admit it, I couldn’t remember the location of most of the passages I loved. Scriptures like John 3:16, the Twenty-third Psalm, and Matthew 28:19-20 were exceptions.

  I felt so dumb, though. I could quote a number of scriptures with some degree of accuracy, but I’d never find them in a Spanish Bible. That would require a major miracle, one I didn’t sense coming.

  Lord? I asked silently.

  You decide, Kim. My Word won’t return to Me void.

  A Gospel, then?

  No response.

  A Gospel seemed a better choice than something I might pick randomly. With my luck—I’ve always hated that word because Christians aren’t dependent on luck—I’d end up spending days reading all the “begats” of the Bible. Even in Spanish, they’d put me to sleep.

  Important stuff, I assumed. Else it wouldn’t be there. But for evangelizing the villagers of Santa María? No way.

  Okay, Kimmy, which Gospel?

  Keeping Anjelita’s attention was so important I rejected the book of John. The “Word” references in that first chapter require care, and I didn’t think she’d find that as appealing as another Gospel.

  On mission trips to the beach, we’d passed out portions of Luke. Someone told me Luke’s Gospel was a great beginning-to-end narrative of Jesus’ life and ministry.

  Besides, Luke included the familiar account of Jesus’ birth, and Anjelita would enjoy that. If my memory served me right, kids loved hearing about babies and other kids. And if I found myself reading “begats,” I’d skip them.

  Looking for the Table of Contents—I wasn’t sure I’d recognize Luke when I saw him—I came across the Introducción. Had to mean “introduction.” Although the page was incomprehensible, it probably explained the Bible’s purpose. That seemed like an appropriate place to start.

  Luke—San Lucas—was easier to identify and locate than I’d expected. It was right between San Marcos and San Juan. I tore a page from my memo book to use as a bookmark.

  Anjelita had started wiggling restlessly as soon as we sat down. I gathered she was impatient for me to start, even though I’d spent only a couple of minutes thumbing through the Bible and making decisions. Calm down, girl. I’ll start now.

  I was nervous—terrified. My tumbling, twisting tongue was almost sure to add to my difficulties. My Georgia drawl might complicate things more by converting single syllables into multiple ones, and I’d probably butcher my efforts further by unintentionally applying my knowledge of French.

  Lord, will anyone understand a word I read?

  Kim, you do your part and I’ll do Mine.

  I was about to begin the introduction when I heard footsteps enter the church. I was set. My first audience was nearby.

  But I couldn’t start. I had to know who was going to hear me. That was the problem with our positions. I scrambled up and motioned for Anjelita to switch places with me. Now I could see who was coming and going and project my reading into the building.

  Without waiting for the first listeners to come out, I started reading aloud.

  “La historia de la Biblia es la historia de Dios creando el mundo y luego haciéndose a sí mismo disponible para la gente de ese mundo. Es una simple línea recta desde el corazón de Dios hacia el nuestro.”

  Oh, man. That didn’t sound the first thing like the Spanish I’d heard the villagers speak daily, and Anjelita’s quizzical expression told me I’d already lost her. But she was quick to make things right—at least for her. She scooted so close to me we shared the same sweat for hours to come.

  Instead of reading to Anjelita, I would read to whoever entered the church, and she would read along silently. Surely some of the words were too big or the ideas too complex for someone Anjelita’s age to comprehend, but I couldn’t help that.

  They were all too complex for me.

  I’d spent four or five excruciating minutes doing my ignorant best to read those first two sentences from the introduction. At that rate, I’d never make it to Lucas.

  What slowed me down more than the page full of unfamiliar words was noting the similarity of certain Spanish and English words. Historia and history, for example.

  But I also found similarities between Spanish and the French I knew so well. Mundo was close enough to monde that it probably meant “world.” I was less certain about gente, which reminded me of gens—people. The capitalization of Dios made it God, especially since the first paragraph of an Introducción to the Santa Biblia would most likely refer to God.

  Okay, Kim, quit wasting time tr
ying to understand what you’re reading. Just read it and pray that somebody can make sense out of it.

  But what chance was there of that? Not even Anjelita could understand my oral Spanish without sitting beside me and reading along.

  I started again, though, and was well into the second sentence of the second paragraph when two team members came out, water still dripping down their chins. They looked like they’d poured some over their heads. I hoped they hadn’t done it inside. Encouraging the villagers to think of the old building as a sacred place was enough of a challenge. Modeling secular behavior inside would confuse the issue.

  Kim, quit searching for distractions.

  We made eye contact. I hoped they wouldn’t think I was ignoring them, but I didn’t have time to socialize. So when they said, “Hi, Kimmy! How’s the arm?” I smiled and wiggled the fingers of my broken arm.

  Losing my place would have been bad news. Everything on the page looked equally alien, especially while resisting the temptation to translate a word here or there. I made a mental note to bring a pencil next time, though, so I could checkmark my current position if someone interrupted me.

  Maybe my viewpoint is a bit extreme, but I’ve never been willing to write in a Bible with a pen, much less a marker appropriate for writing on a purple cast.

  Anjelita must have been an exceptional reader, for her finger reached the end of the introduction minutes before I got there. If Jesus didn’t rapture His Church before I finished the introduction, He would surely do it before I finished San Lucas.

  To keep from boring Anjelita with the introduction she’d already read and appeared to be rereading, I gave up and turned to Lucas. Almost immediately, several villagers came for water.

  “Hi, Delmar. Hi, Basilio,” I said cheerfully, placing my left forefinger at the beginning of the second verse of Luke, chapter 1.

  Anjelita had taught me the names of all the villagers, and she made sure I could pronounce each one correctly. I was the only team member with enough time and inclination to do that. The ability to identify those men, women, boys, and girls individually was important, especially during my evening prayer time. Addressing them by name helped build rapport—even though I couldn’t converse with them.

  Upon hearing their names, Delmar and Basilio stopped in the doorway, turned around, and smiled. “Buenos días, Señorita Kim,” they said almost in unison. Delmar held up one finger to indicate they’d be right back.

  The day was so hot the insects were creeping along like cars in a funeral procession rather than lifting their wings to fly. I wouldn’t have wanted to keep the two men from getting the water and shade they needed.

  I wondered if they would be as receptive to the message of Luke as they were to hearing God’s petite, sometimes willing—yet often wavering—servant speak their names.

  Starting Luke before Delmar and Basilio returned would be counterproductive. For practice, I’d worked my way painfully through a single verse, and I needed a second chance. In the meantime, Anjelita snuggled close, reading silently. When she reached the end of the right-hand page, she reread both pages. I wondered if she might be memorizing some of it.

  I motioned for the two men to sit down when they came out carrying two bottles of water each. Delmar, the more outgoing of the two, sat down facing me with Anjelita to his right, forming a triangle. Basilio remained standing. He wasn’t aloof. Just shy.

  “I’m going to read to you for a while.” I glanced down at my Bible, moved my left index finger back to verse 1, and prayed that my terror wouldn’t show. But the Bible slid from my lap before I could start. Once more, Anjelita’s quick reflexes kept it from landing in the dirt.

  The Bible shook in my hands after I took it from her. Desperate to get the nervousness out of my system, I started acting silly.

  “I’m going to read San Lucas to you—all seventeen pages of him. It’ll take two or three minutes, and every word will be clear to you. That’s a promise.”

  They looked at me with blank faces that grew in wonder when I started giggling at myself. Anjelita stared at me as if to say, “What you’re reading is serious. Why are you laughing about it?”

  Basilio surprised me by smiling first. “San Lucas?”

  At least I’d pronounced those two words correctly. But how could I explain that Lucas was one of the authors of the big book I held firmly on my lap—more firmly now than before? I couldn’t.

  Okay. Enough delays. I had an audience—a real one. I began reading.

  “Habiendo muchos tentado á poner en orden la historia de las cosas que entre nosotros han sido ciertísimas.”

  I stopped reading long enough to see what kind of impression my reading made on the two men. To say they looked horribly puzzled would be a grave understatement.

  Lord, what are You doing? I don ‘t mind making a fool of myself. But if this doesn’t make sense to them, what’s the point? You can help them understand, can’t You? Of course You can. This will be just like Pentecost. I’ll keep reading aloud in mangled Spanish, and You can enable them to hear it correctly. Is that the plan?

  I hadn’t meant to close my eyes, but I’d done it anyhow. And Anjelita—bless her heart—said amen when I opened them.

  Basilio and Delmar still looked lost—more so, if that was possible. Anjelita had intensified their confusion by making them say amen, too, despite their cluelessness about what they were doing. At least Anjelita associated amen with praying.

  Sometimes I thought she understood what prayer was.

  Lord, can’t You use Anjelita as Your mouthpiece? Please? You’ve had Your fun. I’ve tried. I really have. So how about letting Anjelita read Lucas aloud for me? I can sit here and nod authoritatively while Aaron takes over for Moses.

  God answered my prayer with complete silence. I guess that meant no way.

  The two men began asking Anjelita questions, and she must have explained—to the best of her limited understanding—what I was doing. Uh, trying to do.

  How I wished she understood the real purpose of my Bible reading so she could explain it to them. I hoped she was at least telling them what the introduction said.

  Whatever she said must have piqued their interest bigtime. Basilio walked around to my right side and got on his knees so he could look at the Bible right side up.

  “Español! Es español!”

  I’d never heard shy Basilio sound so excited.

  “Es verdad?” Delmar said with a look of amazement.

  Although I didn’t know what they’d said to one another, I took it as a breakthrough. Without knowing if it was appropriate, I instinctively responded with a simple, “Sí.”

  Delmar’s excitement grew as he and Basilio chatted together for a few more minutes and occasionally with Anjelita. They must have figured out what I was trying so hard and yet unsuccessfully to do.

  “Thank You, Lord!” I said aloud.

  Delmar drew a question mark in the air above the open Bible with his forefinger. His fingers were slightly darker than mine, but far lighter than Aleesha’s.

  What different worlds we’d grown up in. If God had wanted, I could’ve been a native of Santa María listening to Delmar the foreigner butcher my language in a desperate effort to share the gospel with me.

  It was a humbling realization.

  I responded to Delmar’s question mark by moving my forefinger to the first verse of chapter 1 again. He said something I couldn’t understand, but I began rereading that verse as if certain he wanted me to.

  “H-habiendo much-muchos tentado á pon-poner en orden la historia de las cosas que entre nosotros han sido ciertísimas.”

  I didn’t look up until I’d finished. Both men were struggling to keep from laughing. They undoubtedly didn’t want to offend me, but when they realized I’d caught them snickering at my pronunciation, they loosened their restraint and laughed long and hard.

  God performed a miracle then. Not only did I lose my self-consciousness, I began laughing with them.
/>   Anjelita’s frown could have flavored a two-quart pitcher of lemonade. I applied enough gentle pressure to the corners of her mouth to turn her sour expression into a smile, and when I removed my hand, she laughed, too.

  When the laughter settled down, Basilio pulled something small out of his shirt pocket, tore the paper cover off to reveal a toothpick, and pointed to chapter 1, verse 1. What did he want? I could read it again, but I wouldn’t do any better now than the time before.

  But God was in control, and I obeyed.

  “Habiendo muchos tentado—”

  “No, Señorita Kim,” he said. He sounded self-conscious about interrupting.

  Then he read the whole verse correctly. How beautiful the Bible sounded in Spanish. Although the words were even more foreign to me than the original King James Version, they had a similar majesty. Majesty and power. I’d never thought about how the Bible would sound in another language.

  “Señorita Kim …” he pointed to the first word with his toothpick and then pronounced it for me. “Ah-bee-EN-doh …”

  Oh. I hadn’t come close.

  “Señorita Kim …?” he said, this time more insistently.

  I did my best to imitate him, but I failed to make the H silent. There was so much to remember—including the need to forget how it would sound in French—and this was just the first word.

  He corrected me, though, and I got it right the next time. His smile of approval made me feel great, though slightly embarrassed. My accomplishment had been so minor.

  This kind of help was great, but Basilio and Delmar couldn’t keep coaching me all day. They would need to return to their worksites shortly.

  Kim, don’t be concerned about that. It’s beyond your control. Just make the best possible use of their time. Forget that you’re reading aloud for their benefit and concentrate on what they’re teaching you.