During one year of homeschool, I tried to learn French. It was an epic fail. I blamed it on the teacher - who was on a recorded VHS from so many years back that I wanted to watch each lesson with eyes closed... because if my eyes were open, I couldn't focus on anything she was saying due to the gigantic size of her glasses, or the horrific items of clothing she chose for that day. And the first day of school. That first day she handed out candy to her class on the video! I may or may not be harboring seeds of bitterness still, even though it's been over 15 years.
When I first made the decision to come down here, I ordered Rosetta Stone, and popped in the first DVD as soon as it arrived. I rocked the names of colors and animals in Spanish. And then things started getting a little shaky. I got progressively more and more frustrated, and wondered if perhaps my failure at French didn't have everything to do with teachers whose fashion choices had much to be desired, and who loved her on-screen students more than the one sitting on the living room couch, watching years later.
People would ask how they could pray for me as I prepared to come to Costa Rica, and I would laugh and say, "Pray for the gift of tongues in Spanish, please," and go blithely on my way.
Now, here I am ten months into my stay understanding way more than I did back in October, but still struggling. Every. Single. Day. I did not step off the plane in San Jose, and pick up the language with the ease that I picked up my luggage.
There are the people that I feel comfortable trying to speak Spanish around. And there are the people that I don't feel comfortable around, so I just sit and smile. And even with the ones where there is a comfort level, I tend to whisper the words, causing them to have to lean in close to hear what I'm trying to convey.
Just last week, I finally asked one of my friends to set aside some time each week to make me speak Spanish. And he asked me outright what I was so afraid of. In gut-wrenching honesty I told him... In the States, I was competent. I was a massage-therapist. Really good at my job. Owned my own business, for goodness' sake! It's hard to go from being good at something, to not even being able to communicate. The opportunity for failure is gigantic. So instead, most often I choose safety instead of speaking.
In the last two weeks, the opportunity has opened up to begin co-teaching English classes (three of them!) at the church, as well as some one-on-one tutoring. This has been really good for me, because it entails a whole lot of Spanish to convey the nuances of English. My brain is so exhausted at the end of each day, that my English spelling (not stellar to begin with) and grammar are suffering majorly. I find myself sticking a few Spanish words into my English sentences, and falling asleep quizzing myself on how I would say a certain sentence or make a particular point. Or crying myself to sleep, convinced I have a learning disability that makes it impossible for me to learn languages other than English and Pig Latin.
There are times when someone asks me a question but my brain is too tired to figure it out, so I just go with "yes" or "no," and then inadvertently insult the asker... or agree to marry someone I hadn't intended to link my life to for the long haul. Like recently when a question was asked and I totally wasn't paying attention, so assumed I was being asked if I liked a specific movie that had just been watched. I said no, watched his face fall, and a few minutes later he asked the question again... hesitantly... had I liked the food he had prepared? The answer to which was, it had been some of the most delicious lasagna I had ever put in my mouth!
And then there are the times that the English/Spanish communication with the ESL-ers down here breaks down. Like yesterday. I invited a friend for dinner. I was making a crockpot dinner, so the main dish was all in and ready to go for the three people I knew would eat it, when I got a text asking if he could bring additional friends.
"I didn't make enough for six," I replied. But oops. The "n't" after the "did" was not sufficiently conveyed, so an hour before dinner was going to be served, I got a text naming all the additional people who would be accompanying him. It's amazing how quickly I can turn out additional food when in a state of sheer panic!
And as I sat at the table surrounded by six hungry Ticos, feasting on two separate main dishes -- one that was slow cooked and one that was cooked in record time, I smiled. In the midst of the loud and passionate all-in-Spanish talk about visas and girls. A real, genuine smile.
Because I may not rock this language, but there are times that language is overrated.
I can hug.
I can pray.
I can cook.
I can teach English, and I can whisper tentative Spanish.
...
I can love.
I can read the late night Facebook messages... "Tranks for the food you cook."
And then I can throw my hands up in the air, smile in Heaven's direction and whisper quietly, "Gracias Dios, por esta noche."
