“Why do we have to learn how to speak  THEIR language!”  This represented my attitude growing up.  My experience with the Hispanic culture is rooted in prejudice that my white race is superior.  Growing up in Orlando, Florida, my parents and grandparents modeled this superiority and as the Hispanic population migrated further north from Miami to Central Florida, we whites were resentful.  With their migration, we were taught that our crime rate had risen, gangs were on the rise, and we had to learn their language and not the other way around.  I must add that my family carries a generational judgmental and critical spirit that I have worked very hard to break in my own generation.  That being said, choosing to go to a Hispanic church felt very intimidating.  

(I had to immerse myself in a culture out of my comfort zone as an experiential activity for grad school last year)  

My past judgments of them led me to prejudge their judgments of me.   I did not feel I would be welcome, and I just knew I would feel alone, as I do not speak Spanish.  Funny thing, those judgements we hold for others and ourselves.  

Driving to the church, I was prayerful and asked God to teach me something, and to somehow give me some word of encouragement.  To set the stage of my emotional and spiritual frame of mind, I had experienced an emotionally excruciating, exhausting evening before.   Suffering the loss of a very dear relationship (boyfriend breakups are a bitch) as well as my spiritual and mental fatigue in my own “work” had me waking up with a hopeless frame of mind.  I was not sure Casa de mi Padre would be the place.  A friend had texted me  about reaping what we sow right before I got out of my car.  She had said that I would reap all I had sown in regards to my ability to love others well.   

My anxiety heightened, I set forth to cross the street, hold my head high, and walk into this little community as if I belonged there.  What happened in the next two hours impacted me in ways that words could never do justice.  I thought I would be stared at, whispered about, snubbed, and isolated.  What I received was so different.

I was not prepared for what I was about to experience.  I walked in, feeling intimidated by the groups standing out front on the steps.  I felt their eyes on this white lady walking up the steps.  Two ladies welcomed me at the door immediately.  Millie was one of their names, and I know this because she immediately welcomed me in Spanish.  I thanked her in Spanish ( I do know Gracious) and informed her that I did not speak her language.  ("No Habla Espanol... "NAILED it!)  Thats about all I had in me.  

Then she spoke in English and took me aside.  Kindly she sat me down and gave me a card to fill out.  She intuitively asked me why I was sad, and a tear trickled as I said, “broken heart....(in english just in case you wondered)”  Well that sweet Millie.  She knelt down and asked to pray for me  right then.  She held my hands and she prayed the most beautiful prayer over me in English, weeping for me. IN MY LANGUAGE.  Millie, wept. For me.  I know she felt my heavy wet tears splatting onto her hands that held mine so tightly.  Not. What. I Expected. 

She then escorted me to front and center ( GAWH!  THANKS MILLIE) and promised to bring me a translator box soon.  I felt like a “WHITE” elephant in the room that everyone was watching, judging me.  Again, I prejudged their judgment.   The music began and I was able to follow the songs and sing along mostly from the giant overhead.  I was uncomfortable at first, but once I opened my mouth and sang, my intimidation was gone.  It was amazing!   Worship is powerful for me, and I tend to cry even when I am happy during worship, and this was no different.  I cried, a lot.  A LOT.  I didn't care either.  I. Was. A. Mess.  I felt love in this place. I felt safe for some weird reason.  I felt God.  I was one in spirit with these people as we worshiped the same God in a language I did not know. 

The service was much like my own “white” service.  An offering was taken, there were announcements, the teens and children were released after, and the pastor came to the platform to preach. The lady beside me then kindly gave me her program.  It was in Spanish, so perhaps she thought I was able to understand.  Millie then brought me headphones to listen to the English interpretation.  The pastor spoke on loneliness and marriage from the book of Genesis Chapter two and I took four pages of notes.  It was one of the best sermons I’d ever heard. Perfect timing for my events in life, as I had just ended a relationship!  At the end of the service, there was more worship, and the pastor prayed a beautiful prayer over all of us.  I wept again, and what happened next was an experience I know that my words will not justly articulate the power behind it. 

After the prayer the music continued and the pastor of the church called out my name.  At first, I didn’t notice it.  I had taken off my headphones and then he said my name again and looked at me.  He called me to the front of the church in English and then asked if the church could pray for me. 

“MILLIE!!!!  YOU ARE GOING DOWN!”

Well I am the lady who will take a prayer whenever I can get it;  I remember just pulling aside a family on Thursday and praying for them in a need they had.  Maybe this was the reaping of what I sowed that my friend had promised.  I went to the front and a multitude of women came to the front and surrounded me, laying hands on my head, my back, and my arms and began to pray.  Strangers.  These strangers were praying for me.  In their language, powerful prayers were prayed, tears were shed, and as one woman’s (who I would learn later was the pastor’s wife) English prayers went up, I raised my hands in agreement and smiled.  I smiled, and felt my sadness lift.  When the prayer time was over, these women hugged me and said that they loved me.  Women I had never met, embraced me, and said in MY language, “I love you.”  Afterward, Millie gave me her number and invited me to her Friday evening small group.  I did not go to her small group.  I did go back to Church a few weeks later, however.  This Sunday, a young man Roberto sat beside me with Millie on the other and he translated for me in my ear every word.  I was invited to lunch with this group after and guess what!  I went!  My translator by my side, I engaged in a lunch commune with these precious people.  

I have not returned in a year.  As I was driving through Down Town Franklin with my mom yesterday, I pondered where I would attend church on my Easter Sunday alone.  My kids with their father this year, and I really miss them.  I have visited EVERY non-denominational church and some others over the last 5 years since my divorce.  This is not the piece to process why I haven’t found what I am looking for and my view of evangelical/ fundamental/ charismatic/ progressive/ or any other word that floats around.  For me, its just Jesus.  It’s authentic LOVE.  And I ironically, the place that beckoned me, was this little white church on the corner in Downtown Franklin with an all-Spanish congregation.  Love beckons me.  This is where I celebrate my Saviors Resurrection.