“We never eat fish,” they told me

I made a big clumsy blunder on our very first day in Colombia.

Let me tell you about it. It happened after, as I told you last week, Dick Inlow offered to hail a taxi and send us to a restaurant for lunch. We were grateful for his help—we were hungry.

While we were climbing in, Dick said, “I gave the driver directions to Crem Helado—that means Ice Cream. It’s just like a hamburger joint in the U.S.”

Another couple joined us. I’ll call them Joe and Liz Johnson. We had met them in July at the pre-field orientation in Dallas and they, like our family, had arrived in Bogotá that morning.

And with that, the six of us very green, very gringo newcomers set out on our first adventure—on our own. It was comforting to have Joe and Liz with us.

Cars sped by spewing black exhaust. Some models brought back childhood memories—I spotted one like my grandfather had driven when I was a little kid.

Our taxi surged in and out of traffic and screeched around corners. We braced ourselves as cars pushed through traffic in every direction, and no one appeared to have the right-of-way.

When the driver halted in front of Crem Helado, he asked for more pesos than the meter registered but, since we couldn’t understand his explanation for the added charge, we shrugged and paid it.

Inside, the restaurant vaguely resembled a North American restaurant, as Dick had described it, but the six of us had no doubt we’d stepped into an alien culture. People spoke a foreign language. The furnishings didn’t look like those of any hamburger joint I’d ever seen—they looked foreign. The place even smelled foreign.

We sat down and picked up our menus, and then Liz gave a nervous little giggle. “We don’t speak Spanish,” she whispered. “Could you order for us?”

“Oh, sure,” I said, my stomach knotting at the thought. My mind went back to ninth grade Spanish class. How many times had my classmates and I acted out restaurant scenes? We’d ordered all kinds of food, but could I remember anything?

My eyes darted across the menu. I spotted a few familiar words—pescado, and jamón, and something about bif. “We have a choice of fish, ham, or beef,” I told the others.

“We never eat fish,” Liz said. “We’ll take the beef.” Dave, Matt, and Karen told me they wanted ham.

The time had come to place our order. In my best Spanish, I ordered bif for the Johnsons and jamón for the rest of us. Relief rushed over me when my job came to an end.

But—oh, no—I wasn’t finished! The waiter asked what we wanted to drink. I was tempted to say, "Agua, por favor," but we’d received a warning the water would make us sick. I skimmed the menu but didn’t recognize anything.

The waiter hovered.

My face burned, my heart throbbed in my ears—but then a familiar name jumped off the page: Ginger Ale. With a zeal the waiter couldn’t likely understand, I ordered six Ginger Ales. He sauntered away, laughing.

Despite the waiter’s taunting, I felt good about pushing through that challenge. I’d done it! “Whew!” I said.

I thought I’d ordered lunch in a rather admirable manner for the six of us, but when our orders came, I discovered life had thrown me a curveball. The Johnsons got pescado—fish. The waiter hadn’t understood my Spanish.

But Liz and Joe ate their fish without grumbling. Bless their hearts.

Flustered, I concentrated on my lunch, muttering silently, You sure messed up the Johnsons’ lunch. Bewildered, I thought about how hard I’d tried—but failed. The experience was humbling—bruising.

Despite my hunger, unusual odors and flavors made my stomach lurch. I downed my strange-smelling ham anyway, and the fries, lettuce, tomato, and Ginger Ale.

Wendy L. Macdonald’s words offer perspective for such days, learned as she drove through dense fog one evening, stressed and scared. Dark, dense fog is an apt illustration for what I felt myself in at that restaurant in that foreign culture.

Wendy reminds us that when we’re doing God’s will—like, in my family’s case, moving to South America—God “places us in a position of provision. . . . As long as we . . . trust His path for us, He makes a way for us in the foggy wilderness He asked us to wander through.

“Where God guides us is where God provides for us. . . . Because where we’re led is where we’re fed.”

She reminds us of God’s bracing words in 2 Corinthians 12:9, “My grace is enough; it’s all you need. My strength comes into its own in your weakness” (The Message).

There in that foreign restaurant,

I had just experienced those very words, 

and God’s grace, and His provision.

Wendy also reminds us that “the faith journey requires us to slow down and be still before God. We’ll crash if we drive too fast.”

She continues, “I’m to simply inch forward, to trust Him to give me what I need when I need it. Of course I don’t feel strong enough—I’m not. But He is, and He is faithful to lead and feed. . . .”

And somewhere deep in my wobbly heart

and my dazed, jet-lagged brain,

I recognized I’d just experienced a learning opportunity.

I could give myself permission 

to slow down in my quest to adjust to a new culture 

and a foreign language.

I could give myself permission 

to look forward to another day 

when I’d have another chance to do a better job—

with God’s help.