Ever since Pastor Gene announced his own trip to Barcelona in 2016, I wanted to go to Spain. Going to Spain had crossed my mind before; I’ve always wanted to be a missionary and the fact that I just happened to have studied Spanish all my life didn’t seem like a coincidence to me. So when he announced that there would be a trip for us (normal people) I just had to go, too. I was absolutely sure this was God’s plan for me. I would go as an interpreter. I would soak up as much culture as possible and improve my Spanish, all on top of being useful to the English-only speakers alongside me.

But a funny thing happened, something I believe happens to every mission team member: as the date approached, I began to doubt. I had the proverbial “laundry list” of doubts: I cannot play basketball, I am not really a kid person (I’ll admit it, little kids make me nervous. I haven’t the slightest idea why they put up with me.) I don’t like wearing jeans in ninety-degree weather, etc. but most importantly, my Spanish is not anywhere near as good as Mama thinks it is.

This last haunted me throughout the summer of 2017. A large percentage of the customers at Aeropostale where I now work are Hispanic. As I listened to their rapid-fire Spanish, my ego took violent beatings; the language I’d been studying for at least ten years sounded just as foreign to me as it would to anyone without any Spanish experience. I’ve always been able to read and speak Spanish fluently, but as well as I could speak, I was useless if anyone spoke back. This was most definitely an issue because; to me being a missionary seemed to be more about listening and understanding than talking.

So while I got on the plane, I wasn’t afraid of turbulence or crashing (and I had just started watching the TV show Lost at the time) or going missing in a foreign country or being deported, I was afraid of embarrassing myself, frustrating Spaniards and most of all, being absolutely useless to the team.

When we arrived, the first two days were essentially tourism days designed to acclimate us to the very idea of Barcelona before we had to truly work there. I quickly realized that, as the missionary dragged us, all jetlagged and disoriented, around the city, I had no time to fuss about my Spanish. I dove into sightseeing. The cobbled streets were narrow and winding and the buildings on either side were tall and old-fashioned and often smelled of incense, curry or disrepair. The people were serious, sternly minding their own business, walking with purpose even in leisure; exact contrasts to the Latino population in

America. I immediately felt thrust out of my skin.
But then, to my shock, I began to love it. The very things that had troubled me began to appeal to me. The unevenness of the roads, the resistance to logical placement and the effortless sophistication of the people charmed me. Without warning, I finally opened my mouth and used my Spanish. Without hesitation, I struck up conversations with random locals on the metro, at the apartment, in shops and, to my surprise, I understood them easily. Speaking Spanish became a delight. I loved the sound of their voices and I relished the feel of their language on my tongue. When I finished each conversation, no matter how long, I always felt like I was bursting with exaggerated excitement.

For a while, I was simply shocked. I didn’t have the slightest idea of how this could possibly happen, but I didn’t question it. I just didn’t want it to end.

On Sunday, we attended a service at the Eglesia Bauptista, a small Spanish-speaking church near our apartments. The sanctuary was small, two rows of pews, and it was sweltering hot. All the ladies were using handmade fans to cool off (don’t ever underestimate the power of Spanish fan). Ever eager, I spoke to the woman in the row behind me. She was quiet and complimented my Spanish. I decided to tell her about the anxiety I’d had before my arrival and how when I’d become immersed, I had suddenly improved. I described it as if something that had been asleep inside me had awoken when I met the Spanish people. She smiled and answered that that something had been the Holy Spirit.

This has all been very dramatic, but I’ll admit I nearly cried. What else could it have possibly been? It’s not as if I had studied any harder or grown a human USB port and plugged in the Spanish language. God had given me understanding. I can only come to the conclusion that He gave me the ability to read the meaning behind the people’s words rather than their language.

Before I finish, would like to highlight the fact that my experience never would have shocked me if I had never doubted my Spanish ability. Doubting is uncomfortable and humbling. I do not believe that our doubts come from God, but that He allows us to doubt so that His glory will be more grandly displayed. Similar to the blind man of John 9, I was inadequate so that “the works of the Lord would be displayed” in me. So perhaps I didn’t lead anyone to Christ, but God has definitely tweaked me. In spite of my handicaps, I was able to love the Spanish language and cultivate a love for Spanish people and their culture. I believe this may shape my life in a way I hadn’t envisioned. I guess I’ve written all this to say that no one is ever ready to go on a mission trip until he or she gets there. Christians will always doubt, but God will always use those doubts paint a beautiful picture of contrasts.

–Mary-Catherine Satterwhite