Story #5: Familiar Praise

tie-dye on rainy day

Familiar Praise

The air conditioning hits our warm, sunburnt bodies as we step into the church foyer. A week of Dominican Republic heat leaves us exhausted and sweaty. Even the nicest church dresses and a liberal amount of makeup couldn’t hide our tired, red expressions. But the cool air immediately brings us back to the States and suddenly this evangelical megachurch, planted just on the other side of the poorest section of Santo Domingo, brings us home. We awkwardly travel as a group down the center aisle, bumping into each other as we filed into a row in the middle – not too close to the front but not obviously in the back. 

“Too close, too close!”

“Wait no, let’s sit here.”

“Start a new row over there.” Annoyed whispers make their way through our large group. Although our field hockey team is used to spending hours at a time together, a week in a foreign country together takes its toll on our patience with each other. Mornings are spent running a field hockey camp and afternoons are busy planning Bible study and ESL classes Suddenly the idea of “team bonding” was on par with the worst of punishments. The seniors feel old while the freshmen seem younger and younger with each morning of field hockey camp and then afternoons of Bible study and ESL lessons. High pitched giggles and their pointing fingers cause us to cringe and roll our eyes: We weren’t like this as freshmen, right? There’s no way. No way at all.

            “Shhhh.”

Silence. The pastor moves up to the podium and looks out at the congregation, a sea of people filling stadium seating all around us. The community of believers. 

Silence and then words. He clears his throat and then begins with sounds that we don’t understand. Quick, rapid words and phrases that cause us to tilt our heads and wonder, while the congregation lets out a small chuckle. The pastor continues and people shift in their seats, getting comfortable. A few days earlier, I quickly realized that none of my mediocre Spanish vocabulary had prepared me for this trip, especially when we had to teach the game of field hockey: “Hold your stick like this,” “Put your feet like this,” “This is how you can stop the ball.” I give up and eventually I find myself making small talk about the weather, using one of the few phrases I could remember from seventh grade Spanish class. I wave my hand around and say, “Hace mucho calor!” The girls nod in agreement, sometimes giggling at my awful Spanish – probably wondering why this American girl can only say “It is very hot.”

My teammate nudges me to reach under my seat for a pair of large headphones – we all share the sparse number of headphones and listen to an English translation. Words that we could understand. A Spanish call and response echoes around us in unison as English words stream through the headphones, hurrying to catch up as the translator stumbles over a few phrases. All of a sudden the congregation begins to clap as the pastor finishes his prayer and then continues speaking. The translator hurries once more: “And we would like to welcome… uh… the students from America. They are from Gordon College in Massachusetts. We would like to… uh… welcome you all.” Everyone continues to clap and strain to catch a glimpse of us, still hiding in the middle pew.

            I look around the large auditorium and briefly lock eyes here, lock eyes there. I offer a brief smile in return to some of the large grins I receive. After a few moments of sheepish smiling, we are soon relieved from the stares when the congregation turns their attention back to the front. My coach drops his pen and it rolls a little ways in front of him. Three people jump to get up and return it to him, all smiling and nodding at his thank you, gracias. A worship band appears and a familiar song appears on the screen, Spanish lyrics with smaller English lyrics below.

            We stand and I set my headphones down on my seat, recognizing the familiar tune – one of the favorites at my home church and at Gordon’s chapel services: Dios eterno, tu luz por siempre brillaray tu gloria, incomparable sin final. My voice trips over the words and I stumble to keep up with the music, trying to be my own translator as I work through the sentences. Okay, so Dios means God and eterno means everlasting… suddenly the band has already moved onto the second chorus and I’m trying to remember my seventh grade Spanish vocab, wondering if luz means light or if luce means light. Or is luce Italian? By the second song, I’ve given up on the translation and I glance at my teammates beside me and those in front of me. Some aren’t singing, some are still listening through the headphones, and some have abandoned all concern for perfect translation, raising their hands high and humming along to the music. I glance again at their closed eyes before closing mine too, listening to unfamiliar words combine with familiar worship.