It started out as a typical Sunday. We gathered on the first floor of that three-story concrete building to worship.

It was 2002. Summer.

Which meant missionaries would often come to spend a week or two in our little Mediterranean city to encourage the newly established church there.

Often, they would preach. Which also meant one of the Albanian members who was bilingual would have to live-translate.

Often, this was me. I did not mind translating sermons. People tend to use polished language when they preach, and I did not have to worry about translating hard to translate idioms or everyday slang.

So, when I was asked if I could translate that day, I responded with ‘Sure. No problem’. The regular preacher chuckled and said, ‘Good luck!’.

That’s when I remembered!!
            
The missionary that was preaching that day was from Scotland. I had met him a couple of days before. He had this larger than life personality with a positively awesome Scottish accent that sounded like poetic ballads.
Problem was, I could only understand about half of what he was saying! I recalled our short conversation from a couple of days before, where despite both of our attempts at seeking to understand, neither party was fully understood.

I tried to get out of my current predicament, but worship was about to start and there weren’t many of us who were able to. There were many in the church who did not speak English, so I had to at least attempt to translate.

To add to my anxiety, he was a passionate speaker. Which meant he’d often forget he had to pause for me to translate and just keep going for almost a full minute (this is a long time when you’re live-translating!), until I had to finally make some motion to try and get his attention to pause.

More than once though, he’d pause and I’d pause. Apart from a few words here and there, the rest of it sounded like bagpipe mysteries. I asked him a couple of times to clarify a word here and there, but it wasn’t always helpful.

My saving grace was hearing him read or refer to Scripture, because I could read the English words to which he added his Viking flare to and hope to extrapolate on his pronunciation of other words.  

I made eye contact with a couple of bilingual Albanians in the crowd, and I could not decide if their shrugged shoulders were just attempts at holding back laughter or if they were just as lost as I was. Eventually what felt like the longest sermon of my life, ended.
              
I was not engaged in worship that day. I did not sing with a joyful heart. I’m not even sure if I joined the others in song at all for that matter.

But, I do know this. Sometimes doing exactly the right thing is nothing more than stubborn obedience ridden with anxiety.

Sometimes, you are on the right path and it still does not feel good. Sometimes you just fumble through and fail forward. Even if going forward feels like treading through mud.

And eventually, hopefully, enough time passes and you can look back and perhaps chuckle.

It’s all good.

I’m finally at a place where I can hear Scottish accents without some post trauma response.