In our own languages we hear them
Amy wrote this when she was on staff at Marian Centre Edmonton in 2021.
It was the day before Pentecost. It was finally warm and sunny outside, so after we had closed the front gates for the day and counted the leftover sandwiches and snack bags, I went on a walk to the River Valley.
At the end of my walk, as I approached the set of stairs that would lead me back up to street level, I found myself beaming at an elderly man in a wheelchair, facing the mighty North Saskatchewan River. He was grinning back toothlessly, with sheer delight, and said “Come over here!” So I went over there. His grandson, Brock, a young man of 18 or 20, took the lead, welcoming me and introducing me to his grandfather, Peter, his aunt Stephanie, and “my fiancée, Shanelle.”
“He doesn’t get out much,” said Brock about his grandfather, who himself kept repeating, “It’s so beautiful! It’s such a nice day!”
I didn’t want to derail their family outing, and so I tried on a couple of occasions to politely depart, but the young man, Brock, had a question and a hunger in his eyes, and every time I’d start to leave, he would say, “Wait, can I just ask…”
Finally, he asked me about a problem he was experiencing. “I’ve tried everything,” he said, sounding exhausted. I said to him the only thing left to say to someone who has tried everything: “Do you pray?” He mumbled something about not knowing how, not really knowing God. I said “Would you like me to pray for you, with you?” So I started to pray for him and his family right there on this busy path, first thanking God for the warmth and love that I saw between them and then asking the Lord to liberate Brock from the problem he had spoken to me about, as well as from any other bondage or addiction. I began praying “hands open” but before long, Brock had reached out and grasped my right hand warmly in both of his, with the simplicity of a child. I could feel in his hands the warmth of his trust and the strength of his hope.
When I finished, his grandfather asked me, “How did you learn all those words in Cree?” He must not have heard me. I said “I don’t know Cree. I wish I did!” Brock proceeded to teach me how to say “hello” and “thank you.”
My heart was full of warmth, light, and gratitude as I left this little family at the River Valley.
I had completely forgotten about the grandfather’s question—“How did you learn all those words in Cree?”—until, this morning, when I was meditating on a Scripture passage before Mass. “In our own languages we hear them speaking about God’s deeds of power.”
Is it possible that Pentecost had come a day early?
[Sketch by ©Helen Hodson, Madonna House]
