Intercessory Circus

Now and then in the course of my work day I enlist the aid of an interpreter. I have a caller on the line who is not a native English speaker, and we need the assistance of an intermediary in order to communicate.

Despite my Spanish fluency, I do call for an interpreter when I’m working with a Spanish speaker and a formal statement is required. It protects me from later concerns that I misunderstood or misspoke due to the language and also protects me from being strangled by an English speaking transcriptionist who cannot understand a word of it.

The process goes like this:

I speak to the client in English.

The interpreter interprets what I said into Spanish.

The client responds in Spanish.

The interpreter interprets what he said into English.

Repeat.

Well, that’s how it’s supposed to work. The process can get a little wild, especially when the Spanish speaker also has some level of English proficiency. It got a little crazy that way yesterday.

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I had a fellow on the phone with some limited English skills. We were carrying on in the hybrid language known as Spanglish. (For me it was the mixed language CasteYankee, since it’s really Castellano that I speak.)

When it became apparent he wasn’t fully tracking with me in English and we’d also need a statement, I dialed up the language line.

Interpreter connected on a conference call, we began.

I introduced myself and we completed the formalities. I asked for a description of the accident. I took my notes in my random CasteYankee mix of language scratched out on paper that only I would understand later.

I had el derecho. Ella no esperó en el green light and dobló en frente de my truck. La choqué. No pude hacer nothing.

Pretty soon the circus started. I asked my question, the interpreter interpreted, the gentleman answered. Without waiting for the translation back, I followed up on his answer. The interpreter tried to interject, but I was way beyond her by then.

We got back on track, following the routine ask-interpret-answer-interpret pattern. Until I asked a question and he answered it before she had a chance to translate.

One or the other of us trampled on the interpreter so many times while she tried to do her job she started just laying back to wait, hoping to avoid the inevitable bruising.

He told a joke.

I started laughing. Way before I should have caught the punchline.

She quickly tried to translate for me, surely so I didn’t look like such a ninny laughing at words she didn’t believe I understood.

I responded in Spanish to his joke.

And on it went.

I began to worry that it would be a complete disaster should we ever need the statement transcribed, and my colleagues would never let me live it down. Then I realized I had neglected to turn on the recorder.

I didn’t have the heart to tell the interpreter we’d have to do it all again.

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Communicating via an interpreter is a protracted process and typically takes well over double the time necessary to have the same conversation in a single language. It works great when my client speaks Somali or Mandarin or some other language I do not.

But with Spanish, my own comprehension gets in the way.

I struggle to rely on the interpreter, and barge in on her conversation with the client. I prevent her from doing her job and turn the whole interaction into a jumbled mess of a little English here, a little Spanish there, until no one even remembers who was talking and what the question was.

I do some interpreting myself. I should know better than to treat her that way.

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My own comprehension.

My awareness. My sensibilities.

I think a lot of them. I trust them.

Perhaps sometimes more than anything else.

I get to thinking I’m just so doggone smart.

As I consider in recent days my times of prayer, of communion with the Father, this comes to mind. How my own comprehension, my own sensibilities, my own gut counteract the working of His Spirit as He prompts me to pray in a given direction.

In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express. And he who searches our hearts knows the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for the saints in accordance with God’s will. (Romans 8:26-27)

When I pull up a chair at the conference table for my business meeting with the Father, I have notepad in hand, agenda prepared. I’ve done my homework. I’m ready.

I know what needs praying for.

I matter of factly notify the Father of items of interest, matters that require His attention, and suggest reasonable timelines for completion. I can provide flowcharts and have the emails to provide the paper trail if requested.

But if I turn aside from the white board for just a second, I might see that I don’t know squat.

That’s what He said.

We do not know what we ought to pray for.

We do not know.

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The Spirit helps us in our weakness. He intercedes for us in accordance with God’s will.

When will I ever learn that God never called me to my knees because of my brilliance? Because of my comprehension? My sensibilities?

He called me to my knees because that reflects my true lack, my utter bankruptcy before Him.

I don’t even know how to pray.

And I don’t know that yet.

I drag the Holy Spirit onto the three-way call, and leave Him ducking and covering His head with His arms to keep from being elbowed and kneed while I jump ahead of His intercession.

Even in the time of deepest, sweetest communion with the Father, my comprehension gets in the way.

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