We moved in with my aunt in Connecticut when my parents couldn’t find work back home in Puerto Rico. Mami had been a nurse, and Papi a bartender.
We kids had the advantage of easing into a new language at school. My parents studied English on their own, while they looked for jobs.
“Your papi and I are doing our best to fit in here,” Mami told us as she put us to bed one night early on. “God will do the rest.”
Mami progressed with her English enough to work in an office. Papi found the language more challenging. He got a job with a cleaning service.
But somehow they scraped together enough money to cover the first and last month’s rent, and a security deposit. We got our own apartment!
Our new place seemed like a dream come true. The neighborhood was clean and friendly. On Sunday we visited a little church that conducted a special morning service—in Spanish!
It was comforting to be around people who spoke my native language. I knelt down in the pew and bowed my head. “Gracias, mi Dios. I know you always hear my Spanish prayers.”
Then something terrible happened. Papi was laid off. A couple of weeks later, so was Mami. They tried to be optimistic. They studied their English and went back to searching for work.
They were doing their best. Where was God? My Papi was too proud to ask for help from my aunt or anyone at our church.
One evening I heard Mami and Papi sounding more worried than ever.
“Ay, mi Dios,” Papi finally said, putting on his coat. “Voy a la iglesia para orar.” I’m going to the church to pray.
There was no Spanish service now! It wasn’t even Sunday! Anybody in the church—if there was anybody there—would be speaking English. God would be listening in English. Why was Papi wasting his time?
The next morning at breakfast our plates were nearly empty. “It’s the last of the oatmeal,” Mami said. Papi bowed his head, like he thought he’d failed us.
Mi Dios, I thought, please hear us.
A car honked outside. We ran to the kitchen window. A priest and some nuns got out of a big blue van. They carried grocery bags up to our apartment door.
“We heard you were in need,” the priest said.
“¿Cómo supo usted?” Papi asked. How did you know? Papi explained that he hadn’t seen anyone else in the church when he made his whispered prayer.
The priest put his hand on Papi’s shoulder. “I heard your prayer,” he said in Spanish. And then he explained to us: “Your papi asked God for help and God put me close by so I could hear him.”
That night we all slept a little easier. Not only did we get the food we needed, but through the church, my parents found new jobs.
And I learned that God always hears us, wherever we are, in whatever language we speak to him. Prayer is a language all its own.
Download your FREE ebook, A Prayer for Every Need, by Dr. Norman Vincent Peale.
