I speak English fluently, speak Italian almost fluently, and have a smattering of Korean in my vocabulary. After having moved all around God’s little green globe, I would hope I would have picked something up besides the wonderful cuisines I’ve also tasted. If lost in America, I could ask the local cop for directions and be on my way in no time. If lost in Italy, I could easily find my way to a telephone and an english speaking person (a cute young man, preferably). In Korea, I could sound like I was answering a telephone and tell the nearest passer-by that I “would see him later”. I think I’ll stick with getting lost in America or Italy.

But for the life of me, everytime I get lost in my own little world, I don’t know how to understand God. I can easily ask God for help. It involves quite a simple process. First, you stand alone in your room (college or at home) and look up to the ceiling. After making a half attempt to hold them back, you let the tears run. And then you start screaming at Him like you are His three year old torment. Hey, He made me. I have other tactics, too. I also try kneeling and praying. I do try this one, first. But inevitably, I have to resort to the former plan anyway. And I know He’s answering. I can hear it and feel it. But, I can’t understand.

It’s kind of like walking up to a Scandinavian who understands English, but can’t speak it. “Excuse me, kind and all-knowing Scandinavian Uncaused Cause. Can you tell me what in the world you are trying to tell me? I would be much obliged.” However, instead of making it perfectly understandable, His response is something like, “Folketingets Web er udformet sådan at både øvede og mindre øvede brugere nemt og hurtigt .” You kind of stare blankly at Him, pretend you understood everything, and continue on your merry way.

Sometimes this works. This is because you guessed right; in His gibberish He was saying, “Yes, my half-witted, ambitious creation: you are doing exactly as I have laid out.” But, sometimes, you run into the fifth brickwall of the week. This is because He was not motivating you. “No, my ignorant, over-reaching corporeal being.” He tried to tell you, but you cannot speak Scandinavian. Normally, if you cannot understand a foreigner’s speech, you must resort to body language. This does not work with our Scandinavian Uncaused Cause. In all His causing, He did not cause Himself a body ergo the lack of body language. We resort first to guessing, and when this does not work we resort to the three-year old temper tantrum.

Eventually the omniscient Scandinavian will pull out His pocket translator and slowly reveal His plan for the present moment. What it is that makes Him wait until you’ve slowly and deliberately performed your tantrum ritual five times in a week is beyond my knowledge. But, He does. And we have to wait, which is easier said than done. We scream and we cry (I’m the most guilty) and refuse to wait. And all the while we have been waiting, just not the most patiently. And then He reaches into His proverbial lederhosen and pulls out His Heaven Mall (corporate owner of Sky Mall, found on most airlines) pocket translator. He pulls us into His lap and tells all.

One day, I will learn to speak God’s language. I’m finally understanding how I can begin to learn. Like any language, it takes much patience, more so with this one. An open mind is a plus because chances are, we’re going to learn phrases and passages we don’t like. And Love is always required. The language is full of this, which is flowing from Faith, another requirement for the language. I have to get these seemingly simple things before I can hope to understand what my God is trying to say.

Until then, I will develop my patience and hope Scandinavians have plently of their own. He is going to have to put up with a lot of mistakes and frustration before I can speak fluently. And one day, before too long, I’ll wake up and suddenly be fluent in Scandinavian. I will finally be able to converse. Then, suddenly, I’ll come to the realization that God actually speaks a different language, He wanted to play a wicked practical joke on me. This horrific thought will lead me to realize that I’m dead, in Purgatory, and must learn Mandarinian before I can even entertain the thought of entering into Paradise with our Uncaused Foriegner.