Mozambican Odyssey, #25: Lessons from a Three-year-old

My son Joseph was quite the story teller at age three. Here he is ready for adventure with his monkey backpack.

On the spur of the moment, I was asked to make a speech in front of hundreds of Mozambicans. I was terrified!

It was our first wedding in Mozambique. As we made our way, asphalt roads turned to dirt, and the people in the villages stopped to stare at us as we bumped along with our three blond kids in the back of the Landrover.

Along the way people in the villages stopped and stared at us. Hero’s Journey, oil pastel portrait, 20 x16 inches by Susan E. Brooks

Finally, we found the church building, and the women welcomed me with kisses on both cheeks. They promptly led us to the platform up front. Oh no! This is not what I was hoping for at all. I was planning to be late and to slide into the back unnoticed—ha! When would I learn I could not hide in Mozambique? We were the only Americans there, and we were seated up front, facing everyone, with a few honored guests.

The ceremony carried on, and they asked Martin to give some advice to the wedding couple. We weren’t ready for that either. It would have been hard enough to think on your feet in front of a large group of people in your own language and culture, but he was asked to speak at the first Mozambican wedding we had ever attended.

Apparently, the tradition was to have family and friends give advice to the couple. Martin looked uncomfortable, so they tried to find someone who spoke English to translate. Finally, they found a young man with a little English, and Martin came up with an analogy, using the example of a triangle showing that as a couple moves closer to God, they also move closer to each other.

I was breathing a sigh of relief for Martin, when I realized they were asking me to do the same. Panic! Even the horrified look on my face didn’t persuade them to withdraw the request. I had to stand up in front of a church full of Mozambicans, and I had no idea what I would say. At least I had the young man standing next to me to translate. But then Martin had to choose that moment to brag on my Portuguese to the minister, and they took my translator away!

I couldn’t believe it. I was standing alone up on a platform with hundreds of strangers staring at me. In my panic, I forgot how to conjugate my Portuguese. The people were laughing at me, and so I laughed, and just stood there dumbfounded for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, I managed to give some advice in poorly spoken Portuguese. I advised them to pray together and stay together for always. I survived, and the wedding went on.

Sometimes I wonder how the world just keeps moving on, paying no attention to my crises. Probably I should be stronger as a result of all of that. Certainly people have survived worse. Will I ever learn not to be afraid of speaking in front of crowds? I don’t know.

My little son Joseph used to tell “ranger stories,” in which he, as a ranger, would face all kinds of foes–lions, gorillas, etc., and his stories always had the chipper refrain, “But I didn’t die!”

Maybe I need to learn from three-year-old Joseph. I didn’t die, so it’s all right. Martin, on the other hand, nearly died when I got him home after opening his mouth about my Portuguese! But he didn’t die either. Don’t y’all worry.

9 thoughts on “Mozambican Odyssey, #25: Lessons from a Three-year-old”

  1. It’s so hard to speak in public; I can’t imagine doing it in another language! Glad that you and Martin both survived. Ha ha!

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