A meeting opened with prayer, and I had a problem: the person praying did so in his native language. I impatiently crossed my arms and tapped my toe (spiritually, not literally), waiting for the real action to begin.
I sensed God’s disapproval.
The next time, I listened carefully and recognized a few words: dios, padre, casa. I found myself asking my heavenly Father to fill the house with his presence.
I sensed God’s Atta girl!
Since then, I’ve not only learned to pray alongside words I don’t understand, I’ve learned to like it.
Before a rather unpleasant situation in which I was teamed with a Muslim, he prayed to Mecca, and motioned me to join him.
I said, “I’m not a Muslim!”
He replied, “Oh, that’s OK. Allah doesn’t mind, and neither does your Christian God. It’s the knees that are important.”
He didn’t come home, except in my heart.
Amen.