Spanish in the frozen North
A copy of an email I sent...
Dear Jason,
I assume you’ve received your copy of Po Bronson’s "What Should I Do with My Life" by now. I’m sorry about not sending it within 48 hours, but I believe I was divinely prevented from doing so. If you are interested in the story, read on. If not, just enjoy the book!
I was selling my used books because I was packing up to move to Honduras for six months. I’ve been studying Spanish for quite a while, for no particular reason except that I enjoy it, and I’ve been wanting to put it to use. Honduras seemed like a good place since I know people there.
When I got your order from Amazon.com, I was out of town. When I got home I couldn’t find the book. I thought it was just under a pile from all my packing, but although I looked through all the stacks of books, it was nowhere to be found. I even prayed that God would help me find it, which he has done many times before (although always in his own sweet time.)
I was debating whether to refund your money or to buy a new copy to send you. (I really hate to renege on a deal.)
I was still debating when I left to visit friends in Minnesota just before my Honduras trip. I didn’t have time to buy the book before going to the airport on January 5th, but I knew I would have time in the Minneapolis suburb where my friends live (before we left for a cross-country ski weekend.)
On the morning of the 6th after breakfast I asked my friends if there was a bookstore close enough to walk to, since they were using the car all morning. “Yes, Borders is nearby, but it’s cold out!”
The temperature was probably about 10 degrees, but I was already dressed in my cross-country ski clothes, so I wasn’t worried. Long underwear, heavy wool sweater, boots, windbreaker with hood, scarf, hat and gloves – I knew I’d be fine. I put my American Express card and cell phone in my pocket, leaving my purse behind.
The ice on the sidewalks was treacherous in places, but I was careful and got to Borders with no problem. The clerk found the book for me immediately. When I remarked on this, he said he had just shelved it that morning. I knew I had plenty of time, so I decided to go next door to Best Buy to buy a USB drive, after which I headed back.
I was on a residential cul-de-sac prior to cutting through a park to get home, when I noticed a man sitting on the ground leaning against a tree. He was obviously Hispanic, and there was no possible reason why anyone would sit under a tree on such a day. I walked slowly past, thinking hard, and then turned to look back at him. I could see that he had no hat or gloves. After hesitating for a moment, I decided that I could not just leave without asking if he needed help. After all, what other Spanish speaker would be likely to come along on a Thursday morning in a Minneapolis suburb?
I walked back and asked,
“Hola, que tal? Hay un problema?” (Hi, how are things? Is there a problem?)
“No, no problema.”
“Don’t you have any gloves?” I continued in Spanish.
“No.”
“Here, take my gloves and hat.” (I was close to home and knew I could put up my hood and keep my hands in my pockets.)
He tried to put the gloves on, but couldn’t manage to get his fingers in correctly.
“What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for the bus.”
“This is very small street and no buses come here. You need to walk over there to the main street to get a bus. Where do you want to go?”
“Downtown Minneapolis.”
It was clear he was drunk. I tried to find out if he had any family or friends that I could call on my cell phone, but I couldn’t get much out of him, not even his name. He wouldn’t keep the gloves on, and all he was wearing was a shirt and thin cotton sweater with a windbreaker – no winter coat. I was concerned that he would freeze to death if he didn’t get inside.
I decided to walk him over to the main thoroughfare half a block away. When we got there, I was relieved to see a bus stop a block away. I pointed it out, but he showed no interest in going there, so I decided to walk him to it, meanwhile frantically thinking what to do, in an unfamiliar city where I didn’t even know which way downtown was. Also, buses don’t take American Express :-)
As we walked along a remaining short row of single-family homes on this major artery, we came to one where two men were chipping ice in the driveway (an elderly man and, apparently, his adult son.) I asked them which way to go to get downtown, and told them I had found the guy and wanted to get him to a homeless shelter and did they have a dollar so I could put him on the bus? The son told me which way was downtown, then pulled out his wallet and with a smile gave me two bucks, “in case I needed more.”
I took my new friend by the arm and we walked to the bus stop. A young woman with a little girl was just getting off a bus, and the driver was telling her what bus to take downtown. I told her the situation and asked her if she knew of any homeless shelters. She mentioned several social service agencies, but I didn’t have any confidence that I could find them. “Call 211,” she said, “it’s a central information number for social services.” “I have an out of town cell phone,” I replied, “Do you know the area code and full number?” She rattled it off without hesitation, “651-291-0211.”
I called and they connected me with a shelter that agreed to take him. It was located next to the Greyhound station, so I figured the bus driver could tell me how to get there. Feeling confident now that I would not be wandering aimlessly around downtown Minneapolis, I asked the woman how much the fare was. “$1.25,” she replied. “I’ve only got 2 bucks,” I said. “I’ll pay for him,” she said, “Look out, he’s wandering off.”
I retrieved my amigo and sat him down on the bench. A bus came along within 10 minutes. The driver said she’d tell us where to change to get to the Greyhound station and gave us transfers. I parked my friend in a seat and he appeared to doze off. Every so often he would start talking to me, but I couldn’t really understand what he was saying. He kept talking about “errors” but I couldn’t get clear which (or whose) errors.
It was an express bus and we were soon downtown. The young mother pointed out the social service building that she had mentioned and I decided to go there rather than hassle with transferring to another bus. I thanked her for her help.
The bus driver expressed her appreciation to both of us and asked me how I was going to get home. “I’ll get a cab,” I said, “and my friends can pay the fare when I get there.” “I’ll give you a free pass for the bus,” she said. “You can pick it up over there for the return trip.” She gave the young mother a free pass as well.
My friend and I got off the bus and walked two blocks. The information desk sent us to Room 3700, the Multicultural office. A Muslim woman with a charming accent said she would call a Spanish interpreter and we sat down to wait. My friend continued to talk, mostly unintelligibly, as we sat with people with all shades of skin color and various exotic languages and outfits.
Within ten minutes the Spanish interpreter came out to take my friend to her office. I shook his hand, said “Que Dios le bendiga!” (May God bless you!) I gave the interpreter the hat and gloves, she thanked me for bringing him, and I headed back to the bus stop. I was warm enough with my scarf and hood and my hands in my pockets, the bus came within 10 minutes, and I was back in the suburbs in no time.
You can call it coincidence, but I think it was a divine appointment. I had been thinking it was crazy to be going to Minnesota when my time to pack was so short, but now I know why I was there.
The efficiency of the whole process was miraculous too.
Although I have the usual fear of entanglement in other people’s messy affairs, I knew I had plenty of time that day, I had my cell phone to let my friends know where I was, and I just didn’t think I could go to sleep if I had to think about that guy out in the cold, possibly freezing to death.
So my ministry in Spanish began sooner than expected.
I hope you enjoy the book.
Cordially,
Pamela Hanson
p.s. God does answer prayer:-) The original copy turned up immediately upon my return home. I had been looking for a red cover, but the book was upside down and the back cover was yellow.
pjh
Dear Jason,
I assume you’ve received your copy of Po Bronson’s "What Should I Do with My Life" by now. I’m sorry about not sending it within 48 hours, but I believe I was divinely prevented from doing so. If you are interested in the story, read on. If not, just enjoy the book!
I was selling my used books because I was packing up to move to Honduras for six months. I’ve been studying Spanish for quite a while, for no particular reason except that I enjoy it, and I’ve been wanting to put it to use. Honduras seemed like a good place since I know people there.
When I got your order from Amazon.com, I was out of town. When I got home I couldn’t find the book. I thought it was just under a pile from all my packing, but although I looked through all the stacks of books, it was nowhere to be found. I even prayed that God would help me find it, which he has done many times before (although always in his own sweet time.)
I was debating whether to refund your money or to buy a new copy to send you. (I really hate to renege on a deal.)
I was still debating when I left to visit friends in Minnesota just before my Honduras trip. I didn’t have time to buy the book before going to the airport on January 5th, but I knew I would have time in the Minneapolis suburb where my friends live (before we left for a cross-country ski weekend.)
On the morning of the 6th after breakfast I asked my friends if there was a bookstore close enough to walk to, since they were using the car all morning. “Yes, Borders is nearby, but it’s cold out!”
The temperature was probably about 10 degrees, but I was already dressed in my cross-country ski clothes, so I wasn’t worried. Long underwear, heavy wool sweater, boots, windbreaker with hood, scarf, hat and gloves – I knew I’d be fine. I put my American Express card and cell phone in my pocket, leaving my purse behind.
The ice on the sidewalks was treacherous in places, but I was careful and got to Borders with no problem. The clerk found the book for me immediately. When I remarked on this, he said he had just shelved it that morning. I knew I had plenty of time, so I decided to go next door to Best Buy to buy a USB drive, after which I headed back.
I was on a residential cul-de-sac prior to cutting through a park to get home, when I noticed a man sitting on the ground leaning against a tree. He was obviously Hispanic, and there was no possible reason why anyone would sit under a tree on such a day. I walked slowly past, thinking hard, and then turned to look back at him. I could see that he had no hat or gloves. After hesitating for a moment, I decided that I could not just leave without asking if he needed help. After all, what other Spanish speaker would be likely to come along on a Thursday morning in a Minneapolis suburb?
I walked back and asked,
“Hola, que tal? Hay un problema?” (Hi, how are things? Is there a problem?)
“No, no problema.”
“Don’t you have any gloves?” I continued in Spanish.
“No.”
“Here, take my gloves and hat.” (I was close to home and knew I could put up my hood and keep my hands in my pockets.)
He tried to put the gloves on, but couldn’t manage to get his fingers in correctly.
“What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for the bus.”
“This is very small street and no buses come here. You need to walk over there to the main street to get a bus. Where do you want to go?”
“Downtown Minneapolis.”
It was clear he was drunk. I tried to find out if he had any family or friends that I could call on my cell phone, but I couldn’t get much out of him, not even his name. He wouldn’t keep the gloves on, and all he was wearing was a shirt and thin cotton sweater with a windbreaker – no winter coat. I was concerned that he would freeze to death if he didn’t get inside.
I decided to walk him over to the main thoroughfare half a block away. When we got there, I was relieved to see a bus stop a block away. I pointed it out, but he showed no interest in going there, so I decided to walk him to it, meanwhile frantically thinking what to do, in an unfamiliar city where I didn’t even know which way downtown was. Also, buses don’t take American Express :-)
As we walked along a remaining short row of single-family homes on this major artery, we came to one where two men were chipping ice in the driveway (an elderly man and, apparently, his adult son.) I asked them which way to go to get downtown, and told them I had found the guy and wanted to get him to a homeless shelter and did they have a dollar so I could put him on the bus? The son told me which way was downtown, then pulled out his wallet and with a smile gave me two bucks, “in case I needed more.”
I took my new friend by the arm and we walked to the bus stop. A young woman with a little girl was just getting off a bus, and the driver was telling her what bus to take downtown. I told her the situation and asked her if she knew of any homeless shelters. She mentioned several social service agencies, but I didn’t have any confidence that I could find them. “Call 211,” she said, “it’s a central information number for social services.” “I have an out of town cell phone,” I replied, “Do you know the area code and full number?” She rattled it off without hesitation, “651-291-0211.”
I called and they connected me with a shelter that agreed to take him. It was located next to the Greyhound station, so I figured the bus driver could tell me how to get there. Feeling confident now that I would not be wandering aimlessly around downtown Minneapolis, I asked the woman how much the fare was. “$1.25,” she replied. “I’ve only got 2 bucks,” I said. “I’ll pay for him,” she said, “Look out, he’s wandering off.”
I retrieved my amigo and sat him down on the bench. A bus came along within 10 minutes. The driver said she’d tell us where to change to get to the Greyhound station and gave us transfers. I parked my friend in a seat and he appeared to doze off. Every so often he would start talking to me, but I couldn’t really understand what he was saying. He kept talking about “errors” but I couldn’t get clear which (or whose) errors.
It was an express bus and we were soon downtown. The young mother pointed out the social service building that she had mentioned and I decided to go there rather than hassle with transferring to another bus. I thanked her for her help.
The bus driver expressed her appreciation to both of us and asked me how I was going to get home. “I’ll get a cab,” I said, “and my friends can pay the fare when I get there.” “I’ll give you a free pass for the bus,” she said. “You can pick it up over there for the return trip.” She gave the young mother a free pass as well.
My friend and I got off the bus and walked two blocks. The information desk sent us to Room 3700, the Multicultural office. A Muslim woman with a charming accent said she would call a Spanish interpreter and we sat down to wait. My friend continued to talk, mostly unintelligibly, as we sat with people with all shades of skin color and various exotic languages and outfits.
Within ten minutes the Spanish interpreter came out to take my friend to her office. I shook his hand, said “Que Dios le bendiga!” (May God bless you!) I gave the interpreter the hat and gloves, she thanked me for bringing him, and I headed back to the bus stop. I was warm enough with my scarf and hood and my hands in my pockets, the bus came within 10 minutes, and I was back in the suburbs in no time.
You can call it coincidence, but I think it was a divine appointment. I had been thinking it was crazy to be going to Minnesota when my time to pack was so short, but now I know why I was there.
The efficiency of the whole process was miraculous too.
Although I have the usual fear of entanglement in other people’s messy affairs, I knew I had plenty of time that day, I had my cell phone to let my friends know where I was, and I just didn’t think I could go to sleep if I had to think about that guy out in the cold, possibly freezing to death.
So my ministry in Spanish began sooner than expected.
I hope you enjoy the book.
Cordially,
Pamela Hanson
p.s. God does answer prayer:-) The original copy turned up immediately upon my return home. I had been looking for a red cover, but the book was upside down and the back cover was yellow.
pjh
posted by pamela at 1:19 PM
1 Comments:
This is a great story. I enjoyed it when you told it to me that day. Certainly not a coincidence!
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