Picante Sans Frontieres

Every so often I receive an email from Medecines Sans Frontieres, the French branch of Doctors Without Borders. I suppose I should be flattered they think I can read French, but I cannot even figure out which link at the end would unsubscribe me.

This makes me consider how often I fake it. I hate having to admit when I do not know something.

Years ago a wonderful aroma lured me into a church kitchen. We had taken a youth group to Mexico, and our hosts were preparing lunch. The women cooking the meal asked me something in Spanish. I can usually get the sense of simple things written in Spanish, but the spoken language defeats me, mostly with its rapid pace. Still, their smiles and gestures seemed to communicate they were offering me a taste. I nodded. One of them handed me a big spoon. I headed for the nearest pot. “No! No! No!” they all said, looks of horror crossing their faces. They followed this word, fortunately the same in both our languages, with a torrent of explanation. One of them kept saying “Picante! Muy muy picante!” I had no idea what that meant, but assuming my customary air of confident knowing, I gulped down a spoonful.

And nearly died. The sheer spicy heat of that stew. It literally burned the roof of my mouth and made my nose run. My heart rate accelerated to Sprinting Up Stairs level. I sped-walked to a sink and started to drink cold water straight from the tap. “No no no no!” they all said again. One of them handed me a soft tortilla and indicated I needed to eat it immediately. This would have been the smartest thing I could have done. But, again with the arrogance of needing-to-appear-to-know, I turned her down and tried drowning my taste buds. It took days for me to recover any sense of taste or smell and, frankly, the desire to eat anything anyway.

This morning I sat with a man burdened almost beyond bearing by a thing I have never experienced. As I listened to him haltingly share his feelings I caught myself wanting to appear to understand him perfectly well, to appear to have the wisdom already to know all about him and his situation.

Then I got smarter...marginally. I asked a couple of questions, one of which was so naive it made him give me a funny look. But I didn't care. Because his explanation of a follow-up to that question suddenly opened his truth to me in a way I not only had not understood, but had not suspected was possible.

Thanks God, for beating me upside the head enough to make me finally admit my ignorance.