I don't know if anyone ever wanted anything more than I wanted to learn Spanish. I believed then, as now, that all people will spend eternity somewhere. Hell is real, and heaven is real. They are far more than just stories we tell in Sunday School. I believe that God called me to preach and share the gospel. My obedience would make an eternal difference in the lives of the people where God would take me.

I knew I had no language ability, but it seemed that God had enormously impressed on me the need to preach in Arequipa, Peru. To be honest with you, I wondered if I was making a mistake, but I was so excited that I could hardly contain myself. 

We spent that first week getting settled in. Everything was so utterly different than anything I had ever known. All the streets and houses looked the same. We couldn't pronounce the street names. Of course, there was no GPS back then. I couldn't get my bearings to drive around. 

The grocery stores were very different; measurements, speed limits, distances, and road signs. 

I determined to be happy where God had put me. It was my job to be the cheerleader in our family. Betty was having a tough time with it all. The washing machine was a small apartment machine, the largest we could get! There was no dryer. The stove was smaller than what she was used to cooking on. The electrical current was 220, so if we plugged in anything we brought from the USA, it would burn up.

Maybe the most challenging part for Betty was that David, our baby, would be left alone with a lady who spoke no English. David was one year old. Also, this strange woman would be in Betty's house alone with her baby for hours.

Then, of course, there was the language school there in Queretaro, Mexico. We drove off early for classes that started at 8 am. At school, they separated us. That scared Betty as well. Betty was in a room with three other ladies and a teacher. I was in another room with about the same number of students. 

There was no English explanation of anything we were going over. It was simply "repeat after me" and get corrected all day long. 

After 50 minutes, we got our break, and Betty came running. We were together for about 10 minutes before being separated again.

Then there was an hour of phonetics class each day. It was one hour with an American lady who had lived for over 60 in Mexico. Her Spanish was perfect. We were told "where" to put our tongues in our mouths for one hour.

The redneck had no idea how to do that. She would question me. Austin, where is your tongue when you say that letter? My answer was, "in my mouth!" She asked me, where do you feel your tongue? 

Is it on the roof of your mouth, the back of your teeth, or exactly where? I never had any idea. The rest of the class loved learning where to put their tongue. I never got it till today.

We had to memorize two Bible verses per week in a language we couldn't understand. Then they graded us on how well we could pronounce the words as we said the verse. At first, this terrified me, but I learned that all the language school was doing was for my best, and I loved it.

Each Saturday, there would be a chapel service. It was a practice service for all the students. Someone taught a Bible verse, another led singing, another preached, another made announcements, etc. Then the teacher took about the same amount of time we needed to do the "service" to correct our Spanish, our pronunciations, etc.

There were so many ways to say just the letter "n." The teacher was rough on everyone. One day she told Betty to repeat a word because she had said it wrongly. Betty was stressed being in the class. Betty required the teacher to tell her exactly what she had done wrong.

Betty proceeded to argue with the teacher. Betty claimed to be saying it right, and the teacher was wrong. The teacher held the opposite view. It wasn't very comfortable, because the whole class was there, 12 or 15 people. Everyone else meekly obeyed but not Betty.

So there we were in a stalemate. The teacher wouldn't back down. Betty wouldn't either. Betty adamantly said she was right, while the expert was wrong. 

Finally, I just said Betty repeat the word. She said no, so there I was in front of the whole class and visiting missionaries, and I had to tell Betty that I wasn't kidding. Betty finally said it, and we all could breathe again.

The four and a half hours of the five-day class was very stressful for all but especially Betty. She didn't want to be in Mexico. She didn't like to learn another language. She cried every day due to the sadness I was causing her by having our family on the mission field. She had left all and would eventually love everything we did, but her cross was rugged, and her burden was heavy. 

After class, we were to find someone to practice Spanish with. I had no idea where to go. I figured I could try to talk to Alberto, but we had no words to share yet. Betty could try and talk to Guadalupe at our house.

One day Betty came upstairs and told me that Guadalupe refused to return the key she had given her in the morning before we left for school. I asked what she was saying. 

Betty was saying. "Dame el huevo!" She meant to say, "Dame la llave!" But remember, these words mean nothing to us yet. Betty came upstairs. I already knew those words and gave her the right words to say. Betty had been telling Guadalupe to give her the egg, not the key. Now understanding what she was saying, Guadlapue smiled and gave her the key gladly.

In the last chapter, I have already told you how my heart broke to learn the language and that Alberto would become my teacher, which he did.

I spent probably 40 hours a week with him. We did everything from work in his store; to go get supplies, church work, and even racquetball a couple or three times a week.

Without Alberto, who had no mercy on me, I would have never learned the language and the culture I needed to know. He made me watch Mexican TV with him when I understood nothing. He taught me jokes. He taught me sayings and things that Mexicans really believed. I learned how they felt, not how Americans talked about them.

I would like to share a couple of lessons here.

I believe the key to being a missionary is knowing that God has called you. You alone can know that. It is not the responsibility of your church, your mission, or your pastor. They can help you a great deal, but at the end of the day, it will be about how well you know God and have grown in grace. 

Following Jesus costs! I believe the cross falls harder over the family than in any other area. The world is made pretty comfortable; in other words, you can rent a lovely house and eat good food, but if you are on the other side of the world, then you suffer from missing your family. 

God's work goes against our grain. We want to be important, recognized, and appreciated, but God wants us to bear a cross. It is seldom taught any longer, but when Jesus called us, He called us to take up our cross and follow Him.

Getting embarrassed in language school is par for the course, but in our pride, we get angry because no one should treat us that way. We were respected in our home country, but now we can't even speak like 5-year-old children. 

Cross-cultural adaptation is complex. Learning not to offend and not put ourselves first is more challenging than you believe. 

I remind all of you that we go out as servants. We go out to die. It is not about us and our happiness. It is not about our glory. It is about the Lord Jesus and His honor and glory. That is hard to swallow until the Lord has broken you several times.