Clear In Any Language

Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you. Eph 4:32

I don’t mind admitting it. I didn’t want to touch him. He sat on the edge of the bed with his leg elevated. His knee looked swollen and red with infection. Yellow pus oozed from between the stitches. My nose drew up. I felt my guts tighten. I swallowed the bile in the back of my throat and approached him.

"Sir," I said, certain I knew the answer he’d give. "Do you speak English?"

He shook his head. I saw fear in his eyes.

I should have introduced myself, made an attempt at friendliness and tried to gain his trust, but I didn’t. I performed a rough assessment careful to keep my gloved hands as far away from the festering wound as possible. After checking his vital signs I sent my partner to the truck for the stretcher and quickly wrapped the wound with dressings. I just wanted to get the job done. Get out. Get on to something else. After all, I thought, this guy doesn’t deserve my help. He’s just like all the rest of them. He’s using us. He doesn’t belong here!

My patient seemed to read my mind. He murmured something and tried to stand, but he didn’t get far. Pain gripped him. He grimaced. His red-rimmed eyes filled with tears. He fell back onto the dirty sheets and squeezed his thigh, crying. I couldn’t understand what he said but it didn’t matter. The pain on his face would have been clear in any language. The poor guy was hurting. He needed help.

Suddenly it occurred to me what I was doing. I paused and stared deep into his panicked eyes, and instantly my vision cleared. I wasn’t looking at an alien, I was looking at another man. He had a handsome face. And brown eyes. He probably even had a name.

"My God," I murmured, "forgive me."

I slowed down, finished dressing the wound, and then paused and looked at him.

"Amigo—" I tapped my chest. Shook my head. "I’m sorry, friend. My name is Pat."

I saw his face relax. His eyes widened. The corners of his mouth drew up in a timid smile. "Si," he said. A gentle nod. "Me llamo German."

Our ride to the ER was simple. After starting an IV and rechecking his wound I sat back and continued my feeble attempt at communication. I stuttered a little, shrugged a lot, and occasionally shook my head, but a couple of times I even laughed. And so did Herman. He still hurt—I could tell by the way he gnashed his teeth every time the ambulance hit a bump—but his fear and distrust? They’d vanished.

As we arrived at the hospital it occurred to me that my patient still smelled. His wound still reeked and his clothes still stank, but I no longer cared. I’d made a new friend. His name was Herman. We’d shared a friendly moment and, in doing so, healed a lifetime of bitterness and distrust.

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