This One Time, In Rome...

Almost ten years ago, I was in Europe for Oklahoma Christian's Vienna Studies Program. In early November, the 30 of us took a group trip to Italy. We happened to be in Rome on a Sunday, so our sponsor, the illustrious Papa Baird, looked up the local Church of Christ and figured out how to get there for services. Sort of. See, Papa Baird had earned his reputation for getting lost honestly, and we ended up taking an extra bus or two, and then hiking around a huge block when we could have just crossed the street.

We were a little embarrassed to be walking in just as the preacher was walking to the pulpit--we'd clearly missed the three songs and a prayer, two songs and a prayer, and communion. But our Roman brothers and sisters (about 35-40 of them, if I estimate correctly) very helpfully paused to find seats for all of us (they had to bring in extra folding chairs and put a few of us in the aisles), and even brought the communion trays back out so we could partake. The nice lady behind me even helped me figure out that Giacomo (I think) meant James so I could follow along with the lesson by translating from Italian (using my tentative grasp of Spanish, which is surprisingly similar to Italian, as the bridge to English). It really helped to know the text he was preaching from, and I was surprised by how many key words I could figure out.

After the sermon, we were swarmed by friendly Italians who seemed genuinely thrilled to have us there. I think a few of us even went to lunch with some of them. (I was on my way to the Catacombs, so I'm glad I wasn't invited because I would have had to decline--it was our last day and I was too excited about seeing the Catacombs.) I chatted with a handful of very nice people who made it clear (much cheek-pinching and Bella, Bella's) that they thought I was too cute for trying to speak my clumsy patois of Spanish and all the Italian I knew (grazie and prego was about it at the time). We made ourselves understood--they all knew some English, and we were patient with each other. It was a fun experience.

It wasn't till we were on the bus to the Catacombs that someone, probably Papa Baird, told me the rest of the story. Evidently, one of the little Italian ladies in the back was quietly crying after we arrived, and somone from our group asked her what was wrong. It turned out that they were tears of joy. See, just a minute or so before the 30 of us walked in, they had prayed that God would fill the empty seats in their sanctuary. Just think, if we'd arrived on time, we would've just been some foreign students joining them for services. Instead, our jumbled plans made us tools that God used to show His children that prayer is powerful and effective.

I've never had the opportunity to return to that congregation, but if I'm ever in Rome again, I'll make it a priority. They may not remember me, but I'll remember them. It's a rare, humbling thing to be so obviously used for God's purposes. I wonder sometimes if that lady tells her grandchildren about the time God sent her church a miracle in the form of a motley group of American students. I know mine will hear the story every chance I get.