By Lynn Hutchinson

Thirty-two years ago, I came to Portugal with my husband and young children to study language before going to work in a Portuguese-speaking country in Africa for five years. After that, we returned to French-speaking countries where we ministered for more than 20 years. 

When my husband and I recently returned to Portugal, we hoped that we could quickly regain this language that we learned so long ago. Each day, we have plunged into conversations with the people of our community and tried to use all the Portuguese we could summon without reverting to English. Each day we have remembered more, understood more and managed to say more.  

I thank God that the Portuguese “folder” in the back of the “file drawer” of my brain was not lost and is now moving back to the front of the drawer. I also feel such gratitude for the gracious people around us who listen patiently and aid our progress in such pleasant ways.  

 In these first months, I have been reminded of what beloved community looks like and how it can grow even when words are lacking. When I attended the Wednesday night service at our Portuguese Baptist church, I was greeted by women and teenagers alike with “beijinhos” (“little kisses” shared with friends). At a worship service, it was invigorating to hear a familiar song with a whole new rhythm, punctuated by clapping between the phrases and joyful smiles on the faces of our diverse congregation. That song was “Castelo Forte é o Nosso Deus,” or “A Mighty Fortress is Our God,” and there was palpable joy in this shared experience.   

One Sunday afternoon, I showed up for a planned prayer walk. I wasn’t sure what to expect or to what extent I would be able to participate. I was paired with Julia, who spoke only Portuguese, but there was no hesitation or awkwardness. She related warmly to me as a sister in Christ. As we walked through the streets, she explained that this was her neighborhood.  When we paused to pray near the entrance of several-storied apartment buildings, she told me of any people she knew who lived there. When we passed a small bakery or shop, she greeted the owners warmly. It was clear that she was at home in her neighborhood and cared about each one.  

Twice Julia and I met elderly women who lived alone. Each was pleased to have an opportunity for conversation and content to hear that we were from a local church that loved our neighborhood and were happy to pray if they desired. When we paused near an apartment overlooking the train track, she explained that many residents were students. With real knowledge, she spoke of the difficulties and challenges many of them faced–drugs, depression and a kind of searching for answers. At this point she asked me if I would like to pray. As I prayed about the challenges she had described and stumbled with the lack of Portuguese words, a bit of French and English slipped in. And somehow it didn’t matter because, fueled by God’s love, Julia builds beloved community as naturally as she breathes and her beloved community includes me.