I am a grammar nerd.

I have played this game for hours: Someone suggests I write a sentence meeting certain requirements (say, one including an adverbial clause, two prepositional phrases, a compound subject, an appositive, a reflexive pronoun, and a transitive verb in the perfect tense), and I do it.

I love that.

There are times when it really comes in handy. In an English grammar and composition class. On a million-dollar grammar game show.

And on the mission field. Because I understand the rules and nuances of my heart language, I comprehended them in Polish. I went right to work. First, I memorized the vocabulary lists assigned to me and practiced the useful phrases in my Berlitz book. Then, I labeled every noun in our apartment according to my color-coded sticky-note lexicon. Irritating several co-language learners around me—I actually studied and memorized the endings of every declension and conjugation.  My first month.

And then I began to play my sentence game in Polish.

I admit it. I’m grammar-weird. And it works for me.

But my methods were nonsense to Boyfriend-Who-Is-My-Husband. He’s not grammar-weird; he’s grammar-handsome. Unfortunately, that did him little good as he struggled to memorize and pronounce the words in his new daily glossary.

Certainly, among those of us who were studying Polish together, there were diverse levels of ability. Some had several months head start. Some had accents to contend with. Some were unable to make certain Polish sounds. Some found it relatively easy. Our supervisor told us that the typical Polish tongue could be compared to a gold-medal Olympic gymnast. And the typical American? A 300-pound couch potato.

At first, for me, it was the fun kind of challenge. I rose to it, but—stuck inside for the bulk of my time—I chose to focus on survival Polish. The language of grocery stores, trams and busses, neighborhood kiosks, baby-sitters, landlords.

One day, my motivation veered in a new direction. I came home to our year-old Giant, who stayed behind with a kind, young Polish woman as we attended our language class. As she left, I gathered my little one up in my arms and we settled in to read a bit before his nap. He pointed at the pictures and giggled as I told the story. And then I asked him where his pacifier was.

A blank stare.

I repeated the question.

He cocked his tiny head to the side as his forehead creased.

An idea. “Gdzie jest smoczek?”  I asked.

He vanished. And within fifteen seconds, he returned, binky in hand. My stomach plummeted to my feet. I had no desire to speak better than of my teammates. I wanted only to be proficient at the words I needed. And I needed to speak to my son. So, from that day on, I threw myself into language with a new vigor.

God chose to grant me comprehension in general. If I heard a word used once, I remembered it. If I heard it twice, I could use it.

A blessing? Certainly. But it presented a unique set of challenges.

BWIMH was a great joke among some of the students. An actual Kaczmarek who didn’t speak Polish. He chuckled along with his roasters, but the humor dissolved quickly. Then, in language class, our teacher constantly belittled him. She would lean into his face and trill her “r,” demanding he follow her example. He could only gargle in answer, doing his best, and causing my heart to ache.

Worst of all, though, the professor compared him to me. “Your wife gets it. What’s your problem?” Most days, BWIMH’s mind was so overwhelmed that he missed her insulting challenges. But when he caught them, the effect was heart-crushing.

And we took it home with us. In the warm sunlight on our den floor, I often wondered, should I stop learning and focus only on helping him?

When I did offer to study with him, sometimes he smiled and took me up on it.

But sometimes his shoulders slumped. And sometimes he left to take a walk with his new English-speaking friends. I could only pray that they would help him.

Meanwhile, I remained inside, playing, studying, and resenting the barriers that kept me from using my new language to build friendships. It got worse before it got better.

But I’ll share some resolution now. Looking back, I can see that God used these language struggles to cause BWIMH and me to cling to Him.

Each of us.

Without the other.

A missionary cannot survive the ministry if she depends on the other humans around her. But then, can anyone? Should anyone who’s chosen to follow Christ lean on the strength of frail, flawed humanity alone? No.

Should we think that we can offer help so excellent that it can fix the problems of our loved ones? No.

Put on your retrospective glasses with me and search your past for those moments when God used your circumstances to cause you to need Him like never before. Or those moments when you had to watch someone dear suffer while you stood by, helpless.

Maybe you’re experiencing one right now.

Let’s take a moment to share how God has (and will continue to) work all things together for the good of those who love Him and are called according to His purposes.

Let’s pray for each other.

It’s your turn now. Let me hear you.