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Last Saturday, as beautiful, fat snowflakes floated down behind swirling, colored panes of glass, I listened to the familiar sounds of Mass being done in Spanish. I'm not Catholic, but have been to and even participated in enough Masses to be familiar with the rituals and rhythms of it. I was in town for the horribly sad funeral of a student, his brother, his parents and two cousins. I was surrounded by members of the community where I work, but rarely see outside the setting of school.

Because I don't speak Spanish, there were long portions where my mind wandered and I just watched the people around me. I was a guest here, an outsider, and yet I wasn't. Here I was with people I know, sharing something we had never shared before. Here I was worshiping a God I know well in a language I speak but a very little. Here were the expected songs of the Mass lifted up with an accordion and a south of the border flavor.

Slowly I felt my heart stretching. Despite all my efforts not to box God in, I had. I had forgotten to see God living in other times and places where I never go. I had forgotten to hear the prayers that He hears in all the languages in which he hears them. I think in my mind I knew that He is present to all no matter where they are, but I hadn't felt it in my heart. He seemed bigger in that church with that group of people. He seemed more beyond me, more "able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine."

I also realized I had let the people of my school community become one dimensional as well. I had reduced them only to "student" or "parent." They are worshipers, mourners, seekers, journiers. Their joys, sorrows, desires and doubts are much bigger pieces of who they are than are homework assignments or reading scores.

Parts of the Mass were done in English, but for that day, God spoke the most clearly to me in Spanish.