I needed new guitar strings.
It was a cold day in April. Not winter cold, but the apprehensive, start-of-spring cold. The lockdowns had recently begun to alleviate in Budapest. This meant that stores other than grocers, gas stations, and pharmacies could now be open again. As long as we were home before curfew, we could go into those stores—provided we were wearing masks, of course.
I just needed some new guitar strings. It had been about five months since our family moved to Hungary. Most of the winter was spent in our mostly empty fourth-floor apartment due to a number of factors such as the cold, the pandemic restrictions, and the unfamiliarity with our new surroundings. Luckily, back in February, our refrigerator-sized crate from America had arrived. In it we had packed some clothes, a few of Judah’s toys, and some personal effects we wanted to bring with us. I had packed my acoustic guitar. But the cold winter on a cargo ship sailing across the Atlantic Sea had made the strings not so easily playable. So, as soon as the lockdowns began to be lifted, I searched online for the nearest “hangszerbolt” — instrument store.
In April of 2021 I was about 12 weeks into what was literally called, a “super intensive course” in the Hungarian language. Of course, there were no classes available in person, so all of this was done over Zoom video conferencing online. Every day, Monday through Thursday, I locked myself in our small spare bedroom, and spent 3 hours in a virtual classroom learning Hungarian with 10 other people. Before arriving in Hungary, I spoke no Hungarian. I did know how to count, some colors, and maybe around 100 common nouns and adjectives. You know, like what most two-year-olds are familiar with. So every day, at 10:00am Central European Time, I hit the ground sprinting, learning the foundational basics of what is considered to be one of the top five hardest languages in the world to learn.
Hungarian is an agglutinative language. Simply put, that means that words and phrases are formed by starting with a root word, and then “building” on to it with multiple suffixes, and sometimes prefixes. Almost like using Legos. You start with one word “brick,” and depending on who or what is acting, you add the appropriate suffix. English does this occasionally, like when you add the “-ing” suffix to the root word “build,” to transform the verb into the noun “building.” But English does this sparingly, and it’s fairly straightforward. In Hungarian it is incredibly complex. In theory, a word can become infinitely long, depending on the situation and the grammar. This, along with the accusative case, definite and indefinite conjugations, formal and informal conjugations, a complex imperative mode, and 43 letters in the alphabet, make it incredibly difficult for a 30 year-old monolingual American such as myself to learn.
I hope that last paragraph didn’t bore you too much. But that has been my life since January of 2021. And in April of 2021, I had just learned enough to finally understand why Hungarian was considered such a hard language. When you only speak one language, every language seems hard! But once you finally learn enough of the basics to fully grasp the complexity of the target language that you are trying to learn, it can be a bit discouraging. I remember those first few weeks, and months, of language study. Headaches and migraines almost every day. Mental exhaustion and fatigue. Feelings of inadequacy and even stupidity.
I prayed (and still pray) every day that God would supernaturally help me to learn this language in a way which my flesh was not able to do so. I remember some days being so discouraged after three hours of learning things that my American brain just couldn’t understand, that after exiting the Zoom classroom I just got down on my knees before the Lord and wept. I told Him I couldn’t do it. I asked Him why I was the one he sent here, because clearly I wasn’t smart enough to learn this computer-code of a language. And every time I brought my struggles to the Lord, I felt Him reminding me that He was with me. Lo, even unto the end of the world. The Holy Spirit would bring to my remembrance verses like these:
1 Thessalonians 5:24 Faithful is he that calleth you, who also will do it.
Philippians 4:13 I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.
Psalm 27:14 Wait on the LORD: be of good courage, and he shall strengthen thine heart: wait, I say, on the LORD.
2 Corinthians 12:9-10 And he said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me. Therefore I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecutions, in distresses for Christ's sake: for when I am weak, then am I strong.
Those verses, along with time before the Lord, would usually give me the grace I needed to get through that day. But every day the challenge started anew. Every morning, I was confronted with the reality of the mountain before me, with no end in sight and only a couple of steps into my impossible journey. Some days were better than others, of course. But every day was a mental struggle fought between my ears and on my knees.
Music has often been an escape for me. A way to pause whatever is happening in life and just be still. Playing or writing songs of worship and praise to God has always been one of my favorite activities. Living in a new culture during a pandemic in which most things were closed meant I had very few free-time hobbies available. So playing the guitar became very important to escape the mental fog I was in every day by early afternoon. That’s why I needed some new guitar strings.
I had just recently learned how to navigate the big city using the public transportation. Although at first it was a bit intimidating, I very quickly began to enjoy the adventure of learning new ways to get around the city without owning a car. Being from a midwestern small town made this new adventure even more of a novelty—jumping from buses, to trams, to trolleys, to subways, and even sometimes to trains.
I used Google Maps to find a route to the music store and started out on my journey. I waited at the bus stop along with a few other people. As the bright red trolley-bus arrived, we all put our masks on before boarding, as was mandatory. You know, it’s quite hard to learn a new language in a world where everyone must cover their mouth with a mask. It muffles the words, making it hard to hear, and doesn’t allow you to try and read the lips of the speaker. But maybe even worse, it makes it impossible to see the people’s countenances. There are no smiles, no frowns. Just eyes, looking down at glowing rectangles, or up into the distance to avoid conversation.
I rode the bright red trolley-bus for a while until I came to my stop. I got off, and then walked until I found the music store. Both of the employees were helping other guests when I went inside, so I looked around a bit. It’s hard not to peruse an instrument store and look at all the guitars and music accessories. After a bit, an employee came over to me and started speaking to me in Hungarian. I didn’t understand a muffled word he had said behind his mask, but as a foreigner you learn to read the situational context. Clearly he was asking me if I needed any help, and I began to use what little, basic Hungarian I had learned over the last 12 weeks to try and communicate. Of course, I had also looked up a few key words on Google Translate before arriving.
Obviously, the guy knew immediately that I was a foreigner, but he basically understood what I was after and took me to the guitar strings. He must not have spoken English either, because usually store clerks or restaurant waiters in Budapest will just automatically switch to English when they hear a foreigner butchering their poor language. After a bit of back and forth, pointing, and gesturing, the guy handed me the strings I was after.
Before I could check out, another man came over and interrupted. He was a bit older, perhaps the store manager or even the owner. With a bit of a puzzled look on his face, he asked me in plain English, “Where are you from?” A little sigh of relief escaped my mask to hear some words I easily understood. “America,” I responded. He offered a kind, obligatory compliment about my Hungarian, and asked why I was here and why I was learning the language. After all, most foreigners who work and live in Budapest don’t take the time to actually learn one of the hardest languages in the world.
I summarized why we had moved here, and even got to briefly talk to him about God. Then I told him that I had started studying the language in January. With a look of shock on his face, he exclaimed, “Three months? That’s it? Man, your pronunciation is really good!”
I was shocked and humbled. God knew I needed some encouragement that day. It’s a kind statement from a native speaker like that that instantly makes all the head aches and migraines worth it. But it wasn’t that statement that cemented that moment into my memory, it was the next. He said he knew how hard the language was and that for foreigners it’s incredibly difficult to learn. But then, this random Hungarian man who runs a music store said something I wasn’t expecting. He said:
“Thank you for learning our language.”
My eyes started to well up a little bit when I heard that. I had to blink off the tears, like I’m doing right now while typing this. “Thank you for learning our language.” This man, who I may never see again in my life, thanked me for putting in the time to learn his native language. Hungarians know how hard their language is. Actually, it’s a point of pride. Very few languages share the same roots and history as Hungarian. And because of this, Hungarians aren’t used to foreigners putting the time in to learning it. Of course some people have, but not a lot. And when they see a foreigner put the time and effort into learning it, it makes them excited—even proud.
As I rode the trolley-bus home, I thought and prayed about this interaction. I thanked God because He knew I needed a pick-me-up. But I just couldn’t get those words out of my head. “Thank you for learning our language”. Just hearing those sincere words made it all worth it. The hours upon hours of head-splitting study and memorization. Worth it. Because at least one Hungarian man understood and recognized the sacrifice that I was putting into it.
It has been over a year since that interaction, and now about a year and a half of learning this language. I’m currently at an early intermediate level, which is enough to get around, but not enough to watch a movie and understand everything. At this level, you understand a lot, but you are still trying to translate everything you hear as fast as you can. The goal, eventually, is to hear and understand immediately, in real-time, and then reply without thinking in English and then translating to Hungarian. That just takes time and practice.
In May, I was able to apply for citizenship at the immigration office while only speaking Hungarian. I had to prepare immensely for that interview, but it’s progress. Language learning is tough because it is a thousand-mile journey, and you can only possibly travel a few miles each day. In order to not be constantly frustrated about where you are not, you have to constantly look backward and see how far you’ve come. The last year, month, and even day is proof of incremental progress, and that’s what you have to focus on to continue your long journey towards eventual fluency.
But, back to the point of this story. In missiology classes, our pastors and missionaries always faithfully remind us that “the language of a country is the key to their culture.” I remember being told this countless times by my pastor, and former missionary, Jeff Bartell. I knew this in my head, logically. Learning the language needs to be the priority of a missionary when he lands on the field. But it wasn’t until this interaction that I understood this experientially. When you commit to the sacrifice of learning the target language of the people you are trying to reach, you instantly gain a rapport with them. You aren’t some swindler or charlatan who showed up to gather a crowd or to make a buck. You’re in it for the long haul. You don’t expect them to learn your language to talk to you. You took it upon yourself to learn their language so that you can talk to them. And that gains you not only their respect, but also their audience.
Jesus left His home and came to meet us where we were at. He spent 30 years growing, living, and learning among us. He felt what we felt and saw what we saw. He spoke how we spoke. He met us down here. He didn’t make us ascend up to meet Him. Likewise, it is our duty as Christians to meet people where they are at to share Christ with them, especially as missionaries. The most important part of that is to make the commitment to learn their language. You may never be an advanced speaker. But if you try, it will go a long way with the people you are trying to reach.
I have a missionary friend in Ecuador who once told me a story about a veteran missionary who had been there on the field for many years. He told me, humbly and kindly, that this veteran missionary’s Spanish was absolutely awful! But, he said, the people loved him anyway. Why? Because he cared enough about them to try.
It doesn’t matter if you are 22 years old and going to the field for the first time, or 55. It doesn’t matter if languages come easy to you or not. What matters is, do you care enough about the people that you are trying to reach, enough that you will sacrifice your time, energy, and brain to learn their heart language? Even if you are never amazing at it? Even if no one ever mistakes you for a native speaker? Because it is exactly that sacrifice that your target people will recognize as a proof of your sincerity and love.
It’s been said a million times that “people don’t care how much you know until they know how much you care.” I can speak from experience that one way—perhaps the biggest way—to prove to people that you care is to take the time to learn their heart language. Will it be hard? Yes. I can say without hyperbole that it is the hardest thing that I have ever done in my entire life. But it is worth it. Not just to hear “thank you,” but to gain their respect and audience so you can then share the ultimate reason why you came to their country—the blessed gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ.
And, truth be told, it will be easier the next time you need to buy some new guitar strings.
Kale Horvath is a missionary to Budapest, Hungary. He was sent from First Baptist Church in New Philadelphia, OH.
