Before we moved into our current neighborhood, we lived in a highly hispanic town. I’d say it was about 90% in this town, and there was a big divide between the white anglo population and the hispanic. We lived on a flag lot where there were only one set of houses on each side of us, and we shared a private lane with both our neighbors. We were the only English speaking family.

The adults on the right side of us didn’t speak any English and we had a very difficult time communicating with them. We had to talk through their children or try to communicate through the broken English and hand signals. We got to the point where we just gave up trying to get to know them better.

Most of their children were older, but one of them was older than our son by two years so we started inviting him to go the movies with us. We would always pay when we invited and buy the kids a popcorn and a drink and let them sit up front by themselves. It wasn’t all the time, but often enough that it became a fun routine.

The young boy didn’t get to go to many movies and didn’t have many experiences to draw from because his parents did have any money. His father had a landscaping business, but the cost of homes in California was at its highest. In order to pay their mortgage, the family had run plumbing to their unattached garage and created a mini apartment to rent out. In addition, there was another couple who lived in their home as well.

I’ll never forget the first time we took the young man out to dinner with us. He didn’t know how to act of what to order. We had to gently let him know that he was welcome to order anything he wanted, and so the hamburger and fries that he ordered was a big deal to him.

Over the years that we lived there, we rarely did more than wave at the parents of the family. But we became very familiar with the young man, and continued to invite him to movies. One day, he came to our door all dressed up in a suit, new cowboy boots, and a cowboy hat to invite us to share in his celebration of First Holy Communion.

I embraced him with great excitement and told him how proud I was of him, and then I told him that I would send our son over in a few minutes to join him at his celebration. After he left, we put together a hand made card and put a ten dollar bill in it, and I sent my son over there. I’ll honestly never forget the smile on his face when he saw that ten dollars. It was incredible.

After we moved, we often called and continued to invite him to our home or to the movies. The movie theatre in that town had the best movie prices and we often drove the extra fifteen minutes just to save a few bucks. The last time we picked him up, his mother and father came out of the house deliberately, and offered a hand and a warm thank you to us. It was a moment of understanding that transcended language.

It made me realize that building relationships goes beyond words. Because of the language barrier with our neighbors, we were forced to go beyond words and make our actions meaningful. It took longer and was more effort, but it was worth it in the end.