Already flustered, we entered the theater-cum-church in Berlin at 11:15 on Sunday morning. A gregarious friend from back home recommended we check out this service, as the pastor had connections with the church we attend in Los Angeles.

The stickler for details I’m not realized quickly I had misunderstood our dear friend. The morning service did not, in fact, provide any sort of English translation. And why would it? A kind yet not overly helpful girl handed us a bulletin. My husband, coming off a lecture from yours-truly (something about asking questions instead of looking things up on his smart phone), softly said to the girl, “We don’t speak German. Is there anyone who can translate?”

Before she could respond, a woman piped up from behind us. She was sitting by herself, had arrived early, poised and quiet.

“I can translate for you.”

Brief introductions revealed that it was her, Ann’s, second week at the church. She had just left her job and was searching for her true calling in her work, in her life. Ann excused herself and came back moments later with paper cups of steaming coffee and some hard sugar-coated cookies.

“Can I sit between you so you can both hear me?”

My husband and I exchanged glances, struck with the generosity of this stranger.

For the next hour, she translated every word that the pastor delivered, flawlessly. Spoke to us in lyrical words over the German prayers, readings, even hymns; told us when to stand up and sit down again.

After the service was over, the three of us sat in silence for a moment. Then Ann said, anxiously, “I’m so sorry, I was not prepared to do this. Perhaps if you visit again, I can be ready for you and do better.”

We thanked her profusely, repeatedly; offered to take her out for lunch—or at least coffee? But she quickly left, fading away into the dismal Berlin afternoon. What a gift she had given to us, despite our naivety!