Mine is Quechua. I speak a teeny bit of it and it has magical powers here (okay, theologically I know it's not magic, just go along with the literary device!). This morning we gave a ride to three girls that recently started attending our church. When we were dropping them off at their house a filthy drunk with a shovel approached the car, yelling and waving the shovel agressively. Paul and I thought he might start hitting our truck. "Girls, get out on the other side of the car!" While they got out I distracted the drunk on my side of the car. "Allillanchu, papay!" (How are you, my daddy?) I asked him in Quechua, not sure that he even spoke Quechua. I figured if he didn't understand Quechua he'd just assume I was speaking in English and it wouldn't make any difference. He suddenly looked a bit less violent. "Iman sutiki?" (What's your name?) I asked. The angry shovel-wielding man was suddenly smiling. I told him to watch out for a bus coming by and he said jokingly, "Those buses don't kill, I do!" We continued exchanging pleasantries (okay, I guess he wasn't really pleasant!) and he mentioned how much Paul has grown while the girls escaped to their home. "Tupananchiskama!" (see you later!) I said as I drove off marveling at the power of language.