Left Foot. Right Foot.
March 2026 • My language studies have been progressing steadily. Each day brings its own little challenges, little successes, and little failures. But with each passing day, I can see myself improving. Words are becoming more familiar, pronunciation is beginning to feel less awkward, and simple phrases are coming to mind with increasing ease.
One of these victories came the other day when I went to the market to buy limes, hoping to ward off scurvy by adding a little vitamin C to my diet. To my delight, I managed the entire conversation in Malagasy and came home with ten limes for just 1,000 ariary, about twenty-three cents. It was indeed a little victory, but I know I’m still very much a beginner.
One morning after breakfast, one of the priests approached me with a very unexpected question. He told me that Lent was quickly approaching, and with it, Holy Week. He explained that the Diocese of Fianarantsoa was looking for priests to celebrate Holy Week in the bush and asked if I’d be willing to help.
I laughed. I told him that I was honored and that there was nothing that would make me happier than being able to celebrate Holy Week with the people there. But I pointed out the obvious problem: my Malagasy was nowhere near the level it needed to be. I could barely string three sentences together, and I hadn’t even celebrated Mass in Malagasy yet. He wasn't convinced and continued to press me. He assured me that I'd be able to do it and that they really needed priests in the bush. The thought that there were people who might not be able to have Mass on Easter Sunday was like an arrow that went straight into my little missionary heart. After all, that is why I became a missionary, and why I became a priest. So, I told him that I’d pray about it and get back to him in a week.
Over the following week, I prayed about it and talked with a few people. To me, the answer was clear: I was nowhere near ready. But then again, neither was Moses, neither was David, neither was Peter, and neither was Paul.
That week, I prayed that if I went, I could not go alone. If I went, I could only go if the Lord walked beside me. If I went, I would need His help every step of the way, with every word and every syllable. Again and again, I found myself returning to the same simple prayer: “Jesus, I trust in You.”
As the days passed, the rush and noise of my interior voice began to give way to another, quieter voice, a calming presence. My fear didn’t disappear, but I was filled with a greater hope. My anxiety wasn’t gone, but I was filled with a deeper calm.
After the week of prayer, I came to a simple conclusion: a foreign priest who spoke Malagasy poorly and mispronounced words was better than no priest at all. I asked the priest to explain to the curé in Fianarantsoa that I had only one month of Malagasy under my belt, and that if he still wanted me, then I would go.
The answer came back quickly. “No problem, see you for Holy Week!”
The next day I shifted my learning from memorizing the names of fruits, vegetables, and household items to learning words like sorona (sacrifice), hazofijaliana (tree of suffering, the cross), famindram-po (the act of moving the heart, mercy), fahasoavana (quality of being favored, grace), and, of course, the two words that roll off my tongue like a spoonful of crunchy peanut butter: hasambarana nampanantenainao (the happiness you promised).
Each day, I painstakingly worked with Madame Elizabeth on my pronunciation. We would take a section of the Mass and read it together. She would then slowly explain the meaning of the words to me before recording them. In the evening, I would repeat the recording over and over until I got the pronunciation right. It was like a slow and steady climb up a mountain. Little by little, one step at a time. Left foot. Right foot.
When I was in my twenties, I lived and worked in Africa. While I was in Uganda, I had the chance to travel to Tanzania to climb Mount Kilimanjaro, the highest peak on the continent. Kilimanjaro has one of the greatest base-to-summit rises of any mountain in the world. The free-standing volcano rises from the African plains at an altitude of around 3,000 feet to a summit of 19,341 feet, an elevation gain of more than 16,000 feet.
For most people, climbing Kilimanjaro takes about a week. You have to ascend slowly, stopping each day to allow your body to acclimatize to the altitude. With each passing day, you get a little closer to the summit, but also a little more tired, a little more worn down, and a little colder. Eventually, you stop thinking about the summit altogether. You're too tired for that. Instead, you lower your eyes to the trail in front of you and simply keep moving. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot.
Preparing for my first Mass in Malagasy felt very much the same. The final day before the summit, I practiced the Mass five times alone in my room before doing one final dry run in the chapel. I can't say that I slept very well that evening. The sounds of Malagasy words, along with Madame Elizabeth's smooth, gentle voice, continued to reverberate in my head as I lay awake, anxious about the next day.
Why was I so anxious? In truth, the words were very complicated, and I didn't understand the meaning of most of them. I drifted off to sleep with the thought that, yes, I didn't understand every word, but I knew the Mass, so my heart and my lips would celebrate where my intellect was lacking.
On the last night on the slopes of Kilimanjaro, I lay awake next to my Swiss climbing buddy. Our camp sat at about 16,000 feet, and we were both exhausted. Six days of acclimatization simply wasn't enough. Whenever my Swiss climbing buddy drifted off to sleep, I would hear him cough, then gasp, then wake up again as his body struggled to get enough oxygen. Then it would be my turn. I would fall asleep only to be awakened seconds later, gasping for air. Unable to sleep, we set out for the summit at midnight, hoping to reach it by sunrise.
I awoke with a start at 4:00 a.m. From the moment I opened my eyes, my mind was already thinking about the Mass I would celebrate in just two hours. Unable to go back to sleep, I went over my pronunciation one last time before quietly praying as I waited for morning prayer to begin at 5:45 a.m.
We finally reached the summit of Kilimanjaro just before sunrise, some six hours after we'd set out. When we arrived at the top, we were cold, exhausted, and short of breath. We took a moment to look around at our surroundings, but there wasn't much to see. Darkness still concealed the landscape around us. Our heads hurt, and my Swiss climbing buddy was beginning to wobble on his feet, so after a few quick photos, we turned around and headed down.
As we turned to begin our descent, the first rays of sunlight broke over the African plains. Within moments, the darkness gave way to light, revealing a landscape that had been there all along, hidden only by the night. We paused for one final moment to marvel at the glory and magnificence of God's creation before hurrying down the mountain as quickly as we could because my friend was beginning to show real signs of altitude sickness.
That is the best way I can describe my first Mass in Malagasy. There were hours and hours, days and days, of preparation. Then the Mass itself was over almost as quickly as it had begun, just like our time on the summit of Kilimanjaro. It wasn't until afterward that I was able to pause and reflect on the glory and magnificence of God. The other priests congratulated me. Exhausted, I thanked them as graciously as I could, while in my heart I thanked the Lord before hurrying down the mountain and off to Malagasy class. I felt joy, relief, fatigue, and gratitude.
There was only one difference. When I reached the summit, I looked around and realized that my great mountain was only a small foothill. I hadn't read the Gospel or given a homily. On the horizon, I could already see far more daunting peaks rising before me. The liturgies of Holy Thursday, Good Friday, and the Easter Vigil are among the most complex in the Church. Not only would I need to proclaim the Gospel and preach, but I would also have to lead the liturgy itself. With these new mountains on the horizon, and only thirty-eight days to prepare, I slowly set out once again. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot. "It is the Lord who goes before you. He will be with you; he will not fail you or forsake you. Do not fear or be dismayed." (Deuteronomy 31:8)
Mt. Kilimanjaro (2004), and after my first Mass in Malagasy with Fr. Frédéric (February 23, 2026). Cover photo also includes Fr. Daniel.
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