When I was the brand-new priest in a place called Chibougamau in northern Quebec I went to visit an old lady who spoke only Cree and who spent her summers in a small tent down by the lake. I knew that the word ‘miyotchisigaw’ meant ‘nice day’ and that that any sentence could be turned into a question by adding the word ‘na’ at the end. It was an old fashioned tent with spruce boughs on the floor. Alice fished out a piece of boiled loon from a pot and made me a cup of tea. Together we looked out the flap of the tent. ‘Miyotchisigaw, na?’ I said, and she responded ‘Enhe, miyotchisigaw’

Alice later went on at length to her daughter about her visit with the new priest and how she thought he would work out better than the last one had.

If it were merely the right words that mattered you could send those on a post card