With My Own Two Hands

"I can make peace on earth

With my own two hands

And I can clean up the earth

With my own two hands

And I can reach out to you

With my own two hands."

-Ben Harper

Hands make everything possible.  However vague that sounds, it is true.  The same hands that wash their children’s clothes every day are the same hands that grind the corn.  The hands that form the tortillas are the same hands that milk the cows in order that the community may have milk.  The hands that knead the milk into cheese are the same hands that comfort their children.  And the hands that hold a child close are the hands that pour the coffee every morning.  And on and on.

Erminia (the woman I bake with almost everyday) can take bread out of the oven with her own two hands.  It’s quite impressive, but don’t try it.  Jose Angel plays his guitar with his own two hands.  His father harvests corn with his own two hands.  And just last night I found myself in between little Claudio and Ricardo, hands linked, accompanying each other with our own two hands.

However simple it may be, it should be recognized.  People work very hard here for their families and for their neighbors, and I am lucky enough to be able to work alongside of them.  Whether that be in the kitchen, kneading bread day after day, or pulling up a chair for a solid couple hours of porch-sitting at a neighbor’s house.

I believe I surprised a few local boys around this community with what remains of my soccer skills.  In fact, I, was surprised by was remains.  We all fled to the field a few days ago for a game.  Four o’clock couldn’t be a better time for a soccer game- the sun was descending through the clouds and above us the sky changed to a brilliant combination of purples, reds, and oranges.  I felt so very connected to this community during the game.  Fans were cheering for everyone, we were all shouting at the same time for the ball, people were falling and laughing every few minutes.  It was fantastic.  The field isn’t exactly even, so sometimes one person (I am not excluded from the following) would fall when they were running.  Remember when Wyl-e-coyote would fall off a cliff about nine times in one half hour?  It was like that with almost all of us.  We were all covered in dirt and sweat and no one wanted to stop running up and down the field.  We’d get hit in the face by a ball and keep on going as if nothing happened.  It was just a soccer game, sure, and they happen all the time.  Perhaps I cannot explain how great it felt to run around and play soccer with all the kiddos.  This is a sport I had been closely connected to for many years, and I hadn’t played in so long.  I was able to connect with everyone this way, and truly feel a part of the community.  And I am rather certain they were surprised that not only could I kick a ball, but I could pass by a few high school boys. 

The past couple of weeks have been filled with moments like these.  I’ve experienced pure joy here, and for that I am so thankful.  Well… I suppose it has never taken much for myself to be content or happy.  Lamott once said, “Laughter is carbonated holiness,” which leads me to deduce that everyone has a bit of holiness in them.  I’ve been finding it in the small moments here.  It’s when were all eating lunch and Ricardo lets out a fart of that of a large mammal (he’s two, mind you).  It’s when a couple kids from the neighborhood figure out that we can have lasso and jump rope contests.  It’s when I help Erminia milk her cow, which I find gross and fascinating at the same time.  It was also in the time when Marvin (a 13 year old student) and I had a dance-off.  Mixed in with these moments of joy have been larger moments of something that I cannot call anything else but holiness.

I cannot expect to go home without experiencing a baile (dance) in Lagartillo.  Check.  The beginning was just like any middle or high school dance in the States.  The music was blaring at 8pm and everyone was a wallflower (the dance was inside where there is electricity for music).  This might have had to do with the fact that there was a group of a dozen students from the States there, and they all looked rather uncomfortable.  Actually, I am certain that’s why no one was dancing- geez, put any group of foreigners in a room full of music with only a few locals and who is going to dance first? 

Once everyone got moving it was so so much fun.  The music was mostly Nicaraguan with a mix of newer Latin songs, and everyone was so happy to be in this crowded, hot space.  And it isn’t awkward with people here and who dances with whom, because everyone dances with everyone.  I danced with a handful of my students while mothers danced with sons.  Aunts danced with cousins, sisters danced with brothers.  I’d sit down to rest for only thirty seconds before another one would ask me to dance.  And let me tell you, if you’re not interested in any of the men your age in this town, it’s really simple to avoid dancing with them- just dance with all the students! I can’t imagine how odd it must look for me to be dancing with a skinny 12 year old kid, but none of it mattered.  I hadn’t had that much fun in quite a while.  Just don’t try to dance the right moves to Thriller here, because no one will get it and everyone will laugh at your expense (thank God I’m light-hearted enough to get over it).

I realized the other night, while Daddy Yankee was blasting and people were moving, how awkward dancing must look to onlookers.  Really, what happened was a bunch of people crammed into a small, hot space, played some really loud music, and moved around a lot.  Sure, that was it.  But the heat feeds the hips, the music creates a beat in the bones, and the mess of moves transfers into dance.  It’s awkward, loud, funny, and exhausting.  It also brings everyone together, it sparks joy, and it releases any pressure or strain anyone had been carrying before walking into the room.  If that isn’t holiness than I don’t know what is.

I have no pictures because I was too busy dancing.  Hopefully my words are enough.  For something else that I have way too many words for- another way I’ve experienced holiness here.

I am in no way trying to underestimate the divinity of Jesus, but I am rather certain that when he fed the 5,000 families with bread and fish, he had a whole bunch of women helping him out behind the scenes.  It’s just a hunch.  The reality is that women everywhere are working very hard to provide for their families, so it’s easy for me to believe that they helped Jesus out a bit.  It is very evident here that the work done by the women is done with love and intention.  I’ve been working in the kitchen with Erminia almost every day for the past two weeks, and because of that, I have experienced something profound.  If you look close enough, the walls of this kitchen are painted with stories.  The heat that escapes from the oven door seeps wisdom onto those who are present.  The dishes could speak of how often they are approached and used with care.  The baking sheets could easily tell of oven disasters and victories.  And it’s dusty, dirty floor could speak volumes about the feet who have worked hour after hour.  The floor could tell you of the food that has so sadly fallen and which meals should have fallen instead.  This kitchen is filled with stories, joy, heartbreak, laughter, wisdom, and a lot of corn. 

I will admit that I don’t always understand what Erminia is saying.  She speaks very fast and even uses words that only her and her husband know.  When I can understand it, it’s as if I’ve won the bonus round- comprehension of Spanish and the secret, older, more native language?  Extra points! (May I point out I’ve only won the bonus round one time, and I am not sure if it counts because she was gesturing with her hands at the same time).  But I can understand more and more each day, and it doesn’t phase her that I’m not exactly picking up on everything.  She just keeps talking, keeps baking.  I just keep listening, keep baking.

A Rather Condensed List of Practical Things I Have Learned About Baking From Erminia

1. You never need a spoon for stirring- you have hands.

2. There is no such thing as a measuring cup.

3. It’s ok to taste with the same fingers that are doing the stirring.

4. It doesn’t matter how late it is: if the oven is hot, use it.

5. You can help her grind corn, but she will never say that she needs it.

6. You don’t need oven mitts to take bread out of the oven.

Now this last one I have witnessed but have not quite accomplished.  She really can just take a loaf of bread right out of the oven and carry it over across the kitchen- bare hands.  I was truly amazed when she first did it and ridiculously mimicked her, thinking it wasn’t that hard.  She then laughed and told me that I have to wait until my hands get old- until my hands have truly lived.  Spending time with Erminia is probably one of the best things for me right now.  I feel accomplished and loved at the same time, which is a damn fine combination.  She also reminds me a lot of my Polish great-grandmother whom I only knew for 10 years.  What I remember of Grandpa Szczepanski is that she was almost always in the kitchen and would almost always be telling stories.  I don’t know why, I just feel comforted by this thought when I am baking here.  I suppose it could come down to the fact that I miss my grandmothers that have passed away.  Sort of having one here is great.

I’ve been baking a lot of bread in her kitchen this week because there has been a group of students here studying with the Spanish school.  I have made 12 loaves almost every single day, and they’ve been selling pretty well around town (in no way am I boasting- I am certain they buy my bread because it’s something that isn’t made of corn or beans).  While the bread’s a’rising, we sit and wait and drink pinol (which is a beverage made out of cornmeal, believe it or not).  And she tells me a lot of stories.  Many have been about her family and children.  But the other day she really opened up and shared with me about the day her and the rest of the town fled when they were attacked in ’84.  All she said about it, however, revolved around bread. 

“When the war was going on and we were attached, I ran.  We all ran.  But I was in my kitchen making bread.  I left the dough and everything else and ran to Achuapa with all the others.”

[Justine shaking her head in unbelief. Also she didn’t have much time to respond before the next part.]

“When we all returned, the dough had risen and grown all over the place!  It was practically spilling out of the pan.”

“Did you bake it?”

“Well, yeah, of course. It turned out pretty good too.”

I couldn’t imagine going through what this community went through over 25 years ago; six people were killed and the others no longer felt safe.  To come back to your home after fleeing for your life- I couldn’t imagine what that would feel like. 

While people were running for their lives, the bread was rising.  While others were fighting for their families, the bread was rising.  After sons and daughters had been killed, the bread continued to rise.  While people made the exhausting trek back to their homes in Lagartillo, the bread was still rising.  And Erminia, she didn’t come back and throw it away.  She put it to use.  Just like the dough, this community has risen and thrived.  And how fruitful it is today: they offer so much to people like me who want to experience another culture.  They offer so much to each other every day.  They live simply and put more emphasis on afternoon coffee than arriving to a meeting on time.  They have risen. 

Like I’ve said before, Jesus said a lot of things that I don’t always understand.  But some things are clear as day.  It is evident to me that he spent a lot of time in the kitchen: “The kingdom of heaven is like yeast that a woman took and mixed into about sixty pounds of flour until it worked all through the dough.” (Matt. 13:33)  The kingdom is alive and is growing.  People rise over and over.  It’s what we do.

[For more details, go to www.hijosdelmaiz.net.  Also enjoy the similar theme in the song “I’ll Rise”, by Ben Harper.  Or at the very least, bake some bread and watch it rise.]