Every day, the village women prepared us an amazing lunch to share together. There was rice and chicken and beans and soup. And tortillas. Beautiful, hand-ground, homemade tortillas. I don't know what they did to these tortillas, but they were pure magic.
Actually, I do know some of the ingredients: sacrifice, service, hospitality. I know feeding all of us took collective effort and sacrifice. It took teamwork to gather up enough food. It took time to prepare the meals and set the table. It took work to squeeze lemons from the trees down the road into some of the best lemonade I've ever had.
I don't think I've ever been more grateful for a meal. We were working hard, breaking a sweat, getting all greasy and muddy. But when we sat down to eat, when these women bustled food toward our table and urged us to dig in, I felt rejuvenated. And not just because of the food.
There is something special about breaking bread (or tortillas) together. When I eat the food someone prepared for me, I am sharing in their life. I am humbled and honored at the same time.
I fast so that more meals can be shared and more lives can intertwine.
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