I bought this oversized coffee mug at the Walmart grocery. It makes me happy down to the tips of my toes. I am from a culture of over-abundance, of super-sizing, of excess and indulgence, and all the mini-sized everything—chip bags, meal portions, coffee cups—was cramping my style. I wanted big and bold, so I bought a mug. An entire can of coke, plus ice, fits in it perfectly. This morning, I drank my thermal mug of coffee and then made a pot of half real/half decaf for Jovita and me. I’m drinking two-thirds of the pot in this mug, more than my share, in good old North American fashion. And I’m loving every sip of it.

I wrote a post the other day that I thought was fairly deep, nearly profound even. But my husband said it was devoid of meaning. I was furious with him, of course, but if he’s willing to run the risk of getting his head chewed off, then I’m smart enough to know I better listen. I didn’t post it.

Which got me to thinking, if that post—it was all about helping and how lots of helping isn’t help at all—didn’t say anything, then what is it I do want to say?

Since coming to Guatemala, I spend a lot of time asking existential questions. This is what happens when I get plucked out of my ordinary and plopped into something very different. What does the Act of Asking Existential Questions look like, exactly? In my case it looks a lot like moping, whining, grumbling, laying on the bed staring at the ceiling, dreaming about Netflix, feeling sad, and wishing for what I can’t have. In general, just a good, all-around case of malaise and discontentment. All my suppressed doubts come roaring to the surface. What is meaningful? What’s my life worth? What does it mean to succeed? (I liked Glennon’s take on success.) Am I indispensable?

That last question popped into my head when I was on the porch this morning, bent double, towel drying my hair after washing it in the pila. The answer was blatantly obvious: my only truly indispensable task is mothering. Yes, I know someone else could take my place need be and do a fine job raising my children to be healthy, well-mannered adults. But of all my tasks, mothering is my only it-needs-to-be-me job. I may pour energy into all sorts of other endeavors—blogging, volunteering, teaching, cooking, etc—and that’s fine and good and healthy (most of the time). But my children need me unlike anybody or anything else. As I mulled over this thought, I noticed that I felt wonderfully, surprisingly, free. My insatiable need to do more, be more, wasn’t a necessity after all. To the contrary, to be me, all I need to do is slow down and be present. I knew this of course—people have preached it from the mountaintops since the dawn of discontent—but I guess I just forgot.

That’s Point Number One. Point Number Two is this: I need to stop thinking I’m 19 years old and start giving myself credit for being an adult.

This epiphany comes from the following work-related questions: why are we here? can we do any good for these people? we don’t even know the culture, so how can we possibly understand what they need?

There is a lot of truth to those doubts. People From The Outside miss a lot. People From The Outside bring a lot more baggage than what United Airlines allows, if you know what I mean. People From The Outside are not God’s gift to the world—the world is God’s gift to them.

But all that aside, I mustn’t discredit what I have to offer. I am educated, hard-working, decently well-read (and exceptionally well-read compared to the people I’m working with), and responsible. I know how to ask questions and think critically. Just because I don’t speak K’ekchi’ or am not a school administrator doesn’t mean I don’t know how to listen. My years of serving on the church council of a thriving Mennonite church count for something. My Biblical studies classes count for something. My hours spent reading, relating, and reaching out count for something. Are my husband and I the best ones, the only ones, who can link the K’ekchi’ Mennonite Church to Mennonite Central Committee? Of course not. But we are the ones who are doing it right now and that’s that.

 It’s awkward and scary to talk about my doubts about our work when we have a paying constituency. There’s a good chance it’s really bad, actually. Yet, I need to be honest with myself and with the people who are supporting us. I need to have faith in my doubts.

I’m afraid my husband is going to read this and point out that I’m not saying anything. If he does, he’ll be right, at least in part. Because I’m not detailing my doubts. The truth is, I’m not sure how to articulate them in a healthy way.

Dare I try? Can I do it without offending the masses? Can I do it without hurting people?

I’ll give it a go. Here are four:

*That development work isn’t as helpful as we think. That we could, in fact, be doing more harm than good. 
*That if we really cared about the poor, then we’d turn our lives upside down to help the have-nots.
*That development agencies (missions, schools, etc) are businesses, and, no matter how well-intended and noble, businesses are about money.
*That Jesus didn’t have a fund-raising constituency. To the contrary: the people who were supposed to be backing him up, killed him.

Voicing these concerns is scary on many levels. Because see, I like being here! I like it that people are standing behind us with checkbooks and lots o’ love! I like it that people trust us! I like it that people associate me with Doing Good!

But if I’m to be honest, then I have to take a good look at the the underbelly of development work and reconcile it with my pie-in-the-sky ideals.

And if I can’t?

Well, then.

I have no idea who Marianne Moore is (in the age of Google, there is no excuse for not knowing: she’s a poet), but she said something that has always stuck with me: Your thorns are the best part of you.

Until now I interpreted that to mean that I am no better than my thorns. But now I think it means that my poky parts—the things that bother me, my conscience pricks, doubts, and anxieties—are what makes me me. If I face them head on, tell the truth about them (bonus points for tact), take the time to examine and work with them in all their sharp ouchiness, then I am being (cliche alert) The Most I Can Be.

So if I have bothersome questions about the value of development work, rather then pushing them under the rug and giving glossy reports of our activities, I need to scrutinize them because they are my thorns and they are pricking me for a reason. 

Life is messy, always. Doing Good is not straightforward or simple. I’m not completely at peace with the value of the work I am doing. And just because I’m not at peace, it doesn’t mean the work doesn’t have value. See? It’s convoluted, and I don’t have answers. (And Husband, if this means that this post says nothing, get over it.)

Also, I am so thankful that we have the opportunity to be here, wrestling, thinking, doing, and growing.

Love,
A Thorny Woman

Ps. Since this post already well exceeds the allotted limit in Blogpostland, I might as well throw in some more stuff. Below are a few articles on the subject of helping and development work. They made me think.

*A former NGO worker wrote about her time in Haiti. Note:
Mennonite Central Committee differs from classic NGOs in that the MCC
volunteers are expected to live, more or less, at the level of their
neighbors. There is an expectation that the workers partner with already
existing organizations (such as Bezaleel), and an understanding that
listening to and learning from is as important as (if not more so than)
teaching.

*My cousin-in-law Kate wrote about short-term service.
One of her readers left a whammy of a comment—don’t miss it (scroll
down almost to the bottom. It’s a long comment, by anonymous).

*Three springs ago, Marisa and Adam came to our house in Virginia to talk about their upcoming term with MCC Nicaragua, and I served them chocolate chunk-red raspberry oatmeal muffins.
Now their term is ending and we are toting six bottles of coveted
picamas hot sauce for them when we travel down to Nicaragua in July. A
couple weeks ago, Marisa wrote about Doing Good. (Considering all the linkage we share, it’s clear that she and I have been mulling over similar issues.)

*My since-college girlfriend is working with MCC in Kenya. She wrote this piece articulating the helping conundrum. There are no easy answers.

*My sister-in-law, living in India, added more fuel to the fire by sending me this link: Proof
that giving cash to poor people, no strings attached, is an amazingly
powerful tool for boosting incomes and promoting development.

*Also pointed out to me by by sister-in-law (the woman is a veritable fount of interesting information), a fascinating NPR podcast on building a school in Haiti: It’s Hard To Do Good.

I always thought the only way to make real icing was with butter. Sure, I employed other methods—glazes with just milk or citrus juice for thinning and I knew all about the frosting made with egg whites—but the only honest method, the only method that had integrity, involved butter.

When I got to Guatemala and realized I’d have to make icing without butter, I had a suppressed panic attack. How do I make icing? No cake for nine months? I CAN’T DO THIS! Mommyyyyyyy!

And then I googled “how to make icing with shortening” and lo and behold, there were oodles upon oodles of recipes. Everyone, it turned out, knew how to make icing with shortening. Was this a sign that our culture was less evolved than I thought? Or that it was yours truly who hailed from the dark ages? I couldn’t figure it out.

No matter, with a shift in approach, icing would be mine. I would survive!

At first I found the new icing too sweet and hollow-tasting. It lacked the rich density of butter icings. But my discomfort with the icing disappeared almost immediately. I found I liked its fluffy texture, creamy sweetness, and pure white color. Thanks to white shortening, white sugar, and clear fake vanilla extract, the icing is stunningly white.

Actually, the icing reminds me of bakery cake icing (which I’m secretly fond of, shh, don’t tell), probably because they use shortening in their icings?

It’s easy to alter this icing to make a variety of flavors. I’ve made chocolate (though I forget how: cocoa powder? melted bar chocolate? oh well, either method would work) and another time I added a quarter cup of fresh blackberry jam that my daughter made with her foraged berries which resulted in a lovely pink, tart frosting.

White Icing

I use one tablespoon of fake vanilla extract per recipe. If using the real deal, one teaspoon should be enough.

½ cup shortening
1 pound confectioner’s sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract, or 1 tablespoon of the clear, fake stuff
milk for thinning

Cream together the shortening, sugar, and vanilla. Add the milk, a little at a time, until the frosting is a soft and creamy and perfect for spreading.

This morning I directed the teachers in the making of sixteen banana cakes and eight recipes of vanilla icing. I am now sick of banana cake.

We were supposed to make the cakes yesterday at three in the afternoon. In order to make my schedule mesh with theirs, my husband and I skipped work in the morning and instead ran errands in Cobán. Then we came home, unloaded groceries, and ate lunch and then I crashed on the bed for a (failed) nap while he headed in to school. Shortly after he left, I packed up my measuring cups and trekked in to central park where I met the children on their way back from school. We hustled across the market (the rain was coming) to the bus stop and made it to school just in time…to discover that the election for the Señorita and Mister of 2013 (one of the many activities included in these four days of festivities in honor of the school’s anniversary) had run late and they were just now starting the talent show that the teachers had to orchestrate and judge and would I mind working with the seventh grade girls on the cakes?

Um, yeah, as a matter of fact I would because this is the biggest baking to date, it’s late, and they have never baked with me before PLEASE DO NOT DO THIS TO ME. The teachers conferred and then asked if it would be okay if my regular baking students worked with me. I said yes (what option did I have?), so they sent my baking students over to help. However, only two willing souls showed up and the rest were fussy (that’s the Nice Word Version) but I can’t say I blamed them because they were supposed to be partying it up with their friends, not baking. After listening to them moan for a few minutes, I went back to the teachers and suggested that we maybe bake later? When the teachers had time? Like the next day? And they agreed, whew.

So today I showed up at 8:00 and by 8:30 we were up in the kitchen, whipping out cakes at a rapid clip.

Working with adult women, even women who have never baked with me before, was like a dream.

They followed instructions perfectly. They cleaned up after themselves and each other. They were calm. They shared. There was no bickering. There was no fussing.
 
And the cakes turned out perfectly.

(I burned my arm while rearranging the cakes in the oven and Natalia went down to the kitchen to fetch me a tomato. Because apparently tomatoes are soothing for burns? At first it was nice, but then it started to sting so I discretely removed it. I also learned that onion peels are good for wounds because they stop the bleeding. Or so Natalia’s grandmother says.)

But hey, I sat down to write about chocobananos, not banana cake. (Help! Banana cake is taking over my life!)

A little while back our landlord gave us a whole stalk (head?) of bananas. The initial thrill rapidly turned to dismay. What in the world to do with that many bananas?

I facebooked my little problem and got lots of wonderful suggestions. But anything that involved making more food from the existing bananas (like cake or smoothies) was a no-go. I needed a method to get the bananas to disappear lickety split. A greater quantity of food would just slow the process down. Note: after living in banana land for four months, eating them straight up was not a viable option.

Chocobananos—in which you put bananas on a stick, freeze them, and then dip them in chocolate—are hugely popular here. I was all excited to make them, but then I bought a packet of the chocolate coating and it was unspeakably horrible.
 
My one small nibble coated the roof of my mouth, my tongue, and my lips like castor oil and tasted only vaguely of chocolate. But the kids had eaten the bananas at the neighbors’ house and loved them. It was worth a shot, I figured.

Somehow, miraculously, the resulting chocobananos didn’t resemble castor oil slicked frozen fruit. Yes, I could tell they were coated in a chocolate imposter but they were edible. And judging by the kids’ appetites, completely scarfable.

I rolled some of the bananas in chopped peanuts (yum) and others in granola (yum) and in sprinkles (not yum, but the kids loved on those so whatever). We had no trouble finishing off those bananas.

Chocobananos (Chocolate-Covered Bananas)

I have no idea how these would turn out with actual chocolate, so I’m linking up to a few recipes that use the real stuff: Martha Stewart, Epicurious, and Joy of Baking.

Melting chocolate
Bananas
Toppings, optional: chopped peanuts, granola, sprinkles, toffee, crushed pretzels, coconut, etc.
Wooden sticks

Peel the bananas and break in half. Pierce them through the heart via their cut side, lengthwise. Line a cookie sheet with wax paper and place impaled bananas on the paper. Freeze for 30 minutes. (With the kind of chocolate I was using, pre-freezing was optional.)

Melt the chocolate over a double boiler. Dip the frozen banana into the chocolate (or use a spoon to scoop chocolate over). Immediately dip in toppings, if using. Return the chocolate-dipped banana to its wax paper bed and freeze until firm. Eat.

Any leftover chocobananos should be transferred to an airtight container or plastic bag and stored in the freezer.