The Cookie That Cracked a Wall

The Cookie That Cracked a Wall

I had been thinking over the matter of how it feels to be out of active work for a long time. Especially for someone who has run the ropes in an aid world, where you wake to the honking of the food aid delivery trucks or loud bang of the gong bell -a call to the camp dwellers to come collect their hot meals. There are times when it is just chaos. But I must admit to the fact that it has its own charm and rhythm. And once I get tuned into it, it is hard being out of it for long.

And that has been the case with a good old friend of mine. It had been six months since Miriam returned home-no longer wrapped in a humanitarian vest, that bright orange or off-white colour, with the agency logo embroidered in the front, which makes you stand out in the crown, sometimes it is good and at times you would wish that your vest had no such indication. I am sure you know what I mean to say. She is now in an apron dusted with flour. Her walls bore no medals, no degrees, just old snaps from refugee camps and field kitchens which she might have taken with her Nokia 3 smart phone. The only decoration she cared for now was the scent of cinnamon and nutmeg dancing through her small flat.

Now, talking about my good friend Miram, her soul, once frayed by crises, had found a strange rhythm in baking. At first it all started off as just a hobby or therapy you may call it -kneading bread, mixing batter for a lemon loaf cake became a ritual of silent prayers. Stirring batter was meditation. Folding dough reminded her of folding tarps in muddy camps of Cox’s Bazar or South Sudan, only now the work had turned warm, fragrant, and healing.

But she missed connection, that very Suttle and peculiar whiff of the camp sites, the kind that didn’t come through a screen or a donation form, but from eye contact, a shared laugh with her work mates and favourite camp dwellers, or breaking bread at a table that didn’t wobble on rocky ground.

There was a man across the hallway in the old building where she lived near the citadel, named Theo. A widower, bitter and a bit of a grumbling guy even when there was sunshine. Miriam tried saying hello once, but he grunted and closed the door.

One quite Sunday afternoon, in the early autumn as she sat by her small living room window gazing at the trees and the colour changing leaves, stirred by both Scripture and spices, Miriam decided to bake her favourite walnut cardamom cookies.

Good going, you will not believe how my mouth is already watering at the name of these cookies, I am sure yours also would be. As she packed a few into a brown paper bag, she reread Ezekiel 36:26 aloud: “I will give you a new heart…”

She thought that God gives new hearts through old ovens. I am sure this would sound a bit funny but then that is how she looked at it. As she paced slowly across the corridor on her floor, she hesitated at Theo’s door. And then knocked. Nothing exactly happened. No one opened the door, nor did she hear the faint sound of someone flipping the flap of the peep hole. So, she left the bag, along with a card that simply read, “Baked with love. May peace rise in you like bread.”

The next morning, when she stepped out to go collect milk from the town cooperative, she noticed that the bag was gone. A week passed and there was no word. Then one cloudy morning around eleven O’clockish came a knock on her door. She wondered, and there stood Theo, clutching the cookie bag. But empty. And a blank but curious look, “You made those?” he asked, his voice gravelly but softened. Miriam, not knowing much, nodded.

And then staring at the floor, in a sheepish shaky voice he said, “Those cookies… they reminded me of my wife. She used to bake with cardamom too. Said it calmed her heart.”
He paused. “I’ve… not let anyone in since she passed away during the pandemic. Not into my home nor into my heart.” And then with deep sense of hidden gratitude he handed Miram the paper bag and said, “You, uh...have more?”

Miriam smiled. “Always.” She invited him in. He did not sit, but he looked around with curiosity, he eyes balls sunk deep in with I guess age and loneliness he said, “You live like you’re expecting company.” “I am,” she said, “Every day.” She poured two cups of hot ginger tea. And he stayed on.

Something to ponder on here is the change. Miriam’s gift was not just the cookies-but the space she offered for someone else’s pain to be seen without judgment. She honoured Theo’s memory of his wife. She did not preach. She simply gave. Respect begins with presence. Humility begins with listening. The Master’s word begins with bread. John 6:35 – “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never go hungry…” In a world addicted to noise, Miriam chose stillness. In a society obsessed with success, she offered simple sweetness. That is how hearts begin to change.

As I check my surroundings, I have begun to ask myself, “Who in my life has hardened walls? How can I show kindness without expectation? Or What simple gift-baked or otherwise, can become a vehicle for the Master’s grace? And like my friend Miriam, I shut my eyes and softly say, “Lord, give me a heart that kneads love into every action. Help me offer more words-help e offer warmth. May I be a baker of peace, server of hope, and witness of your healing love!!

Disclaimer: The image being shared here of Miriam and Theo are not of the real people and are just imaginary to give the story more life.