project 52, week 23
I have no hand-eye coordination. None at all. People think I'm exaggerating, and then they try to teach me to play volleyball/softball/basketball/any other kind of sport. (One summer the whole church tried to teach me to play softball. Nope, it didn't work.)
I spent many long hours as a teen trying to redeem myself, but it didn't work. Not a bit. I can't play the piano, I can't play any instrument, really.
But one thing I can do: I can bake. Pies, cakes, cookies, brownies, cheesecake, bread...I love it all. The stirring and measuring and leveling and fixing calms me, and the smells? Oh, the smells. Baking is for me an act of sharing, a sign of esteem, a reaching out. When I share baked goods, it's silly, but I feel like I'm sharing a little bit of myself. If I'm trying to make a friend, I bake them cookies. If I want to comfort someone, I bring them pie. If I want to make someone fall in love with me, I feed them cheesecake. (Kidding, I promise.)
And because of all this baking, my hands are covered in scars. My nails are short and stubby, and there is usually a burn or cut somewhere.
But despite all that, I don't mind my hands. For those scars are signs that my hands have loved and served. And what better way is there to live?