Letting tears talk.

There were three of us women from the North Dakota group, meeting with some of the ladies from the El Convento church. I could barely hear the discussion, through our interpreter, because the body language was screamingly loud. The words were off in the wings, the actors on stage stealing the show.

Furrowed brows, furtive glancing to the side, white-knuckle gripping of the chairs, chins tucked down and eyes on the floor — this was a church who had taken a serious wound and was trying to find some kind of stride, some kind of way to move forward. Their pastor had broken trust with them, and with us, abandoning everyone. Hurts and division were high, even among the few gathered in the group for this meeting.

Margarite wanted to hear from us, and so Bonnie spoke first, saying the good things that came to my mind upon immediate consideration. Vickie spoke next, finishing with encouragement and hope. I sank lower in my seat, hoping I would not be asked to speak. I could think of nothing to add that Bonnie and Vickie hadn’t already said.

“I want to hear what Julie has to say,” Margarite bluntly said.

I had nothing to say.

I didn’t want to repeat what had already been said. What can be more painful than an echo in a loudly silent room? What could be worse the mimicked platitudes? I had nothing to say, but pair upon pair of brown eyes were staring at me.

I wondered again at the fallacy of allowing geography and culture and time to replace the basic understanding of what it means to be human and how it runs beneath every situation if we take time to lift the well cover. I looked at Silvia gripping Bonnie’s hand, at Marcia staring at the brown, cement floor. I knew enough bits of back story to know I had no comprehension at all.

I had nothing to say.

On every trip I’ve taken to Nicaragua I’ve rued my lack of Spanish and seen it as a huge detriment, keeping me from communicating with words and letting my Nicaraguan friends know what it is I want them to know. It was in that moment, though, that I understood the value of Babel, the value of what can be said beyond words.

I had no words to say.

Over the years I have sadly perfected the skill of not crying in front of people. I don’t think crying is something people associate with me, though I know better. If you’ve seen me cry, you can rest assured the reason was very strong. Being dry-eyed is no longer difficult, requiring a kind of mental compartmentalization and deadening of emotion; when all wasted discipline is not strong enough, a turning of the head and a flip of the hair for cover will suffice.

I looked at Margarite; I slowly looked around the circle of women. My lower lip started to shake and I tried to find something to say but it was no use. I began crying as much as crying can be. I sniffed loudly through my nose, my eyes exploded with big drops of salty liquid. I waved my hand, gesturing a signal that I couldn’t talk. To my left, I heard the soft sounds of one, then another, softly crying. I cried harder. I shook my head. I looked down.

All I really wanted to say is that I knew they were hurting and it hurt me to know and see it, and that I was sorry and that I wished I could help.

From the tears we moved on, as a group, directly into prayer, prayer in a circle crawling from crying and hurt up on into an odd kind of hope. The minutes ticked by, the voices of the Americans and the Nicaraguans the same as the tears, praying to God.

I’ve heard it said that love is the universal language, or, for the more logically minded person, math and science. I would disagree. I don’t speak Spanish well, but I know the language of hurt, and if I know that, then I also know the language of love. I speak love, sometimes, just by speaking through tears. And what else do I really want to speak, anywhere, but love?