A Burn Mark on a Tortilla Changed Their Lives Forever (2 of 4)

Maria didn’t follow written recipes. She never had. Burritos were about feel, not measurement. She boiled the beans until they softened and fried the eggs until the edges crisped just right. For the tortillas, she mixed flour, salt, baking powder, and lard by instinct, kneading until the dough felt alive but obedient. Too stiff and it would crack. Too wet and it would cling to everything. When it was right, you just knew.

She rolled each portion thin and laid it onto her comal, the flat cast-iron skillet her mother had sworn by. The first side barely kissed the heat before she flipped it. The second side stayed longer, just enough to blister and darken. That was how tortillas learned character.

On one flip, Maria froze.

There, in the uneven burn marks, was something she couldn’t explain away. A small face. A profile. A beard. What looked like a crown formed by darker lines. Her chest tightened. A chill ran through her arms, followed by a rush so warm it almost scared her. She whispered Carlos’s name.

He laughed when she called him over, half-expecting a joke. Then he stopped. The kitchen went quiet except for the ticking of the stove. He leaned closer. He saw it too. The image wasn’t perfect, but it was unmistakable to them: Jesus Christ, etched in toasted flour.

They stood there longer than they realized, hands shaking, eyes wet. For a couple who had felt overlooked by God for years, the moment felt deeply personal. Not loud. Not public. Just theirs.