Broken Cisterns and the Bread of Life

Now, at 52, Meril found himself in his sister's spare bedroom in suburban Melbourne, surrounded by cardboard boxes and the weight of an uncertain future.

"God, I don't understand," he whispered during his morning devotions, his Bible open to familiar passages that once brought comfort. "I gave You everything. Why does it feel like You've forgotten me?"

The walls felt like they were closing in. He'd applied for dozens of positions, some paying half his previous salary, but organizations wanted younger candidates, digital natives who spoke the language of social media fundraising and virtual programming. I guess this all came into existence in our Aid worker’s world only post pandemic as once pointed out by an old friend of mine Mr. Luis Parera.

His sister Sarah knocked gently. "Mer, I'm heading to work. There's fresh coffee, and..." she paused, "I know this is hard, but maybe it's time to consider that God might be redirecting, not abandoning."

After she left, Meril wandered to the kitchen, desperate for distraction. Opening cupboards aimlessly, he found Sarah's baking supplies tucked away. His hands instinctively reached for the familiar weight of a measuring cup.

Baking…. he exclaimed to himself. Is that what I need to do?

The memory hit him unexpectedly, Sunday mornings in the Kathmandu project team house, kneading dough while his teammates slept. The way fresh bread brought colleagues together around the kitchen table. How local staff would light up when he'd surprise them with birthday cakes made from scratch or some smokie aroma filled Biryani at lunch.

"It's just bread," he thought. "Not exactly changing the world." But something stirred within him, a quiet whisper he almost dismissed: "Start here. Start small."

Two hours later, the kitchen smelled like home.

Meril posted a photo of golden banana bread on his nearly forgotten Instagram account, adding a simple caption: "Finding comfort in simple things during uncertain times."

Within an hour, his phone buzzed with unexpected responses. His former colleague Emma from Cambodia: "This looks amazing! Are you baking professionally now?" His neighbour across the street: "Would you consider making something for my daughter's school fundraiser?"

By week's end, Meril had three small orders. By month's end, he was delivering custom cakes across the northern suburbs, working from Sarah's kitchen with her enthusiastic blessing.

But I believe something deeper was happening.

Mrs. Chen, the elderly woman from old Yangon, who ordered weekly dinner rolls, began staying for tea, sharing stories about her late husband and her loneliness. James, the young father juggling two jobs, would arrive stressed but leave laughing after chatting about parenting while picking up birthday cupcakes. Sarah's book club friends started gathering at the house on Fridays, drawn as much by Meril's listening ear as his famous cinnamon scrolls. And what the book club soon turned into a small Bible enthusiastic bunch.

"I see what You're doing," Meril prayed one evening, flour still dusting his apron. "You haven't taken away my calling—You've refined it."

He remembered the Samaritan woman at the well, how she'd sought satisfaction in relationships and recognition, only to discover that what she truly needed had been offered freely all along. Like her, he'd been digging cisterns and chasing validation through job titles and project outcomes, when Living Water had been waiting patiently for him to simply receive.

The bread rising in his oven wasn't just flour and yeast. It was an offering, a ministry, a way of saying "you matter" to people who needed to hear it. Each cake was kneaded with prayer, each cookie baked with love, each conversation a chance to reflect God's care for the details of ordinary lives. In a way his broken cistern had led him to the Spring, which was Christ himself.

Reflection

Friend, has your well run dry? What feels like career death is resurrection in disguise. God specializes in transforming our broken cisterns into doorways to deeper purpose. Your next call might not look like your last one, it might be smaller, quieter, closer to home. But authentic ministry flows from the Living Water within us, not from our job descriptions. Trust the process. Start where you are. Use what you have. God wastes nothing, especially not your willingness to begin again.

Prayer

Father, when my plans crumble and my cisterns crack, draw me back to Your living water. Help me see that You are not taking away—You are redirecting. Give me courage to start small, trust the process, and find You in unexpected places. Make my life a channel of Your grace, however humble the vessel. Amen.

"Broken Cisterns and the Bread of Life"

The silence was deafening

Meril stared at his phone screen, another rejection email. Three months since the World Relief-NGO restructuring had eliminated his position, and the responses kept coming: "We've decided to move forward with other candidates." "Unfortunately, we don't have openings at this time."

For fifteen years, he'd poured his life into communities across South Asia. Teaching literacy in rural Bangladesh. Coordinating disaster relief in Nepal after the earthquake. Training local leaders in Myanmar border camps. His passport told the story of a life lived with purpose-each stamp a testament to lives touched, wells dug, hope restored.