Proofing Dough: "The Rise of Hope"

Proofing Dough: "The Rise of Hope"

"May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit." — Romans 15:13 (NIV)

The flour between my fingers feels familiar now, but I still remember the dust. Six months after the Haiti earthquake, I knelt beside Marie-Claire in what remained of her neighbourhood. Her small hands sifted through rubble where her bakery once stood, searching for anything salvageable. "I used to make bread for fifty families every morning," she whispered, holding up a bent measuring cup. "Now I don't even have flour."

That image haunted me long after I returned home. This morning, as I measure flour for my weekly bread, I think of her again. The ritual has become my prayer: three cups of bread flour, one packet of yeast, warm water, a pinch of salt. Simple ingredients that somehow transform into sustenance.

I remember learning to bake from my grandmother, how she'd press the heel of her hand into the dough with surprising strength for someone so small. "The secret," she'd say, "is knowing when to work and when to wait." After the kneading comes the hardest part-placing the covered bowl in a warm corner and trusting the invisible process.

In Haiti, waiting felt different. It was desperate, urgent. Families huddled in makeshift shelters, checking the horizon for supply trucks that might never come. Children lined up at dawn for clean water, their plastic containers clicking against concrete like a heartbeat. We all waited for news from relatives, for tents that didn't leak, for the day we could sleep without wondering if the ground would shake again.

But even there, in that landscape of loss, I witnessed something miraculous. In the tent beside ours, an elderly man named Joseph led evening prayers. Each night, more people gathered. First five, then twelve, then thirty. Their voices rose in Creole hymns I couldn't understand, but their hope was unmistakable. Like yeast working silently through dough, faith was spreading.

Now, as I check my rising bread—doubled in size, soft and alive—I understand what my grandmother meant. Some things can't be rushed. The yeast doesn't work on my timeline; it works on its own mysterious schedule. God's hope operates the same way, expanding in hidden places, transforming what seems ordinary into something that can nourish.

Marie-Claire found me on social media last year. Her profile picture shows her standing in front of a small bakery, flour dusting her apron, surrounded by smiling customers. "The bread rises again," she wrote in careful English. "Thank you for helping me remember how to wait."

When I pull my loaves from the oven, golden and fragrant, I offer up the same prayer I whispered in those tent cities: May hope rise in the hidden places. May trust sustains us in the waiting. And may we never stop believing that what seems broken can become beautiful again.

Reflection: Lord, when life feels heavy and hope seems buried, help me remember the patient work of yeast. Teach me to trust Your timing, to rest in Your warmth, and to believe that even in darkness, you are growing something beautiful within me.

Poetic Reflection:

You plant hope’s yeast within my soul,
And though I wait, you make me whole.
In hidden rise, your love appears,
And lifts me past my darkest fears.