The Cross, the Crust, and the Calling

The Cross, the Crust, and the Calling

From the journal of the Wayfarer, seeking Christ in life's unexpected turns...

The morning coffee had grown cold again. Jaison Martinez stared at his laptop screen, watching the cursor blink mockingly in an empty email draft. Three months since the humanitarian organization had "restructured" him out of existence. Three months since his last mission briefing, his last emergency response, his last moment of feeling genuinely needed.

In Björnkulla, Sweden, where his grandmother's cottage sat like a forgotten prayer among rolling hills, even the silence felt foreign. He'd spent fifteen years racing toward disasters, organizing relief efforts, translating hope into action across four continents. Now, at thirty-eight, he couldn't even organize his own life. Alas!! It all seemed ironic to him at that time.

The rejection letter from Save the Children still sat crumpled in his trash bin. "While your experience is impressive, we're seeking candidates with more recent field leadership..." Translation: You're yesterday's hero in tomorrow's world.

Sunday found him slouching in the back pew of the old Baptist Church more from muscle memory than devotion. Reverend Martin, weathered like driftwood but steady as stone delivered words that cut through Jaison's fog: "If anyone would come after Me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow Me" (Matthew 16:24).

Deny myself? Jaison thought bitterly. I've been denied by everyone else. What's left?

After service, he lingered by the old cemetery gates, watching families drive away to Sunday dinners and afternoon naps, in fact the luxury of ordinary lives he'd never known.

"You look like a man wrestling with God," came Rev. Martin's gentle Swedish accent behind him.

Jaison turned, his eyes red-rimmed. "I feel useless, Rev. Martin. For fifteen years, I was the guy who showed up when everything fell apart. Now I can't even get an interview at the local food bank." Martin's blue eyes crinkled. "Ah, but you're still here. Still breathing. Still capable of love, ja?" "Love doesn't pay rent. Love doesn't save refugees or build water wells," replied Jaison with a polite smile.

The old pastor chuckled, settling onto a nearby bench despite his arthritic knees. "Tell me, what did you do in those quiet hours between crises? When were the cameras gone and the emergency was over?"

Jaison paused, remembering. "I... I baked. Stupid, really. But in the camps, in the shelters, I'd make bread, pastries. Nothing fancy. It just... it helped, “he replied in a quite stammering tone.

"Helped who?" asked Rev. Martin very quickly.

"The kids, mostly. The mothers. Sometimes the other aid workers." His voice softened. "There was this little Syrian girl in Lebanon. Amara. She hadn't spoken in weeks after losing her father. But when I gave her a cinnamon roll-barely edible, honestly -she smiled. First time anyone had seen it."

Rev. Martin nodded slowly. "And what did Jesus feed the five thousand?"

"Bread and fish, but—", replied Jaison.

"No 'but' son. Bread and fish. Simple things. Ordinary things." Rev. Martin stood, his joints creaking. "Perhaps you've confused your calling with your career. Following Jesus isn't about the stage-it's about surrender. Even your idea of what matters."

That evening, alone in his grandmother's kitchen, Jaison pulled out her handwritten recipe cards—stained with decades of love and flour. His hands trembled as he measured ingredients, muscle memory returning like an old song. The dough was forgiving, responsive, real. As cardamom buns filled the cottage with warmth, something shifted. Not hope exactly, more like permission to exist without a title.

Tuesday brought an unexpected knock. Mrs. Andersson from next door stood at his threshold, her walker decorated with artificial daisies.

"Is someone baking?" she asked, peering past him hopefully.

By Thursday, three neighbours had stopped by. By Saturday, elderly parishioners were gathering in his small living room, drawn not by his résumé but by the scent of fresh orange cinnamon bread and the rare gift of unhurried conversation.

Jaison didn't preach. He listened to Mrs. Andersson's loneliness after her husband's death. He watched young Erik's face light up over a simple sugar cookie. He remembered Amara's smile and finally understood: God's work had never required his permission or his professional credentials.

In the quiet spaces between words, over shared bread and patient presence, the cross revealed itself- not as burden, but as the beautiful weight of loving without agenda.

Reflection from the Wayfarer

As go through the account of Jaison I begin to ask myself -what dreams are you and me still clutching that God might be asking us to release? The call to follow Jesus often requires surrendering not just our sins, but our very ideas of significance. Like Jaison, we discover that God's mission continues not despite our losses, but through them. When career becomes calling and ordinary becomes sacred, we find that surrender isn't the end of purpose but it's the beginning of peace. Look at what's already in your hands. What small, faithful thing is God asking you to offer today? Remember Ecclesiastes 3:1: "To everything there is a season," and Isaiah 55:11: "My word shall not return void."