The Fragrance of Refuge

The Fragrance of Refuge

You know that feeling when your life's work suddenly stops making sense? When the thing that once defined you -your calling, your passion-just... ends? That's where Jake found himself that Tuesday morning, nursing cold tea on a balcony that creaked with every shift of his weight.

Maybe you've been there too. Maybe you're there right now or are expecting to be there. At I know I am right there or have been at this sort of juncture for little over three years.

Jake had spent years being the guy who showed up when the world fell apart. Emergency kitchens in Kutupalong and Nayapara in Bangladesh's refugee camps. Food coordination in Haiti after the hurricanes and the big earthquake. He was the one translating between heartbroken families and bureaucrats who spoke in statistics. He was needed. He was useful.

But aid budgets dried up like the tea in his cup. Missions dissolved. And suddenly, the man who had fed thousands found himself back in suburbia, watching magpies’ squabble over sidewalk crumbs.

His hands-hands that had distributed rice to desperate children, hands that had built shelter frames in monsoon mud—now sat empty in his lap or sometimes in the pocket of his old, faded rug coat. And that terrified him more than any war zone ever had.

Then it happened. A scent drifted across the morning air, gentle as a whisper but impossible to ignore. Someone nearby was baking. The aroma wrapped around Jake like an old friend's embrace—yeast and warmth, cinnamon and something deeper, more complex. Cardamom, maybe. Something that spoke of home and hope and second chances.

When did you last pay attention to something that simple? When did you last let yourself be led by wonder instead of worry?

Jake's mind wandered to last Sunday's sermon. Pastor David had read from Isaiah 31 and 32, and one phrase had lodged itself in Jake's chest like a seed: "A king will reign in righteousness... Each one will be like a shelter from the wind."

Shelter. Refuge. Safe harbor.

Jake had built those words into reality with tarps and emergency rations. But sitting there, breathing in that mysterious baker's handiwork, the words felt different. More personal. As if God was saying, I'm still working, Jake. Even here. Even now. Even in you.

He laughed-laughed out loud, startling a magpie. Baking? Really, Lord? Is that where this is going?

But then another verse surfaced, this one from Philippians: "Look not only to your own interests but also to the interests of others." Maybe Jake didn't need another deployment. Maybe he just needed to remember that ministry starts with mixing bowls as much as mission fields.

The next morning, Jake found himself digging through cupboards like an archaeologist, uncovering spices he'd collected from a dozen countries. Turmeric that still smelled like Colombo markets. Cinnamon bark from Kerala's hill towns. Vanilla pods he'd bought from a grandmother in Guatemala who'd insisted he'd need them "when God shows you the next thing."

Apparently, that time had come.

His first loaf was nothing fancy-banana walnut bread with a whisper of cardamom. But as he kneaded the dough, something loosened in his chest. His hands remembered how to create instead of just rescue. How to build instead of just rebuild.

He left half the loaf on his neighbour’s doorstep with a simple note: "Learning to bake again. Would love to share."

That evening, his doorbell rang. Mrs. Cleona from three houses down stood there, and Jake could see she'd been crying—but her smile could have powered the whole street.

"I haven't tasted anything like this since my husband passed five years ago," she said, holding the empty plate like it was made of gold. "He used to bake for me every Sunday. I thought... I thought that was gone forever."

Have you ever been the answer to someone's prayer without even knowing it?

The next Saturday, Jake baked again. And then again. Word spread the way good news always does—quietly, from heart to heart, kitchen to kitchen. Conversations bloomed on front porches. Teenagers offered to learn his techniques. Someone asked if he'd consider teaching a community class.

Within a month, the local church had handed him the keys to their kitchen every Saturday morning.

This wasn't disaster relief in the way Jake had known it. There were no helicopters or emergency broadcasts. But it was healing work all the same. The kind that happens when you create space for people to share their stories while their hands work dough. The kind that lets grief and laughter exist in the same room. The kind that reminds everyone involved that they matter.

Jake began to understand what Isaiah meant in a way that felt like coming home. As Christ reigns in the hearts of His people, we become shelters for each other. Not perfect people—Lord knows Jake was still figuring out his next steps. But willing people. Available people. People who show up with flour on their hands and hope in their hearts.

The baking was never really about the bread. It was about the space that formed around it. The conversations that rose like yeast. The way Mrs. Cleona started bringing her granddaughter to learn. The way the teenager from the corner house discovered he had a gift for decorating. The way the single mom found a community that didn't judge her for showing up in pyjamas at 7 AM because it was her only free time.

In that fragrant space, filled with the scent of cinnamon and redemption, Jake watched God work again. Different work than he'd known before, but God's work, nonetheless.

And maybe that's the point. Maybe ministry isn't always about traveling to the broken places in the world. Sometimes it's about recognizing that your own neighbourhood, your own street, your own block is full of people who need shelter from their own storms.

Maybe it's about trusting that the same God who fed five thousand with loaves and fishes can work through your kitchen, your gifts, your willingness to let love rise.

A Personal Word for You:

God's promises unfold through your ordinary gifts. Your kitchen, your skills, your listening heart—they're all sacred when offered in love. Be the shelter someone needs today.