The Scent of Ash and Spice: Esther's Waiting Fire

The Scent of Ash and Spice: Esther's Waiting Fire

Esther's calloused hands traced the rim of the cold fire pit, her fingertips coming away grey with yesterday's ashes. The morning sun cast long shadows across the cracked earth of their makeshift camp outside Juba, where families like hers had settled after fleeing renewed fighting in the north.

Six months ago, she had been coordinating food airdrops for displaced families across three states. Her satellite phone never stopped buzzing, logistics teams, pilots, government officials. She worked eighteen-hour days, survived on instant coffee and determination, and fell asleep each night knowing thousands had eaten because of decisions she'd made that day.

Then the funding dried up. The international NGOs pulled out overnight, leaving behind empty offices and emptier promises. Esther's expertise in emergency response meant nothing when there were no emergencies to respond to-at least none that anyone wanted to fund.

Now she lived in her sister Mary's one-room shelter, watching her nieces and nephews grow thinner each week. The irony wasn't lost on her: the woman who once fed thousands couldn't even provide a decent meal for her own family. "Auntie Esther, my stomach is talking," five-year-old Grace whispered that morning, her Dinka mixed with broken English. Esther's heart clenched as she stared at their merger supplies-a bag of sorghum flour going bad in the heat, some wilted greens, and a few spoonsful of cooking oil.

That evening, as the family gathered for their sparse dinner, Esther found herself staring into the darkness beyond their small fire. The weight of uselessness pressed down like the oppressive heat.

" Yasoo ‘(يَسُوع) [Jesus]," she whispered in Arabic, her voice barely audible above the crackling wood, "like Martha said to you... 'If you had been here, my brother would not have died.' If you had been here, I wouldn't have lost everything. I wouldn't be... forgotten." And the dead of silence that followed felt heavier than her words. But in that silence, a memory flickered-her grandmother's weathered hands kneading dough during the long civil war, humming "Yesu Ayita" (Jesus is Coming) while mortar shells echoed in the distance. "Esther, my child," she had said, "don't waste the waiting. Even dying coals can bake bread if your hands stay busy and your heart stays soft."

The next morning, Esther gathered what little they had. The sorghum flour was still good enough. She found some dried milk powder Mary had been saving, a pinch of salt, and even a small packet of sugar-a luxury in their current situation.

As she kneaded the dough, her sister watched sceptically. "Esther, we barely have enough for ourselves."

"Trust me," Esther replied, though she herself wasn't sure if she trusted herself. She shaped the dough into small balls and dropped them into the hot oil. The familiar sizzle and the rising scent of frying mandazi drew curious neighbours. Soon, children's faces appeared at their doorway, drawn by the smell of something that reminded them of better times.

When Esther saw their hungry eyes, she didn't hesitate. She handed out the golden pastries while they were still warm, watching as each child's face lit up with the first sweet bite they'd had in weeks.

Word spread quickly through the camp. The next day, Grace's teacher from the makeshift school approached Esther. "Sister, the children haven't stopped talking about yesterday. Could you... could you make some for our afternoon program? We have a little money saved." Within a week, three other families had pooled their resources with Esther's. They set up a small operation near the camp's main road, selling mandazi to travellers and local workers. The income was modest, maybe enough for one good meal a day, but it was something.

As their small business grew, Esther began experimenting with flavors, adding cardamom she bartered from a Sudanese trader, coconut flakes when available, and cinnamon that reminded everyone of celebrations past. The children started calling them "Ash and Spice Mandazi"-born from the ashes of loss, seasoned with the spice of hope.

Months later, as Esther watched a group of women she had trained knead dough for their own families, she realized something profound had happened. Jesus had been there all along, not in the way she had expected, but in the way she had needed. He was the resurrection not just of Lazarus, but of purpose, of community, of the belief that every person matters.

"I am the resurrection and the life," He had promised. And in the scent of ash and spice, in the laughter of children, in the dignity restored to women who had lost everything, Esther had found that promise to be beautifully, tangibly true.

Reflection

“I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die.” — John 11:25

As I have travelled around in the countryside and on the dusty camp roads, I have felt that sometimes our greatest seasons of waiting feel like death-death of dreams, purpose and identity. But Jesus specializes in resurrections that starts small and grows significant. Esther's story reminds us of that God often works through our hands, our skills, and our willingness to serve others even when we feel forgotten ourselves.

The resurrection life isn't always dramatic; sometimes it's as simple as kneading dough with love and watching hope rise in the hearts around us. In our seasons of ash, God is still present, still working, still preparing something beautiful from what feels broken.

Today, let’s ask ourselves: What "small thing" in your hands could God use to bring life to others? Sometimes our greatest ministry emerges not from our strength, but from our willingness to serve in our weakness.

O’ Lord, help me trust that even in the ashes of disappointed dreams, you are the God of resurrection. Use what little I have to bring hope to others, and remind me that in serving them, I find You.