04/02/2026
It happened in a kitchen,
not a temple, not a crowd,
just a table, ordinary things,
bread within reach, conversation half-held,
the kind of moment
that doesn’t announce itself
as sacred.
And then she breaks it open.
Not a sentence, not a story,
but a jar,
costly, guarded,
the kind of thing you don’t use lightly,
the kind of thing you keep
for later,
for better,
for a moment that feels
important enough.
And suddenly it’s everywhere,
filling the room like a slow, fragrant tide,
a crushed-incense sea that claims the air,
seeping into clothes and skin,
into hair, into breath,
into the kind of memory
that won’t leave quietly.
There is no holding it back now.
And the God who is worthy
receives it
without flinching,
without counting the cost,
while others do the sums out loud.
Too much.
Too wasteful.
Too easily criticised.
It could have been sold,
turned into something measurable,
something that fits the categories
we understand.
But love like this
doesn’t fit neatly.
It spills past reason,
past caution,
past the careful voice
that says, keep some for later.
It pours,
and keeps pouring,
until the whole space is changed by it.
And we feel that moment catch,
because we know ourselves,
how we portion things out,
how we hold back a little
of our time,
our attention,
our generosity,
just in case we need it later.
But she doesn’t.
She kneels into it,
lets it fall,
lets it be seen,
lets it be too much
for those watching.
And the God who is love
doesn’t interrupt her,
doesn’t tidy the moment,
doesn’t make it more sensible.
He lets it stand.
Because he knows
what is coming next,
the narrowing road,
the weight of it,
the kind of love
that will not be poured from a jar
but from his own life.
This week begins here,
with fragrance in the air,
with something beautiful and costly,
with a moment
that lingers longer than it should,
settling into the walls,
into memory,
into us.
We feel it press against us,
this loosening of tight hands,
this letting go of careful measures,
this quiet undoing
of all the ways we’ve learned
to ration love.
And something in us shifts,
not loud, not sudden,
but steady,
like a door opening inward,
like a life beginning
to pour itself out,
because the God who is love
has already poured everything
out for us.
© E Hamilton 2026
