Week Six: Before the Cross, A Fragrance That Lingers

A Word for the Way: Guiding Scripture for the Week
“Leave her alone,” said Jesus. “It was intended that she should save this perfume for the day of my burial.” —John 12:7

We step out of the valley carrying what has not yet healed.

The bones behind us, the cross before us— and somewhere in between, a garden fills with fragrance.

This is not the week of triumph.
This is the week of tenderness.

A woman breaks open what is costly.
The scent fills the room.
It clings to Jesus’ skin.
It clings to the air.
It marks everything with the knowledge of what is coming.

This is not a week of action.
It is a week of nearness.

A week to draw close.
To let the ache of love rise.
To feel the weight of what is being poured out.

Lent begins to press in now—not with answers, but with presence.
And presence is its own offering.

This is the invitation of Week Six:

To stay near the One who will not run from suffering.
To let grief and love live together in your body.
To receive the scent of sacrifice—not as guilt, but as a call to stay awake.
To walk gently through the garden before the cross.
To remember that beauty and sorrow often dwell side by side.

This is not the week of fixing or fleeing.
This is the week of anointing.

The oil has been poured.
The shadows are growing long.
The cross is coming—and still, Jesus does not turn away.

This week, we remember:

You are not asked to carry the weight alone.
You are only asked to stay near.

Core Practice: The Prayer of Anointing

Each day this week, pause and touch your forehead, your heart, or your hands with intention.

Let this be your breath-prayer:

Inhale: “You are here.”
Exhale: “Even in the shadows.”

This small act becomes your own anointing.
A way to remember that love lingers.
A way to prepare your body to stay near to Christ in his sorrow.

You do not need to explain the ache.
Only let yourself be present to it.

Additional Offering: A Shared Practice — The Scent of What Remains

Choose a scent—oil, perfume, or something from your kitchen—
something that evokes memory, tenderness, or presence.

On Friday or Saturday, take a quiet moment to open the jar or bottle.
Breathe in slowly.

Whisper:

“Let this be the fragrance that reminds me: Love has already made the way.”

Let the scent mark the space you’re in.
Let it stay on your hands, your clothes, your altar.
Let it be the memory you carry into the silence of Holy Week.

Others are pausing too.
Others are drawing close.
We are not alone in this garden.

A Final Word for Those Walking This Pathway

The nearness of the cross is not a threat.
It is the place where love endures.

This is the sacred labor of Lent—
to stay when others scatter,
to witness what is being poured out,
to believe that grief is not a sign of failure, but of love.

The oil still lingers.
The shadow has not yet overcome the light.

You are not asked to understand.
You are only invited to draw close.

Let the fragrance remain.
Let love be what marks you.
Let yourself stay near to the One who will walk the rest of the way—for love, for the world, for you.