It was one of those days.
If you’re a mom, you know exactly the kind I’m talking about.
It was lunchtime. I had managed—just barely—to get my four-year-old’s plate on the table before my one-month-old started stirring after an hour of trying to get him to sleep on his own. I scrambled to fix my own food while the baby’s cries escalated from whimpers to wails.
Finally, I gave up.
I scooped him in my arms, bouncing and swaying until the cries softened. Once settled, I attempted the transfer to his bed… and failed. The second I laid him down, he cried again. So back up he came. It looked like it was going to be a nap-on-mommy kind of day.
By now, my four-year-old had finished lunch and was sitting at the table listening to his beloved VeggieTales podcast. I had already reminded him multiple times to “turn the screen off”. Those instructions were apparently traveling in one ear and exiting the other. The plan to limit screen time was slowly unraveling.
So there I sat. Rocking a baby. Attempting to eat. Reprimanding my firstborn.
And then it happened.
On the short journey from fork to mouth, my lunch (tuna salad no less) tumbled down—onto me, onto the baby, onto the freshly washed blanket I had just pulled from the dryer.
That was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
Somewhere between tears and hysterical laughter, the thoughts flooded in:
I can’t do this.
I’m so stressed.
The house is a mess.
The kids are a mess.
I am a mess.
I’m failing as a wife.
I’m failing as a mother.
I’m not enough.
I’m just so… imperfect.
And then, quietly, gently, this thought surfaced:
You are. And that’s okay. I never called you to be perfect. I called you to be still and know that I am God. Being perfect is My job, not yours. I am MORE than enough so you don’t have to be.
When Mary anointed Jesus (found in Matthew 26, Mark 14, Luke 7, John 12), Scripture says something interesting.
She didn’t simply pour the perfume.
She broke the jar.
Mark 14:3 says:
“She broke the flask and poured it over His head.”
The Greek word used there is syntribō — meaning to crush, shatter, or break apart.
Crushed. Shattered. Broken.
Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?
We often focus on what was inside the jar: nard—an imported perfume worth nearly a year’s wages. It was rare, precious, and costly.
And yes, worship costs something.
It costs time.
It costs comfort.
It costs pride.
It costs what we hold dear.
But we don’t talk as much about the jar.
Alabaster was a fine, smooth stone—beautiful, pale, and translucent. It was also an imported luxury. Carefully carved, these flasks had narrow necks and were sealed with wax. They were designed for careful, controlled use—just a few drops at a time.
Breaking it meant:
It could never be resealed.
It could never be reused.
Nothing inside would be held back.
The act was irreversible.
Her offering wasn’t just expensive. It was final.
The oil, though costly, could theoretically be replaced. But that specific jar? Once broken, it was gone. No wonder some called it wasteful. A perfectly good vessel—ruined.
But Jesus called it beautiful.
Sometimes our worship is like the oil. We pour out on Sunday. We serve. We sing. We give. And what we pour out, God refreshes. He fills us again. That kind of worship is beautiful.
But sometimes worship looks like the jar. It’s not controlled. It’s not polished. It’s not measured out in neat, spiritual portions.
It’s messy.
It’s tears at midnight when life feels unfair—but you whisper praise anyway.
It’s exhaustion at noon while your house is chaos and tuna salad is on your sleeping baby—and you choose gratitude anyway.
It’s surrender when you feel like you have nothing left to give.
It’s breaking.
And here’s the truth we forget: God never asked us to be flawless vessels. He asked us to be surrendered ones.
That day at my kitchen table, I felt shattered. Not poured out in some beautiful, intentional offering. But broken. And maybe that’s the point.
Maybe God isn’t waiting for our polished, Instagram-ready worship. Maybe He receives the cracked, trembling offering just as tenderly. Because when the jar is broken, the oil can flow freely.
So if you’re in a season where you feel more shattered than spiritual, break the jar anyway. Bring Him your exhaustion. Bring Him your frustration. Bring Him your imperfection. Because when brokenness meets a perfect Savior—
He still calls it beautiful.
