Love Poured Out, Leave Her Alone, My Broken Alabaster Jar

“Leave her alone… she has kept this for the day of my burial.”
(John 12:7)

This reflection is tender and layered—something I’ve carried quietly until now. I share it in case it meets you in a place you need to be reminded: love poured out is never wasted.

Two years ago, we were living in a holy tension. Easter Monday came—and with it, hospice. Everything shifted.

We didn’t know how close the end was—but our hearts felt it was soon. And in those fragile days, I began to prepare—quietly, reverently. While the world celebrated resurrection, we were beginning a sacred descent—a final walk of presence, surrender, and love.

Now, each Lent, Holy Week and Easter Monday brings the quiet echo of those days. The tender ache. The sacred remembering.

In Monday’s Gospel, John 12:1-11, Mary anoints Jesus—costly oil poured out in an act of love she may not have fully understood. I’ve come to see caregiving in much the same way. It’s not glamorous. It’s not always seen. But it is holy.

It had me pondering my offering.

I wasn’t holding perfumed oil. I was holding space. Rearranging pillows. Whispering prayers. Washing feet. Serving meals. Tending to the one I loved with everything I had. Creating peace. Protecting our children. Honoring Jon’s deepest wish: that his final days be gentle—for him, for them, for me—his wife.

That was my anointing. My alabaster jar, broken open for the one I loved.

That was my anointing. My alabaster jar, broken open for the one I loved.

Heather Lebano

Jesus wept. So did we. He knew what it meant to walk someone home. We were doing this, too. He was acquainted with our grief. 

At the same time, I was discerning—moment by moment. Not out of judgment, but out of necessity. So many decisions to make. So little time.

I was asked, often, in those final hours, about visits—people wanting to come, to say goodbye, to make their peace. But it was hard to keep up with all the requests and try to keep the peace—while my husband was dying.

Choose Love

Every decision came with weight. And every moment I spent trying to manage others’ needs meant time away from him. Every tender moment presented a quiet ache. This was harder than anyone could imagine. I was living it and I still cannot quite process it.

Some turned away during his illness. Others stayed away since—and after—the funeral. Some vanished into the wind. Some did both. And still, in those final days—when time was slipping through our fingers—I had to honor Jon’s wishes and his heart (and his health) as the hours faded. Never mind my the hearts of my young children as they watched the petals begin to fade and fall. 

I had to choose: not to live out of fear…but to live out of love.

Holding space for a dying loved one is holy, heart-wrenching work. It requires deep presence, quiet strength, and a kind of discernment that can’t always be explained.

These moments are layered. They ask everything of you. And those who are walking that sacred path deserve tenderness, not assumptions—grace, not pressure.

I wonder how often we truly pause to consider what others are carrying—especially those closest to the one who is dying. The ones making quiet decisions. Holding the weight. Pouring out love with trembling hands. It’s easy to miss their ache when we’re standing on the outside. But I hope this reflection reminds us to approach those moments—and the people inside them—with gentleness and reverence.

I wish I hadn’t had to carry the weight of expectations—especially from places that never showed up with unconditional love and support. But I did. And I kept choosing love anyway. I chose peace. I chose to stay faithful to what mattered most in those fleeting, sacred hours. In humility, I chose love. At times, I have paid the price for that love. 

I’ve come to understand that both weddings and funerals—burials—often reveal what’s hidden. They are sacred moments, deeply human and deeply holy. They stir longings, grief, comparison, regret, and pain. Both are a kind of severing—of a life before, of dreams, of connection. Sometimes they bring out the best in people. Sometimes, the worst. I have witnessed both. 

Maybe it’s because these moments expose us—our relationships, our regrets, our hopes, our hurts. Maybe it’s because there are moments we can’t get back—and that ache makes everything feel more urgent. 

But even in that, I chose to protect peace. To protect presence. To love well, without needing to be understood.

Because they—Jon, our kids, and the God who walked with us—were who I was called to honor most. Jon and I had many years of conversations about those tender days and hours. In sickness and health, until death do us part.

Like Judas did to Mary

There were voices outside the room. Judging. Questioning. Whispering unfair narratives. Just like Judas did to Mary. That created an unnecessary tension.

Some didn’t understand—or couldn’t, or chose not to—in Bethany or in our story.

For us, it was never about excluding. It was always about honoring. Honoring Jon. Honoring peace. Honoring what Jon told me he wanted in the early days and in those final days. Honoring where God was calling us in the heartbreak. Honoring the sacredness of goodbye. Honoring as best as I could when time and circumstances were not on our side. 

Jesus saw Mary. He defended her. Told them to “Leave her alone,” because she was preparing for His burial. He called her act sacred.

Some turned away during Jon’s illness—at a time when support was most needed, and love could have spoken the loudest. But fear often speaks louder than love when death draws near. And in truth, that still stings. It was—and is—still very confusing. It hurts in ways that can’t always be put into words. But God, in His mercy and grace, is gently healing and redeeming those broken places.

I had to keep choosing love anyway. When fear crept in, I chose love. When pressure came, I chose love. When time was running out, I chose love and those inside my home. Because they—Jon, our kids, and the God who walked with us—were who I was called to honor most.

Caregiving is holy and difficult. Discernment in crisis is holy. Love poured out, even when misunderstood, is holy.

And Jesus, in this Gospel, reminds us: He sees. He knows. He defends the hidden sacrifices. 

Our Home, Our Bethany

Our home became Bethany. Our home became holy ground. A resting place. A shelter for the sacred.

“One thing I ask of the Lord; this I seek: To dwell in the Lord’s house all the days of my life, To gaze on the Lord’s beauty, to visit his temple.” (Psalm 27:4)

Grief, caregiving, and discernment all poured out like oil. And love—costly, tender, unwavering—was what we gave. It was our alabaster jar.

In the end, I had to choose: not to live out of fear…but to live out of love. 

And just as Jesus said, “You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me,” I knew deep down these moments were fleeting. We knew we wouldn’t always have Jon in our house with us. The weight of time hung heavy. I clung to presence.

There were moments when I wanted to say, “Leave me alone,” (like Jesus said about Mary—”Leave her alone.”) Then. Maybe even now. Not out of bitterness, but because I was doing the sacred work entrusted to me—and sometimes, it’s too much for a caregiver and/or widow to explain all she carries. sometimes, it’s too much for a caregiver/widow to explain why she needs space while holding everything together.

I was processing and preparing the loss of my husband—the father of my children—while trying to hold us all together. There was more than enough to carry, and the fears others projected from their own hearts were not mine to carry.

And now, two years later, I am still processing. Still grieving. Still carrying the loss we’ve endured—and the losses that are still too deep to measure. Maybe Jesus was doing for me what I could not do for myself: pouring in grace and peace in the places I didn’t yet know were breaking.

Grief doesn’t follow a timeline. And healing doesn’t always look like progress.

May we be gentle with the caregivers. May we be gentle with the grieving—especially those cleaved to the one who has died.

There’s a sacred weight they carry. The cost of love. The cost of letting go.

Two years later, I can see it clearly: love looks like tending. Grief is the shadow of that love. And caregiving—especially in those final days—is a holy calling. An act of selfless love that echoes Mary’s anointing and honors Christ Himself.

We may not have known exactly when we were preparing for burial. But our love made ready the way. And God met us in that room—just as He meets us now.

Maybe your story is not the same as mine. Maybe you’re a daughter caring for a fading parent. A friend sitting at a bedside with no words left. A spouse holding a hand through long nights. A parent praying for a child—young or old. Or someone who has had to say goodbye before you were ready.

Bethany, Calvary, Real Life

This is Bethany. This is Calvary. This is real life.

May we notice the sacred. May we pour out what we can. May we keep choosing love.

And if you’ve ever turned away from a moment that mattered, I know that ache too. Grace still finds us.

Mary kept her offering—the oil. We offered our presence. Love poured out, from our broken Alabaster Jar, even when it hurt.

If this reflection met you in a tender place, you’re not alone. I’d be honored to hear your story or pray with you. You can reply here or reach out quietly.

Mary kept her offering—the oil. We offered our presence. Love poured out, from our broken Alabaster Jar, even when it hurt.

heather Lebano

Life is Fragile

“Life is fragile, time finite—an amount only God determines or measures.”

I found this photo on my phone because I thought it was a fitting visual to the story. Only to realize I took this poignant photo and wrote a tender, honest caption only days before Jon took his final breaths. In the tension of the days, I forgot. It is worth reading, to see the veil of holding space for the dying. I will include it here and below.

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A post shared by Heather Lebano 🤍 (@houseofloveandlaughterblog)