My hands smelled like basil this morning.
I don’t particularly enjoy eating basil by itself. In fact, I’ll probably never snack on a handful of basil leaves. But every time I walk through my little garden, I find myself rubbing a leaf between my fingers.
Hours later, the fragrance is still there.
It made me think about a dream I had years ago. In the dream, I was ushering at a funeral. I spent the service helping everyone else find their seats, passing tissues, comforting grieving families, and doing what ushers do. By the time I finally approached the casket to pay my own respects, something impossible happened.
The deceased sat up.
Looking directly at me, they smiled and said,
“It was your perfume that made me rise.”
I woke up before they explained what they meant, but I never forgot the dream.
Years later, I found myself saying something to another minister that surprised even me.
“I can smell your anointing.”
Now…before rumors started another church meeting, let me explain. š I wasn’t saying the man needed a shower. In fact, the congregation looked at me like I had just announced, “Pastor, you stink.” It took a minute to convince everyone I wasn’t talking about body odor at all.
I wasn’t talking about cologne. I wasn’t talking about lotion.I was trying to describe something words struggle to explain.
There are people whose lives have spent so much time in the presence of God that you sense His peace before they ever open their mouths. Their words aren’t louder. Their personalities aren’t bigger. Yet somehow, they leave behind hope, peace, and life wherever they go.
The Apostle Paul wrote that we are “the aroma of Christ.”
Not because we wear the right fragrance. But because we’ve been close enough to Him that His presence lingers on us.
This morning, while rubbing a basil leaf between my fingers, I realized that basil never has to announce itself or introduce itself. It simply becomes what God created it to be, and everyone who brushes against it leaves carrying its fragrance.
We spend so much time announcing ourselves.
“I’m a minister.”
“I’m an elder.”
“I’m a worship leader.”
“I’m a Christian.”
āBlah, blah, blahā And so on.
There’s nothing wrong with those titles. They describe our calling and our service. But titles were never meant to substitute for transformation.
Basil never says a word. It doesn’t have to convince you it’s basil. It doesn’t wear a name tag. It doesn’t introduce itself before releasing its fragrance.
It simply becomes what God created it to be, and everyone who brushes against it knows they have encountered something different.
Maybe our greatest witness isn’t what we announce about ourselvesā¦ Maybe it’s the fragrance people carry away after they’ve encountered us.
Maybe our words comfort. Maybe our patience calms. Maybe our generosity feeds. Maybe our forgiveness heals. Maybe our presence reminds someone that God has not forgotten them.
Long after we’ve left the room…
…the fragrance remains.
This morning, I walked back into my house with basil on my hands. My prayer is that I walk into every room carrying Christ in my spirit.
So today I’m asking myself a different question.
Not…
āWhat perfume am I wearing?”
But…
“What fragrance am I leaving behind?”
Because if a simple basil plant can leave its scent on my hands with just the slightest touch…
How much more should a life touched by Christ leave behind His love, His peace, and His hope?
May those who brush against our lives leave carrying the fragrance of Christ.
Love, Chelle
“For we are to God the pleasing aroma of Christ among those who are being saved and among those who are perishing.”
ā 2 Corinthians 2:15
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