Have You Ever Asked for Your Sink to Be Oiled?

Have You Ever Asked for Your Sink to Be Oiled?

I know. That might be one of the strangest questions you’ve heard all week—maybe even all year. But hang with me here.

You see, I’m not a rich man. Not by the world’s definition anyway. I don’t drive a luxury car. I don’t have a cabin in the mountains or a vacation home near the ocean. I live a fairly simple life, and I live and work mostly alone. I wake up, drink a cup of coffee, spend time in the Word, and get after the business of helping people plan for their future. I try my best to carry myself in a way that reflects Christ—not because I think I’ve got it all figured out, but because I know I don’t. The truth is, I mess up more often than I’d like to admit. Some days I hit the mark, and other days… well, other days I cry because someone oiled my sink.

Yeah. That’s where this story starts.

A Simple Request

Recently, I hired a new cleaning service. As I showed them around my home, giving a quick overview of the rooms and what needed attention, I casually mentioned, “If possible, could you oil the kitchen sink once in a while?” It wasn’t a command. It wasn’t even a demand. Just a soft-spoken request from a man who values the small things—the way stainless steel shines when someone takes a little extra care. They smiled, nodded, and said, “Of course. No problem.”

And that was that.

Now, I’ve lived long enough to know that a lot of people say “no problem” and don’t follow through. I’ve learned that my requests often land on ears that hear the words but not the heart. I don’t say that with bitterness—just truth. I try to serve people with excellence, and when I say I’ll do something, I do it. If I can’t, I say that, too. But I often feel like when I finally make a request—personal or professional—it goes… unfilled.

Maybe it’s pride. Maybe it’s me trying to be too independent. Or maybe it's just the reality of a world too busy to hear the quiet voices.

But then… Sunday came.

I walked into my kitchen after church, and there it was—my sink. Cleaned. Polished. Oiled. And not just a quick wipe down. It glistened. I ran my hand over it and could feel the smoothness, the care. And I’ll be honest—tears welled up in my eyes.

Not because it was about a sink.

But because I finally felt heard.

How sad is it that something so small brought me to tears? Or maybe… how beautiful is it that something so small brought me to tears?

The Ache of Being Unheard

We live in a world that prides itself on big gestures. Social media tells us if it isn’t loud, large, or public, it isn’t worth noticing. But I believe our souls long for something deeper: to be seen in the quiet, to be acknowledged in the ordinary, to be heard in our smallest requests.

And when we feel invisible—even in the little things—it chips away at us.

In the Old Testament, there’s a woman named Hagar. She wasn’t part of the plan, not really. She was the Egyptian servant of Sarai, and when Sarai couldn’t have children, she gave Hagar to Abram. Hagar bore a child, but then Sarai mistreated her so badly that Hagar fled into the wilderness. Alone. Pregnant. Cast out. Unheard.

But God showed up.

In Genesis 16:13, after the Lord finds her and speaks to her tenderly, Hagar gives God a name: El Roi—“the God who sees me.”

It’s one of the most beautiful names for God in all of Scripture. And it reminds me that even when the world doesn’t see or hear me, God does.

In the New Testament, we see the same pattern. Jesus was a master of the “small moments.” He noticed the bleeding woman who touched His cloak in a crowd. He called Zacchaeus out of the tree when everyone else ignored him. He saw the widow give two small coins and said she gave more than anyone.

Jesus was the God of the oiled sink.

He noticed what others overlooked. And when we’re trying to live like Him, we notice too. But the ache comes when we feel like no one is noticing us in return. When we feel like we pour ourselves out and no one even brings a cup of water in return. That’s where the sadness creeps in—not because we need a thank you, but because we hope someone sees our heart.

When Small Things Become Holy

That Sunday, my sink wasn’t just clean. It became a sanctuary. A reminder that someone listened. That someone cared enough to follow through. That maybe, just maybe, my voice wasn’t as small as I thought.

And in that moment, the Holy Spirit whispered, “I see you, too.”

It made me think of the psalmist crying out, “How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me?” (Psalm 13:1). David, a man after God’s own heart, felt forgotten. And if he can feel that way, so can we.

But keep reading and you’ll see the turn in verse 5:
“But I trust in your unfailing love; my heart rejoices in your salvation.”

David felt forgotten but chose to believe he wasn’t. That’s the kind of faith I want to hold onto.

---

Three Ways to Keep Living Like Jesus in a World That Often Rejects

1. Choose to Serve Without Expectation
Jesus washed the feet of Judas. Let that sink in. He knew Judas would betray Him, yet He knelt down and served him anyway. That’s our call too. To serve, not for recognition, but because it reflects the heart of the Father. If we only serve to be thanked, we’ve missed the point. But if we serve to show Jesus, we’ve already succeeded.

2. Let the Holy Spirit Fill the Gaps Others Leave
When the world doesn’t fill your cup, let the Holy Spirit overflow. Romans 5:5 says, “God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit.” That means when people forget us, overlook us, or misunderstand us, we can still walk full. Not full of the world’s affirmation—but full of God’s unshakable love.

3. Celebrate the Small Victories—They’re Often the Most Sacred
That oiled sink? It wasn’t just a shiny surface. It was a divine moment. A small victory. A whisper from God saying, “I haven’t forgotten you.” Don’t overlook those moments. Don’t let the enemy tell you they’re insignificant. Jesus called faith the size of a mustard seed enough to move mountains. Small faith. Small acts. Big God.

---

Final Reflections

I still think about that sink.

Not because I’m obsessed with cleanliness. But because it became a sacred space—like a burning bush in the middle of my kitchen. It wasn’t grand or miraculous in the eyes of the world, but it was enough for me. And in this season of my life, I’m learning that sometimes, enough is all you need.

Maybe you’re like me. Maybe you feel like your requests don’t matter. Maybe you’ve poured yourself out for others and wondered when someone will finally pour back into you. Maybe your sink hasn’t been oiled in a long, long time.

Don’t give up.

The God who sees Hagar in the wilderness… the Jesus who notices bleeding women and tax collectors in trees… the Spirit who whispers in still small ways… that God sees you.

Keep asking. Keep serving. Keep hoping.

And maybe, just maybe, one day someone will oil your sink. And when they do, let the tears fall. Let your heart be full. Let that moment become a holy reminder that even in a cold, fast-moving world—God hears every quiet request.

Even the ones about stainless steel.

When Small Things Become Holy

That Sunday, my sink wasn’t just clean. It became a sanctuary. A reminder that someone listened. That someone cared enough to follow through. That maybe, just maybe, my voice wasn’t as small as I thought.

And in that moment, the Holy Spirit whispered, “I see you, too.”

It made me think of the psalmist crying out, “How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me?” (Psalm 13:1). David, a man after God’s own heart, felt forgotten. And if he can feel that way, so can we.

But keep reading and you’ll see the turn in verse 5:
“But I trust in your unfailing love; my heart rejoices in your salvation.”

David felt forgotten but chose to believe he wasn’t. That’s the kind of faith I want to hold onto.

And then I think of another moment—one far more profound than my stainless-steel sink but just as emotionally rich.

It’s a story found in all four Gospels, but I’ll draw from Luke 7:36–50. A woman—known only by her reputation, and not a good one—walked into a room full of religious men while Jesus was dining. She wasn’t invited. She wasn’t welcomed. In their eyes, she didn’t belong.

But she brought oil.

Expensive, fragrant oil. The kind of perfume that cost a year’s wages. And what did she do with it?

She broke it open. Poured it on His feet. Wept. Wiped those sacred feet with her own hair. She anointed the Savior not with religious titles or ceremonial robes, but with her sorrow, her love, her full surrender.

And what did the people do?

They criticized her.

“If this man were a prophet, he’d know what kind of woman she is,” they said.

Judged. Rejected. Dismissed. Again.

But Jesus stopped them.

He defended her.

He honored her heart.

He said, “Do you see this woman? I came into your house. You didn’t give me any water for my feet, but she wet my feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair… Therefore, I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven—as her great love has shown” (Luke 7:44–47).

You see, the others looked at her actions and scoffed. But Jesus saw her heart.

They saw a sinner. He saw a daughter.

They heard noise. He heard worship.

And I wonder… in this world of ignored requests and half-hearted responses, how many of us have stopped anointing because we’re afraid of how it might look? How many of us hold back our oil because the world around us doesn’t think it’s worth anything?

But here’s the truth:

We don’t need to use oil to anoint someone with Jesus.

Sometimes all it takes is listening to a request from someone tired and beat up.
Sometimes all it takes is following through on a simple ask—even if it seems silly or small.
Sometimes all it takes is being the one who says, “Yes. I’ll oil your sink.” And then actually doing it.

Because in a world that constantly takes, there’s something sacred about being someone who gives.

We may not wipe Jesus’ feet with perfume and tears, but we can still kneel at His feet and serve Him through the way we love others. Through kindness. Through showing up. Through seeing people when others look away.

Through letting Him speak through us—not in grand sermons or well-rehearsed prayers—but in the way we carry ourselves in the grocery store. The way we respond to a customer service rep. The way we follow through on a promise made to someone who’s used to being let down.

Let Jesus do the talking.

Let Him pour through your life like oil from an alabaster jar. Let your hands become His. Let your words be seasoned with His grace. Let your small acts become sacred altars.

And never underestimate the power of hearing someone’s small request—because when the world makes people feel invisible, simply being seen can become an act of divine anointing.

The Power of Small Acts

I’ll be honest with you—I was feeling low that weekend.

Not for any one reason, but for many small ones that had built up over time. You know that feeling—when the weight of silence, unanswered messages, and missed follow-throughs just piles up. When you're showing up for everyone else, but you’re not sure anyone would show up for you.

And then there it was… an oiled sink.

It’s almost laughable, isn’t it? That something so small could mean so much? But in that moment, it broke something in me in the best way possible. I felt heard. I felt seen. I felt loved—not by the world, but by Jesus working quietly through someone else.

And that’s when it hit me.

Please remember—you make a difference. Even if you never hear it. Even if the person never says thank you. Even if the world never gives you credit. You’re still making a difference.

When you choose to live like Jesus, when you commit yourself to walk like Him even when it’s hard, you’re planting seeds that will grow into trees of life for someone else. You might never see the fruit—but someone else will eat from it. That oiled sink reminded me that the smallest act, when done in love, can become the biggest thing in someone else’s life.

Isn’t that just like Jesus?

Isn’t that exactly what the New Testament teaches us?

Jesus didn’t chase applause. He knelt down. He touched lepers. He listened to outcasts. He fed people—not just in miraculous thousands, but in small meals, too. He stopped for individuals along the road. He paused for a woman who touched His garment. He cared about the details.

And when we model that—when we stop and actually hear someone’s request, and follow through in love—we become His hands and feet.

We don’t need to know how much it means.

We just need to do it.

Because it will mean something.

That is the Kingdom of God. Upside down. Inside out. Where the widow’s mite is worth more than the rich man’s gold, where a shepherd leaves ninety-nine to find the one, where a cup of water offered in love becomes eternal reward.

So if you’re reading this and you’re tired… if you feel unseen… if you wonder whether the little things you do even matter—

They do.

That coffee you dropped off? That phone call you made? That text message you sent to check in? That “yes” you said when someone asked you for help?

That might just be the oiled sink someone cries over on a Sunday afternoon.

And that, my friend, is living like Jesus.

Still Crying Over an Oiled Sink

I feel small today.

Not in a poetic, romantic way. But in a real, aching kind of smallness.

The kind where you wake up and wonder if your life is having any impact at all. The kind of small where you ask, “Does anyone really see me? Would anything change if I just disappeared for a while?”

And I hate admitting this… but I feel like a failure.

Not because something big went wrong, but because I constantly feel like I should be doing better, loving deeper, giving more, being stronger. I try so hard every day. I show up. I serve. I smile. I listen. I do my best to live like Christ.

And yet, the tears still fall.

They’re falling even now, as I write these words.

Not tears of anger. Not even sadness, really. Just a slow, steady ache that says, “I’m tired. I’m still here. And I’m still trying.”

But somehow… even in the midst of that, I keep pushing forward.

Not by my strength.

God knows I don’t have much left some days.

No, I push forward by the Spirit—the Holy Spirit. That still, small voice that whispers when no one else is listening. The presence that wraps around me when I sit alone in my kitchen, staring at an oiled sink, crying over stainless steel like it’s sacred… because to me, it is.

I know it might sound strange.

But sometimes I wonder if I’m even the one writing these words. Sometimes it feels like the Holy Spirit is using my hands to type what my heart can’t say on its own. Sometimes, when the tears are still wet on my face, it feels like God is saying, “Let them fall, son. I’ll use every one.”

And so I do.

Because I’ve learned something in my quiet moments, when no one’s watching and the phone isn’t ringing and I’m not “on” for anyone:

Tears don’t disqualify you from the Kingdom. They often usher you in.

---

Be the Person Who Carries the Spirit

If there’s one thing this world needs more of right now, it’s people who carry the Spirit so boldly, so quietly, so completely that darkness doesn’t stand a chance.

People who walk into a room, and without saying a word, bring peace.

People who hear a whisper and don’t dismiss it.

People who follow through on the smallest of promises, not for praise, but because they know what it’s like to feel forgotten.

People who shine their light so brightly that the enemy has no choice but to retreat and hide in the shadows.

That’s the kind of person I want to be.

I want to be the kind of man who oils the sink—not for applause, not even for recognition—but because Jesus would have done it. Because He did do it, again and again, in ways that seemed insignificant to everyone but the one who received it.

When Jesus healed the blind man, when He raised the widow’s son, when He knelt down to write in the dirt while everyone else picked up stones—He wasn’t just doing miracles. He was seeing people. He was loving them in the exact way they needed, at the exact moment they needed it.

Sometimes love looks like resurrection.

And sometimes it looks like a polished sink on a lonely Sunday.

---

When You Feel Like You’re Not Enough

There’s a lie the enemy loves to whisper when we’re tired:

You’re not enough.

You’re not holy enough.
Not strong enough.
Not spiritual enough.
Not successful enough.
Not seen enough.
Not loved enough.

He repeats it until it burrows deep, until we start to believe that our tears are weakness, our sensitivity is a liability, and our simple faith isn’t big enough for God to use.

But let me speak this truth over myself—and over you too, if you need it today:

You are enough in Jesus.
You are chosen.
You are filled.
You are called.
You are not too broken.
You are not too emotional.
You are not too late.
You are not too small.

In fact, you’re exactly the size God wants to use—because when we’re small, He is great. When we are weak, He is strong. When we are empty, He fills us up with living water that never runs dry.

Paul said it best in 2 Corinthians 12:9:

“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”

That means your tears? They’re a power portal.
Your oiled sink moment? A holy altar.
Your quiet acts of kindness? Warfare against the enemy.

---

Shine, Even If You Flicker

Sometimes I think of our lives as candles.

Some days, we’re burning bright. Flame tall, steady, unwavering.

And other days, we flicker. Windblown. Struggling. Smoke curling at the edges.

But the flame never goes out.

Because God is our wick. The Holy Spirit is our fuel. And Jesus is the hand that cups around us when the winds of the world threaten to snuff us out.

Even a flickering light still defeats the darkness.

So if all you can do today is flicker, then flicker.
If all you can offer is tears, then cry.
If all you have is a small “yes,” then say it anyway.

You have no idea who needs what you carry.

---

The Glue of Mother’s Day

Maybe it’s the timing of all this that’s hitting me extra hard. It’s Mother’s Day weekend. And while we celebrate the moms around us with flowers and cards and Sunday brunches, I can’t help but think about the deeper meaning of this day.

Mother’s Day is not just about women who gave birth.

It’s about the glue.

The emotional, spiritual, self-sacrificing glue that holds families—and faith communities—together.

It’s the memory of being held when you didn’t know what you needed.
It’s the faith passed down through whispered prayers and late-night tears.
It’s the example of sacrificial love—the kind that costs everything but asks for nothing.

It’s the Holy Spirit through the tenderness of a mom.

It’s the heart of Jesus, expressed through folded laundry, warm meals, silent intercession, and unwavering presence.

If you had a mom like that—or a spiritual mother, or a woman who stood in that gap for you—then you’ve already experienced a glimpse of what Christ’s love feels like.

And maybe that’s why I cried over my sink.

Because for a moment, I felt mothered.

Seen. Cared for. Tended to.

In a world that keeps rushing past us, don’t underestimate what that kind of care can do for a weary soul. Don’t underestimate the Spirit working through your gentleness. Your listening. Your love.

---

What You Carry Matters

As I come to the end of this page, tears are still drying on my face. I feel a little lighter, a little more lifted—but not because my circumstances have changed. They haven’t.

I’m still tired.

I’m still a little heart-sore.

But I’m reminded of something truer than my feelings:

The Holy Spirit is alive in me.

And because of that, I get to carry something holy into every room I enter. Into every conversation. Into every unseen moment.

You do too.

Be the one who notices.
Be the one who shows up.
Be the one who listens and follows through.
Be the one who shines—flickering or not.

Be the person who oils the sink.

Because that little act might just be the biggest act to someone else.