No love like that of a mother.

It was a Sunday like this one — that strange, holy pocket of time between chocolate hearts and ashes. Three days after Valentine’s Day, two days before Ash Wednesday. Love still hanging in the air, Lent already clearing its throat in the distance. And right there in the middle of that liturgical traffic jam stood February 19, 2023 — the day I was ordained a priest of the Archdiocese of Kingston.

For most people, it was an ordinary Sunday. For me? Heaven filed a special appointment.

My queen mother was there. My uncle-father — the prince representing the entire clan — stood like a royal delegation making sure history was properly witnessed. Hundreds of friends and family were online, even though it was 11 p.m. back home, storming the comment section like a holy invasion. If enthusiasm were incense, the internet would have smelled like a cathedral.

The cathedral itself was nearly full. And there I was, trying to look priestly and composed while tears threatened a quiet rebellion from the corner of my eye. My mother walked me down the aisle, and in that moment, I was every child who ever dreamed loudly and every adult who almost gave up quietly. It was a normal Sunday for the calendar. It was a grace-loaded Sunday for my soul.

The Archbishop prayed over me. My brother priests laid hands on me — a weight both gentle and immense. I prostrated before the altar while the Litany of the Saints rolled through the church like waves. Face to the floor, heart wide open, I prayed in silence. There are moments when words would only get in the way. That was one of them.

Then came the vesting. Mommy and uncle-father clothed me in priestly garments, and the church erupted in joy. Not polite applause — real joy. The kind that shakes pews and rattles heaven’s windows. I was led to the altar by the priest who would become my spiritual father, and suddenly I was standing among those consecrating bread and wine into the Body and Blood of Christ. Childhood dream met divine reality. I still don’t have vocabulary big enough for that moment.

Before Mass ended, I blessed the Archbishop. After Mass, I blessed the people outside the cathedral. Imagine that — the boy who once ran barefoot through village dust now tracing the sign of the cross over crowds. God has a sense of humor, and apparently I’m one of His favorite punchlines.

There were gifts, hugs, laughter, and congratulations flowing in every direction. And the oil — the priestly oil. I smelled like chrism and eternity. I didn’t want to shower. I wanted to bottle that scent and wear it forever. If holiness had a fragrance, I was convinced that it was.

Now three years have passed. Three years of altar wine and hospital visits. Three years of funerals and baptisms. Three years of joy that stretches you and crosses that shape you. And yet, when I close my eyes, I’m still there on that Sunday — suspended between Valentine’s roses and Lenten ashes, between who I was and who God was calling me to become.

To God be the glory. Great things He has done. And somehow, in His mercy, He is still doing them — with me, through me, and sometimes despite me.

And honestly? I wouldn’t trade the smell of that oil for anything.

I am willing to receive gifts from you