He’s here among us.
Sitting with us. Eating with us. With my brother and the others.
My sister serves, and I am barely standing, or able to contain my thoughts.
Hands tremble with the weight of the jar to give him.
Something to show him I love him.
Over and over again, he shows me his power and his love, and who he is.
HE IS LORD!
He deserves my worship.
HE IS LORD!
As my heart sings what my mind also knows, my eyes drift around the room. Memories flood my senses as I hear him speaking with the men in the next room. He’s been here many times before, our friend and now healer. He restored my brother to life and we all saw it, all heard his weeping and his words, “Come out!”
I smell the faint scent of the spikenard, covered in the beautiful white jar, a gift from far away.
I barely remember taking it in my hand.
Barely remember the steps I took into the room.
I don’t know what happened. Did the conversation stop when I entered? What did the faces of the others look like as I uncapped the alabaster jar and poured its thick liquid, worth several thousand dollars, the earned pay of one year’s work, over his head?
The fragrance instantly filled the room as it dripped down, small pools collecting on his garment.
It was only Jesus and I, for all I knew and even cared.
In that moment, it was only us. My worship of him, proven Lord, proven love for me and my family.
As my mind began to catch up to my heart, I realized the others were mumbling, criticizing what just happened.
For an instant, I wondered what I had done? I questioned, maybe I gave too much?
But then I heard his voice, “Leave her alone. Why criticize her for doing such a good thing to me? She has done what she could and has anointed my body for burial ahead of time. I tell you the truth, wherever the Good News is preached throughout the world, this woman’s deed will be remembered and discussed.”
All I heard was love, approval, his acceptance of my worship. And the other voices evaporated long before the nard’s essence ever would.
It’s been several days.
He is gone from us.
But I can still smell it.
It smells like worship.
It smells like love and forgiveness and mercy and kindness and compassion and healing and all things that are real and true and seen and unseen.
I need this memory.
Already, I’ve forgotten. Only days ago, my full worship and adoration and awareness of who he is, has failed and I’ve submitted to my own doing, my own power, my own saving. How quickly I forget.
Yet, this healing work, this faithful obedience of Jesus to his Father, my Father, stays true. Even while I am busy settling things on my own, Jesus is still at work, faithfully obeying the Father, faithfully living in me, waiting on my worship of him so that I can once again see him, and others will see him, living through me as they once did in Simon’s house.
Just days ago.
I am that woman. One moment full of worship, hands unclenched, heart open, pouring out my very best for him. The next, pulling some of it, or all of it back to me. I still want it. My time, my money, my things, the approval of others, the recognition for something I’ve done.
But I still hear him. Telling me, others will know about him because of my worship, my daily life of worship. Even in my failures, others will know about him.
As I poured out the expense of a year in a few seconds, I couldn’t imagine the significance of what I had done, a preparation for his burial.
And so I see, God has uses for my acts of worship that are far beyond my imagination.
If only I will pour it out…