She slipped into the crowded room unnoticed.
Her heart thundered in her chest. As each beat grew louder, how could those in the room not hear it she wondered?
It was as if a storm was taking place inside of her, crashing and thrashing in icy waves over her heart. The momentum
of its power caught her in a whirlpool-- tossing her mind, heart and soul until they were battered, bruised and exhausted.
If she could just catch his
eye she would know!
Through the parted shoulders
of the men in front of her, she caught a glimpse of him reclined at the table at the seat of honor. His forearm and
a quick sliver of his face was all that was unveiled to her as she slowly moved along the fence of humanity that pressed in
on him. Men of reputation, intelligence, faith and power stood between her and him. With one glance they
could banish her from the room. For what she was about to do, they could even order her killed. At that thought,
she had to force herself to try to breathe normally.
How beautiful he was! Her
eyes never left where he was sitting, as she maneuvered her way ever so slowly around the sea of men. Her movements
became as a dance--fluid, graceful, silent. A hand, a lock of hair, a tanned foot--she was close enough now to catch snippets of his words.
His voice must be what heaven sounds like she thought.
Finally she was only five
steps from him. Five steps-- yet hundreds of years of tradition and Law separated them.
Her
eyes never left his face. If she were to do this, she must not look away. Her only source of courage could
be found in his gaze and his face alone.
If he would just look at
her, she would know!
And then, as if he heard the muffled pleading of her heart, his eyes embraced her. Enveloped
her. Invaded every part of her...
...and the storm stopped.
One step. Her knees
almost buckled.
Two steps. She could no longer breathe.
Three steps. The room fell silent.
Four
steps. She could not stop the tears.
Five steps. The joy!
The joy!
She knelt down and took the small bottle of fragrant oil from around her neck as she gently placed the feet of her love--her
Savior on her lap. Her tears blurred the room. At first her hands shook, making it impossible for her to remove
the dainty cork out of the miniature jar. He bent down and took her hands in his. The tremors obeyed his touch.
She was created for this
moment--of this she had no doubt. With his eyes upon her, her hands performed the sacrament of love without hesitation.
The oil flowed as a stream between his ankles, his heels and his toes.
The room of men sat dumbfounded. What was happening? All eyes turned to Jesus--questioning, gawking, judging,
yearning, hoping, trusting, distrusting. Hardened hearts would not allow understanding. What the Son and the Father
had set in motion centuries before was only days from coming to pass, yet most in the room were oblivious to its meaning.
All they understood was that this woman was committing an abdominal act. Voices were found. Anger
exploded. Ridiculed ruled.
“Stop
her!” “She’s a sinner!” “She wastes precious resources!”
As for the woman, she no longer hears the rattle of the chains
that for centuries
kept ‘her kind’ in place. She smiles up at Jesus. The love that is reflected back walls her courage,
redeems her boldness, and places in her soul acceptance, worth and mission.
“Be silent,” says the Savior. “She prepares me for my Father.”
The mutterings do not completely cease.
Hearts are blackened. Yet this woman--this seemingly incidental woman did what no man in that room would--she defied
her tradition and set the Divine Plan in motion.
The woman finishes her ceremony by drying his feet with her cascading hair. They stand as one, and she knows life as
it has been no longer exists. She is now accountable to her Savior. Her existence is validated. Her purpose
clear. She turns and walks back across the room--never to be afraid again.
###
