Unnoticed by the men at the table, she hugged the jug close to her body, precious oil that cost her everything, and wove her way through the servants. Eyes cast down and chin trembling, she stood before him. All conversation ceased.
Gripped by the immensity of his love and the release of her burden, she sobbed, her tears bathing his feet. She dropped to her knees and emptied her jar as well, the fine scent flowing over his feet and rising around them. The men gasped as she unbound her hair, let it tumble to the floor, and wiped his feet.
He praised her for her love.
I want to be more like her.
What keeps us from falling at his feet, weeping the release of everything we hold so close?
Are we trying so hard to live right, do good and follow the line that
we are afraid to admit our errors?
Do we fear we’ll fall apart if we allow such a display of emotion?
Or worse, cower before the stern faces around us, judging,
instead of receiving all we need from the One who knows us through and through,
loves us enough to die for us,
and forgive us completely?
I want to live that kind of lavish love.
The love of the completely forgiven.
At table, aghast, lips pursed in disgust?
Or ready to fall to your knees,
oh so aware of what drives you there?