The house smelled of roasted lamb, freshly baked bread, and something she couldn’t place—something expensive. Bethany was never quiet during feast days. Pilgrims flowed in from the north, Roman patrols kept a wary eye on gatherings, and the air was charged with rumors of miracles and trouble. But inside Simon’s home, the laughter echoed freely. Still, everything tightened around her chest like a rope.
Martha moved swiftly, serving, her brow glistening. Lazarus sat near their guest, reclined at the table—as alive as if the tomb had never held him. And Mary? Mary had vanished.
I stood in the corner, fingers closed around my flask. The alabaster warmed under my palm. I had bought it with my dowry—meant for my wedding day, meant for another life that never came. Men said I wasted it. But lately, all I heard in my spirit was a quiet urging I could not ignore: Bring it. Pour it.
He was here. Jesus.
He sat just feet from me, the man who called the dead to rise and spoke with authority that made temple rulers bristle. I felt the pull—stronger than fear, stronger than the voices that whispered I was too scarred, too unclean, too late.
I moved before I could stop myself. My heart thudded loud in my ears. The room blurred as I knelt at His feet—not the feet of a prophet, not of a healer only, but of a King I could not explain.
I broke the jar.
The perfume flooded the room in a wave, sweet and unforgiving. Gasps rose around me, but I focused only on Him. My hand trembled as I emptied every last drop on His feet, the oil seeping into His skin and mine. Then, unable to ask if I may, I wiped His feet with my hair. I had no cloth, only what He gave me.
A voice cut sharply: “Why this waste?”
Judas, one of His own.
He spoke of the poor. Of how this could've been sold. His words felt sharp, righteous even. For a moment, shame seeped in.
But Jesus said my name.
“She has kept this for the day of My burial,” He said—not rebuke, not scorn, but something holy in His tone.
My breath caught.
Burial?
Surely not. Not when Lazarus sat breathing nearby by the very power of Jesus. But the weight of His words settled on me like a cloak—I didn’t understand, not fully. But I knew. Something sacred had just occurred.
And I was not ashamed.
The flask lay shattered. My dowry was gone. But I had never felt more whole.
As I rose, I glanced at my hands—slick with oil and tears. I felt seen. Loved. Part of something eternal.
I left the room quietly, but not the same. I had poured everything. And He received it.
He received me.
The house smelled of roasted lamb, freshly baked bread, and something she couldn’t place—something expensive. Bethany was never quiet during feast days. Pilgrims flowed in from the north, Roman patrols kept a wary eye on gatherings, and the air was charged with rumors of miracles and trouble. But inside Simon’s home, the laughter echoed freely. Still, everything tightened around her chest like a rope.
Martha moved swiftly, serving, her brow glistening. Lazarus sat near their guest, reclined at the table—as alive as if the tomb had never held him. And Mary? Mary had vanished.
I stood in the corner, fingers closed around my flask. The alabaster warmed under my palm. I had bought it with my dowry—meant for my wedding day, meant for another life that never came. Men said I wasted it. But lately, all I heard in my spirit was a quiet urging I could not ignore: Bring it. Pour it.
He was here. Jesus.
He sat just feet from me, the man who called the dead to rise and spoke with authority that made temple rulers bristle. I felt the pull—stronger than fear, stronger than the voices that whispered I was too scarred, too unclean, too late.
I moved before I could stop myself. My heart thudded loud in my ears. The room blurred as I knelt at His feet—not the feet of a prophet, not of a healer only, but of a King I could not explain.
I broke the jar.
The perfume flooded the room in a wave, sweet and unforgiving. Gasps rose around me, but I focused only on Him. My hand trembled as I emptied every last drop on His feet, the oil seeping into His skin and mine. Then, unable to ask if I may, I wiped His feet with my hair. I had no cloth, only what He gave me.
A voice cut sharply: “Why this waste?”
Judas, one of His own.
He spoke of the poor. Of how this could've been sold. His words felt sharp, righteous even. For a moment, shame seeped in.
But Jesus said my name.
“She has kept this for the day of My burial,” He said—not rebuke, not scorn, but something holy in His tone.
My breath caught.
Burial?
Surely not. Not when Lazarus sat breathing nearby by the very power of Jesus. But the weight of His words settled on me like a cloak—I didn’t understand, not fully. But I knew. Something sacred had just occurred.
And I was not ashamed.
The flask lay shattered. My dowry was gone. But I had never felt more whole.
As I rose, I glanced at my hands—slick with oil and tears. I felt seen. Loved. Part of something eternal.
I left the room quietly, but not the same. I had poured everything. And He received it.
He received me.
