A Disciple for All Time

 Part three of The Mary Passions: Mary Magdalene by Anne Wolf Fraley with Kate Hennessy-Keimig and Terri C. Pilarski

I had not slept. Since leaving Golgotha I have been overwhelmed by despair. Whether from gray skies and starless nights or the weight of grief pressed against my heart, I do not know. But I did not sleep—my mind raced, struggling to grasp our crushing loss.  Was he truly gone, Jesus, my friend?

I was there, crouched beside his mother as we watched the wind whip against the bareness of his body, the force of which blew his hair across his face.  I could not turn my eyes from his. I did not want the memory of his suffering to burn itself into my mind, so I looked only at his eyes.  I must tell you, his eyes were extraordinary. They bore the pain of his injury, a tender, forgiving dullness outshone by deep and abiding love. I do not know how such contradictory expressions could be revealed at once, but I should not be surprised. He is no ordinary man.

I remember that my hands were numb. Mary, his mother, and I clung tightly to one another during those endless hours. She was drained of strength, stumbling several times as she stood faithfully near her son. A merchant whose curiosity had led him off the path as he left the city gates drew a cushion from his stores and brought it to Mary to ease her plight. He stayed near us for a while, a witness transformed by compassion whose heart began to break along with the rest of us.

Jesus’ breathing became shallow, and he did not fight what he knew awaited him. He raised his head a bit and looked at us. Upon his mother he looked long and with deep devotion. I felt the tension slip from her being with a deep sigh, and when I looked her face was drawn with comprehension and the tug of peace suggested a smile.  My eyes shifted back to his, and in the deepening darkness of them I saw the world gathered to him.  He did not smile, but the same peace that touched his mother radiated from him. Our eyes locked in wordless farewell, and with one last, penetrating gaze he entrusted his heart and wisdom to me and released his last breath.

Mary sank against me, and I was grateful for the need to tend to her as the enormity of our loss gripped my soul. I remember little else, for which I am glad. No one should endure the agony of love being stolen from them.  We were swallowed by the deep darkness of night, and there remained until the song of the birds alerted us to this dawning day.

We gathered our oil and spices and ventured into the early morning light to go to the tomb. We did not speak. The ritual of this loving obligation to the dead was well known to us, and conversation flowed between us in the sorrowful echoes of our footsteps.

It looked as it did when his body was laid to rest two days before. The entrance to the tomb, small but easily accessible, was marked by the scars of its recent hewing, jagged and raw.  I felt oddly comforted by its gaping darkness, as it reflected the state of my own soul—jagged, raw and dark.  Perhaps it was for this reason that I gathered the folds of my dress around me without hesitation and ducked through the opening to confront the reality of my lifeless beloved.

The others followed behind me, and our eyes adjusted to the darkness with growing puzzlement.  “He is not here,” my voice broke the silence after several moments. We looked at one another, fear beginning to creep into our blood. I set the ointment down beside the lonely shroud that had wrapped his body and made my way around the perimeter of the tomb. It was as empty as I felt.

Of a sudden the tomb was filled with light, as though the sun had breached the horizon and directed its rays to illuminate our devastated world.  So vivid was the light that at first we did not see the two men who stood before us in radiating brilliance. It was too much for our heavy hearts to bear, and our knees gave way to our fear as we fell to the ground, averting our gaze from this terrible wonder.

“Do not be afraid,” one of them spoke gently. “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen. Remember how he told you, while he was still in Galilee, that the Son of Man must be handed over to sinners, and be crucified, and on the third day rise again.”

My thoughts reached deep into the mystery that was this man we all loved, Jesus, whose teaching changed our hearts and thus, our lives.  The experience of him, of what had become known through him, began to take hold and banish the fear that had begun to settle in my heart. I had no answers, but neither was I afraid.  “He is not here,” I heard my voice again, this time with a hint of confidence.  Could it be? Was it possible that the promise of his triumph was more than a metaphor, that it was, in fact, the miracle we were blessed to witness here in this tomb?

“He has risen?” queried one of my companions behind me, and another shouted with excitement, “He is risen!”

In one heartbeat we turned to find the men gone. The light, however, continued to fill the emptiness, permeating our hearts with the fullness of love. Then grief gave way to awareness, and in that shattering awareness we began to leap with a joy that we had never known.

Before we knew it we were rushing from the tomb toward the village, and before long we came upon the place where the disciples had gathered. Peter, hearing our ruckus, got up and began to move toward us. When he saw who he were he stopped, puzzled by our exuberance.  One by one the others got up and moved toward us, and by the time we reached them they were drawn together in a cluster of confusion and concern.

Peter grasped my arms in his hands. “What is it?” he demanded, fearing, I think, that our mourning had given way to delirium. We began to talk all at once, sharing the gleeful news of our Lord’s rising. The significance of our words began to sink in, but they were backing up and turning away, dismissing our claims as fantasy and wishful thinking. Only Peter continued to listen, but doubt, too, clouded his eyes. 

At last we fell into silence, and Peter looked at each of us, furrows of weariness and the weight of sin etched across his forehead and his mouth drawn down. “Go home,” he said at last. “You are tired. We are all tired. We will talk soon.”

In stunned silence we turned away and began our walk to the place where we lodged. I turned once to look back, and saw Peter begin to move in the direction from which we had come.  He picked up his pace, and before he disappeared from view I thought I saw him begin to run. Our heads were swimming, our hearts were bursting, and in a daze we returned to the city while the miracle of the morning began to take hold and fill us with hope and expectation.

That evening Peter came to see us, bringing with him the oil and spices we had abandoned at the tomb.  I knew when I saw him enter the doorway that he had seen and believed. His face was no longer ravaged by the bitterness of the last few days, but was illuminated by the light of joy and renewal. I took the jars from him and wrapped my arms around him, and in that moment we felt buoyed by the love that been bequeathed to us and would now sustain us.

We talked long into the night until the full impact of all we had witnessed and come to understand was within our reach. We then chose to yield to the fatigue that we had pushed away, and Peter took his leave as I sought out my bed. Outside the door, stars hidden from my view the previous two nights seemed to sparkle with a new brightness, and though my heart still ached with loss, peace coursed through my veins like a soothing tonic.

He was risen. The world might appear the same, but in each breath I took I would draw in the power of love as I served God’s people with compassion and mercy. There was joyful news to share about the God of our people, and as the knowledge of that love unfolded in the days to come, lives would be healed and restored, love would bind wounds and forgiveness would open hearts to reconciliation.  Our Lord had work yet to do, and we would be part of it. Amazing, indeed.

The Mary Passions were conceived by Terri C. Pilarski and written with Kate Hennessy-Keimig and Anne Wolf Fraley. These passion narratives reimagine the Gospel stories of Jesus' last days through the eyes of three women - his mother, Mary of Bethany, and Mary Magdalene.

Wash, Pray, Love: a reflection for Maundy Thursday, The Mary Passions

A reflection for Maundy Thursday, reimaging the Gospel stories of the woman who anointed Jesus, in John she is named as Mary of Bethany, the other Gospels do not name her.

I know what you think of me, even all these years later. Some of you know me as Mary of Bethany, sister of Martha and Lazarus. Yes. Jesus was our friend, my friend - and I was his friend. He knew me, the real me.

Others do not remember my name and tell my story as if I were a nobody, some unnamed woman. One, a person named Luke, even said that I was sinful. 

Whatever.

 He never knew the real me, not like Jesus did.

It’s true that I broke all the rules for women in my day. I sat at Jesus’ feet while he taught us about the love of God and how God speaks to us through scripture and through other people.  Even my sister Martha grew impatient with my love of learning. But Jesus never did. He encouraged it!

It’s true, I had to make a living someway. And as a woman my options were limited. But in truth I would have done this work anyway. It is what God called me to do.

 I care for people that others would never touch. 

I help the poor women, even the Gentile women, give birth. I am a midwife.  I help the dying and comfort them in their final hours with tinctures of herbs to soothe their anxiety and bring them peace. 

In Jesus, I recognized a kindred soul, another who sees deeply into the pain of this world and yearns to heal it with God’s love. Like Jesus, I seek to bring God’s healing love to women frightened by the pain of childbirth. I soothe babies entering this world,  care for children as they die too young,  tend to the old taking their last breath. I bring comfort and love, not with my words, for I am a woman of few words, but with what I do. I listen, I watch, I care.

That night, that last night, I will never forget.

I was nearby and heard the noise from the dinner party. As a woman, I was not allowed in the room, unless I was willing to serve the food or dance for them, or give them my body. 

But my job was neither to feed nor entertain the men.

So, no! I did not want to go in there. I knew it would cause a stir. And I was tired. It had already been a long day of tending to a woman giving birth. But, I had with me my alabaster jar of nard. The fragrance always soothes those who are agitated and scared, as surely Jesus was.

I knew that Jesus was in the room with them, eating and drinking.  I knew that things were going badly for him. I knew, I just knew, that he knew this too. The Roman soldiers were watching and following him. The chief priests kept a careful eye on him as well. Even his own friends were meeting secretly with government guards and spies. I personally saw Judas meet with a few of them, money exchanged hands. Judas was not to be trusted. I know him and his family, and his greed.

I knew that the end was coming and I was helpless to stop it. I’ve seen it happen before. First the tension mounts as the Roman soldiers apply pressure and then the chief priests decide it’s better for one man to die than it is for the entire temple to be destroyed. And so it goes. Someone is given over to be crucified; one person must die so the rest of us can live in peace—their idea of peace. The chief priests and scribes will do this. And Pilate and Herod and all the others will be placated for a time. I know this because I have been in all of their homes. I have cared for their family members. I am the one called whenever there is a need to care for the suffering. As a caretaker, I am trained to use my senses. I observe everything around me. I see and feel and hear things that are not intended for others to know. And so, of this, of their intent to cause Jesus’ death, I am certain. 

And my heart, filled with this awareness, was breaking. 

Jesus - who showed compassion to the most vulnerable. Jesus who worked side by side with me, and helped me remember that the work I do is God’s work, even if the people despised me for it. It was Jesus who pointed out our flaws and our idolatry and yet, loved us even more. Jesus - who brought my brother Lazarus back to life. Jesus - who loves everyone. Even Peter, and yes, even Judas. 

I could do nothing to stop it. 

Money had exchanged hands. The deal was done. 

I’d warned Jesus, and he knew it too. But not even he would  change the course of these events. He would allow them to unfold as they must. 

There was, however, one thing I could do. As one who cares for the dying I could go into that room and anoint him, who was to die, with my oil - my jar of nard. 

My legs felt heavy, and although my walk was purposeful, it felt as though I were walking through water. Those few steps to Jesus, my beloved friend, took a lifetime to walk.

I collapsed on the floor before him and took those weary feet into my hands. Dusty and calloused – marked from three long years of walking – I gently held those feet in my warm hands and kissed them. I took one foot and rubbed it clean, massaging the nard into the tired muscles and gnarled toes.  And then I cared for the other foot. Tears ran down my face. Tears fell on his feet. I could not stop myself! I bathed him in tears and nard. 

Suddenly, as I was finishing anointing him,  I realized I had no towel to wipe his feet, soaked as they were, in my tears. 

My hair would have to do. I uncoiled it from my head and let its length fall to the floor. And I used my hair to wipe his feet and dry my tears.

I knew the others were talking. I could hear the gasps and the guffaws, the men chiding me and calling me names. I heard Judas (that fool!), suggest that MY nard should have been sold and the money given to the poor. Judas, who would have kept the money for himself, had the nerve to suggest that I was being greedy.

Later,  I would stand by as Jesus washed the feet of his friends.

 Just a few short hours before it was all to end and here he was loving them, the very ones who would turn their backs on him and deny they knew him. 

But for now, I was going to give him all the love I had in my heart. 

Quietly Jesus spoke. And I knew that he understood everything. He knew how deep my love for him was. He knew how deep my love for God is, a depth of love that mirrored his own. 

And that was enough.

The powerful fragrance of that nard lingered for days. 

I would smell it wafting up from my hands as I prayed, 

and from his body as they beat him. 

It lingered still when we took him down off the cross and prepared his body for burial. 

The fragrance of love overpowered the violence of death.

Now, all these years later, I've come to realize that love trumps everything. 

Even death.


The Mary Passions are a three part series written by Terri C. Pilarski, Kate Hennessy-Keimig, and Anne Wolf Fraley. The Mary Passions reflect the last days of Jesus' life and the resurrection through an imaginary perspective of three women: Mary, the mother; Mary of Bethany; and Mary Magdalene. Part one, the Mother is posted just before this post, and was proclaimed on Palm Sunday. Mary Magdalene will be posted for Saturday night, and proclaimed at the Great Vigil of Easter. If you are interested in using The Mary Passions please email me for permission via this blog.

The Mary Passions, part one, The Mother

Reflections from Mary, the Mother of Jesus on the passion, adapted from the Gospel of Luke (Luke 22:14-23:56)

Even now, I can’t help but remember those days. At the time I thought I would never forget one single, horrible moment, one thought, one feeling, one word.  But you know, it’s true, time does (mercifully) take the sharp razor’s edge from unbearable pain, makes it tolerable. But there are things I remember, moments that are burnt into my mind and my heart.  Mostly things about him, my beloved son, the child that came to his father and me as a gift from God and who through-out his life never did stop both mystifying and teaching me. But my feelings during those awful hours as he suffered and finally died? Yes, I still remember and can call it all back in a heartbeat….

My sense of unease had been building through those last few weeks; mother’s intuition sensed that all was not well. He had pushed the establishment, powerful people, too far. I wanted to protect him, to tell him to stop…but to stop what? Stop doing what he seemed so clearly called to do? Stop being who he was? 

We gathered that last night at the Mount of Olives.  Jesus asked us to stay awake while he prayed. He seemed worried, sad, as he prayed, and I prayed for his safety as I watched. Finally, after a long time, he went to find his friends, and of course, they were sleeping. (My feelings flared then!) I was angry and wondered how they could be so thoughtless. But Jesus was gentle with them, as he often was when they would have tried my patience beyond endurance. He simply asked them why they slept, and asked them to pray for their OWN deliverance.     

        

But their sleeping was nothing to what happened next;  a crowd of people suddenly appeared from the darkness, and Judas, Jesus’ friend,  just walked up to my son and kissed him. “What on earth?” I wondered, but Jesus looked right into his eyes and said, “Judas, is it with a kiss that you are betraying the Son of Man?” Well, total chaos broke out .Peter was flailing around with his sword, and I have to admit, I found myself wishing more of us had weapons. In the confusion a slave’s ear was cut off!  But Jesus told them to stop, and they did.  He healed the slave’s ear. My heart was breaking; I was so proud of him, and so terrified. He stood bravely in front of them all and asked them why they came after him as though he were a dangerous criminal?   He reminded them he had been with them every day, and they hadn’t arrested him.  Then he said something that stopped my tears, nearly stopped my heart:  “But this is your hour, the hour of the power of darkness!”      

   

When they took him to the high priest.  I stayed as close as I could. (My eyes caught his), sending him love, courage. But Peter and his other friends kept their distance.  I heard Peter say to three different people that he wasn’t with Jesus, didn’t even know who he was. That made me so angry.  The last time he said it, Jesus turned and caught Peter’s eye, and something passed between them in that moment, that made Peter run away in tears. Peter told me later that Jesus had predicted he would betray him. “He told me I would deny I ever knew him, not once but three times,  and I simply would not believe that I could ever do that to him,” he said, “But the Teacher knew my heart, just as he always did.”

My next memory is of them making fun of Jesus and beating him. It is a mother’s nightmare to see her son being treated this way. I felt such rage, such helpless fury as I watched them blindfold him; call him names, even spit on him.  I couldn’t bear to stand there and watch, but I couldn’t bear to leave either. So I stayed, weeping silently as the other women held me, grieved with me.

I did not sleep that night, and in the morning, they took him to the Chief Priest and the questions started. So many questions!   But Jesus was calm as he answered, turning their own words back on them, refusing to be trapped, yet never, ever denying his truth.  But even as I was so fiercely proud of him, I wanted to hush him; get him away from there.   When the Chief priest asked, “Are you the Son of God?” and my son said to him, “You say that I am,” I knew then, in that moment, that things had turned some awful corner. I knew it, even before I heard the Chief priest confirm it, even before they decided to take him to Pilate (so they could make him part of this hateful process, too, before we could take the next step on this awful journey).

Pilate had more questions! He asked my son if he was the ‘king of the Jews’ and he answered, “You say so,” which I thought was a good answer. Then Pilate said something that gave me a glimmer of hope, “I find no basis for an accusation against this man.” I breathed then for the first time in a long while. I looked around me at my neighbors and friends, expecting that they too would see that Jesus was innocent and that this ridiculous charade could be done with!  But they avoided my eyes. They were so vicious, so self-righteous, and kept insisting that Pilate take action against Jesus. I felt so confused, so desperate. How had this happened? These were the people I thought I knew, that knew me, knew us, but not now.  Now they were a mindless crowd, angry, out for blood.  After what seemed like forever, Pilate again said he could find nothing Jesus had done that deserved death, so he was going to have my son flogged and released. I breathed again then. While of course I did not want to see my son hurt any more, to see him in pain, if it would take a flogging to end this, I knew he could endure that. Then Mary and I could take him home, tend his wounds; we would have a meal, it would be ok, maybe. (I could see it all there for just a moment.) 

But then the raging noise of the crowd broke through my thoughts. Pilate’s words had only upset them even more. Someone shouted out for another prisoner to be released, not my son, and the crowd roared its approval.  And when Pilate asked them what he should do with Jesus, the next words I heard were beyond those of my worst nightmare.  This crowd, these animals were screaming (she sobs) “Crucify him, crucify him!”

           

I tried to breathe. I tried to reason with those standing nearest to me, but I don’t think they even heard me. And in the end, they prevailed.   Pilate released the murderer, and my son was sentenced to the (ugliest, lowest) most horrible death imaginable-death by crucifixion

I remember the crowd that followed him up that hill; a lot of them just onlookers, gawkers, but some were there who really cared, like my friend, Simon, who helped him carry that hideous cross, and our women friends who began wailing and beating their breasts in love and mourning, and never let up the whole way there.  

                         

That walk, every step, seemed to go on forever, and yet we arrived in a heartbeat, at that place called The Skull, where it was to end. I watched it all, his pain, his agony, the brutality of that death. I held his eyes in mine and never looked away.  I have to admit, his heart was so much more forgiving than mine towards the soldiers who cast lots to divide up his clothing, to the ones who scoffed and taunted/mocked him. Even the criminals hanging alongside him could not just let him be! One of them kept calling out, “Are you not the Messiah?  Save yourself and us!” The other one finally shouted for him to “Shut up! They were getting what they deserved, but Jesus had done nothing wrong.” Then he said something I will never forget, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”  

My feelings were a torrent of love and grief for my son, anger and bewilderment. How has it come to this?  My child, my loved one, born of the Spirit, is dying on a hot dusty hill between two criminals. Despair flooded through me right then. It all seemed so pointless. I wanted to lash out with all the hate and pain in my heart. And then I heard him praying to his Abba Father, praying for the men who were killing him, “Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.”  My child, not just my beloved, but God’s too….in this awful death, he was still giving life.

Noon finally came on that endless, endless day and I continued to keep vigil at the foot of that torturous cross. It was very strange; it got dark suddenly, right in the middle of the day, the sun's light dying as he was.  Then, finally, after hearing nothing for a long while I heard his voice, ringing  loud and clear one last time, “Father-God, into your hands I commend my spirit.” I looked up, desperate to look into his eyes one last time, fighting off my despair, to give him the last ounce of love within me. And then, he breathed his last.

I don’t remember a lot that happened after that. I know there was a centurion there, who saw it all; he praised God and said, “Certainly this man was innocent.”  And I remember Joseph went to Pilate and was given permission to collect the body.  I was so relieved that we could take him from there before the carrion came.  So Joseph, the women and I gently removed the broken body of the man I bore and raised, from the nails and wood of that horrible cross. We rubbed his skin with ointments, smoothed his hair, wrapped him in cloth with burial spices, placed him gently in the new tomb, and left him there where no one had been buried before. 

Funny how little details remain, after all the blurring of time. I remember, as we finished the Sabbath was just beginning.  So, all the Sabbath day we rested, but there was no rest from my broken heart and my grief.

 Jesus, my son, was dead. 

This reflection is part one of a three part series titled The Mary Passions. The Mary Passions take the biblical text for the Passion of Christ, the anointing of Jesus' feet, and the resurrection and reimagine them through the lens of Mary, the mother of Jesus (Palm Sunday); Mary of Bethany (Maundy Thursday); and Mary Magdalene (Easter). 

These reflections were inspired by The Rev. Terri C. Pilarski, and written in collaboration with The Rev. Dr. Kate Hennessy-Keimig (Palm Sunday reflection) and The Rev. Anne Wolf Fraley  (Easter morning reflection). Terri Pilarski wrote the Maundy Thursday reflection. 

The Rev. Dr. Kate Hennessy-Keimig is a priest in the Diocese of Minnesota who works bi-vocationally as a psychotherapist.

The Rev. Anne Wolf Fraley is a priest in the Diocese of Tennessee.

The Rev. Terri C. Pilarski is a priest in the Diocese of Michigan and the Rector of Christ Episcopal Church in Dearborn, MI.

Carolyn Blackmore offered the reflection at Christ Church at the 10am service on Sunday, March 24, 2013.

A Woman's Passion, part two of a triology on the various Mary's in the life of Jesus

This reflection, based loosely on the Gospel of John for Lent 5C blends Mary of Bethany with some of the characteristics of the unnamed woman who anointed Jesus in the Gospel of Luke. It is intended to offer a glimpse into her interior life and how she may have understood herself and her actions. Much of what this describes her as doing, midwifing and tending to the dying, is fanciful imagination on my part, giving her work that may have been common for a woman in that day and time, work which also might have determined her to be unclean without having to be the "prostitute" some like to assume is the sin of the woman in Luke's Gospel.

 I know what you think of me, even all these years later. For some I am portrayed as an inappropriate woman, unclean, unworthy. People think this of me because I tend to people that others would never touch. I help the poor women, even the Gentile women, give birth. I am a midwife and for that I am considered unclean. I help the dying and comfort them in their final hours with tinctures of herbs to soothe their anxiety and bring them peace. And because I tend to the beginning of life and the end of life I am considered unclean, unworthy. Some have said I am prostitute, but that is not true. If I am considered unclean because I care for those most in need, then so be it. I don’t care what they think of me.

 Others remember me by my name, Mary. Yes. Jesus was my friend and I was his friend. He knew me, the real me. In Jesus I recognize a kindred soul, another who sees deeply into the pain of this world and yearns to heal it with God’s love. Like Jesus I seek to bring God’s healing love into the frightened lives of women in pain, of babies entering this world, of children dying, of the old taking their last breath. I bring comfort and love, not in my words but in what I do. 

That night, that last night, I will never forget. I was nearby and heard the noise from the dinner party. As a woman I was not allowed in the room, unless I was willing to serve the food or dance for them. But my job was not to feed the men nor entertain them.

 I am a healer. 

Let me tell you, I did not want to go in there. I knew it would cause a stir. And I was tired. It had already been a long day of tending to a woman giving birth. I had with me my alabaster jar of nard. The fragrance always soothes those who are agitated and scared.

 I knew that Jesus was in the room with them, eating and drinking.  I knew that things were going badly for him. I knew, I just knew, that he knew this too. The Roman soldiers were watching and following him. The chief priests kept a careful eye on him as well. Even his own friends were meeting secretly with government guards and spies. I personally saw Judas meet with a few of them, money exchanged hands. Judas was not to be trusted. I know him and his family, and his greed.

I know that the end is coming and I am helpless to stop it. I’ve seen it happen before. The tension mounts as the Roman soldiers apply pressure and the chief priests decide it’s better for one man to die than it is for the entire temple to be destroyed. And so it is. Someone is given over to be crucified; one person must die so the rest of us can live in peace—their idea of peace. The chief priests and scribes will do this. And Pilate and Herod and all the others will be placated for a time. I know this because I have been in all of their homes. I have cared for their family members. I am the one called for whenever there is a need to care for the suffering. As a caretaker I am trained to use my senses. I observe everything around me. I see and feel and hear things that are not intended for others to know. And so, of this, of their intent to cause Jesus’ death, I am certain. 

And my heart, filled with this awareness, is breaking. 

Jesus -  who showed compassion to the most vulnerable. Jesus who worked side by side with me, and helped me re-member that the work I do is God’s work, even if the people despised me for it. It was Jesus who pointed out our flaws and our idolatry and yet, loved us even more. Jesus  - who brought my brother Lazarus back to life. Jesus - who loves everyone. Yes, he was the one they would reject.

I could do nothing to stop it. Money had exchanged hands. The deal was done. I’d warned Jesus, and he knew it too. But not even he would not change the course of these events. He would allow them to unfold as they must. 

There was, however, one thing I could do. As one who cares for the dying I could go in to that room and anoint him, who was to die, with my oil - my jar of nard. 

My legs felt heavy, and although my walk was purposeful, it felt as though I were walking through water. Those few steps to Jesus, my beloved friend, took a life time to walk.

 I collapsed on the floor before him and took those weary feet into my hands. Dusty and calloused – marked from three long years of walking – I gently held those feet in my warm hands and kissed them. I took one foot and rubbed it clean, massaging the nard into the tired muscles. And then I cared for the other foot. Tears ran down my face. Tears fell on his feet. I could not stop myself! I bathed him in tears and nard. 

And then I realized I had no towel to wipe his feet, soaked as they were, in my tears. 

My hair would have to do. I uncoiled it from my head and let its length fall to the floor. And I used my hair to wipe his feet and dry my tears. 

I know the others were talking. I could hear the gasps and the guffaws, the men chiding me and calling me names. I heard Judas, (that fool!), suggest that MY nard should have been sold and the money given to the poor. Judas, who would have kept the money for himself, had the nerve to suggest that I was being greedy.

Quietly Jesus spoke. And I knew that he understood everything. He knew how deep my love for him was. He knew how deep my love for God is, a depth of love that mirrored his own. And that was enough. 

It was enough to know that love trumps everything. 

Even death.