Mary's Jar
His shadow fell across the doorway; calmness seemed to settle on the air. As the men took their seats around the table and began to converse, I wiped my sweaty palms on my shroud and retrieved from a dusty corner the jar I had been saving. I knelt beneath the table without words. Though his feet were covered with flecks of golden soil, his skin had been smoothed by the coarse sand. There in the dusk light I opened the jar of nard and its bittersweet scent filled the stifling air. I poured the contents over my Lord's feet; wiping the grime from between his toes; scouring the sand from his heels; rubbing his toenails to shine. Bowing before him I let down my auburn hair and wiped clean the dampness on his skin. Then, never looking into his eyes, ashamed for the tears in my own, I arose.
Loren Tate Mitchell
2/3/08
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