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The richer woman

June 17, 2017

He didn’t spare even muddied water, for no one used the best water around to wash feet! And because no feet were washed he didn’t need to use his worn out old towel, after all usable towels were kept for better purposes. He surely didn’t as much reach out his hand in courtesy, for the formal momentary cold kiss of greeting never came. If all these things that didn’t cost a thing never came, why would the precious flask of fragrant anointing oil be opened? It wasn’t. For Simon loved Jesus less (did he even love him at all? I guess he invited Jesus for dinner!).

But she (to Simon, the nameless whore,) couldn’t move her watering eyes from over Jesus’ feet. Out from her deep welled a stream of tears enough to leave Jesus’ dusty feet washed. No, her tears weren’t cheap. They held her very life, her stories. Her every pain, her predicament, her shabby deal in life, her myriad blunders, her broken dreams, her longings. Even her consolation, of love, even the dignity she never asked for, from the one whom all feared, loved, honoured, respected. Now that the feet were washed, she undid her rich, silken, shampooed hair to wipe them. No it wasn’t akin to a dirty old towel, but her very self, her head, her glory, her crown. Bending down she kissed his feet between sobs, expressing her unabashed affection, her ownership of his love. No, it wasn’t her cold distant hands or steely eyes, but her tender lips, the supreme messenger of love’s affection. Now that she’d given away her priceless self, what was a bottle of expensive perfumed oil, worth even half her life’s earnings? Nothing. So she poured it over his feet, the best use ever!

Noting her white against Simon’s black Jesus sent her forgiven. And she went back a richer woman.


From → observation, Story

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