At the Feet of Jesus

There was one place where she felt whole. One place where the noise of her life faded away and there was only him, only that moment, only the truth and love that heated his gaze.

At Jesus' feet, she felt peace. She could remember her sins without the overwhelming pang of guilt. She could see how the journey of her life brought her to be his follower. She knew she needed him, that her heart and mind were free from the torment of sin because of him and his forgiveness.

At Jesus' feet, she wasn't a woman with a list of chores and responsibilities. She didn't have to prove anything to him. He wasn't interested in her cooking abilities, however lacking they were compared to her sister's, or her skill in tending the home.

At his feet, she forgot the disapproval of others, the nagging concern that she wasn't good enough, wasn't holy enough, and was too impulsive to be of any good to his ministry. She didn't mind that her acts of worship would be considered nearly obscene from some of the more religious in the room.

She didn't care. All she knew was that she must worship him.

She didn't hesitate to break the jar of perfume and pour it over the feet of her Lord. The heady scent swirled around her as she unbound her hair and bent to wipe his feet-those wonderful feet that had walked into her life and given her a reason to live, peace in her heart, and joy in God like she had never known.

She would offer anything she had. No possession was too valuable. No chore was more important. No shame would fill her cheeks at the disciple's chastisement.

She would worship him still.

And now, here she knelt on the side of a mountain, her spirit wounded, her heart crushed. The news had spread that he was being crucified, and she'd run to this hillside as fast as she possibly could. The angry crowd had dispersed, and instead of vengeful yells, she heard the sound of her own weeping. She lifted her eyes to look upon him though it tore through her spirit to do so. Blood. Bruises. Agony. Death. Her Savior, mounted on the cross. For her.

The wind stirred and tousled her hair, and for the thousandth time that week, she smelled the remnants of the perfume in the tresses that fluttered across her face. Tears flowed at the sweet memory. She had broken her most precious possession for him. And he had given all that he had to be broken for her.

She found solace in that love, in the truth that he was still her Lord, that she would worship him whatever the circumstances, whether he be speaking God's Word, or healing diseases, or blessing babies, or confronting Pharisees.

Or hanging dead on a cross.

She would be in her place.

At the feet of Jesus.

Luke 12:1-8; Author's note: Though Mary of Bethany is not listed by name in the Gospels as one of the women at the cross, I like to imagine that if it was at all possible for her to be present, she was there.