Precious Waste

But they said, Not on the feast day, lest there be an uproar of the people. And being in Bethany in the house of Simon the leper, as he sat at meat, there came a woman having an alabaster box of ointment of spikenard very precious; and she brake the box, and poured it on his head. And there were some that had indignation within themselves, and said, Why was this waste of the ointment made? (Mark 14:2-4, KJV)

It's a wondrous and horrible thing to be a precious waste, to live life oozing through the fragments of broken stone, to remind yourself everyday that it was worth it, that you clung to Him, poured yourself out upon Him, that your best soaked into His skin.

Sometimes, I forget to remind myself. Sometimes I get confused, start looking for that houndstooth-check suit I'll never fit again and those navy-and-white spectator shoes. Her shoes. I cannot fit them. I never did. He crafted for me no such covering for my feet. I am to walk bare most times. Times like this.

"But you are so talented, Mary. Smart. You're better than this."

I sigh. "I'm not."

"But you helped me, and you helped them. Now it's time to help yourself, to help your kids. And him too. He should. . ." The voice fades to the back of my understanding. I peek into the fridge, creating in my head a dinner from stir fry vegetables and sixty-nine cent hot dogs. Maybe if I put some cheese on top. . .

"Are you listening to me?"

"No."

Disgust flutters through the line on wide, black wings. "See, that's the problem with you, you never listen to me."

I discard the stinky olives and feta cheese with the wilted spinach. Behind it, there is something. A tomato, glorious and red. It smiles at me. "You're right. I don't listen. You have no credibility with me."

Disbelief blows in my ear. "I have no credibility with you?" The whisper mounts to a shout. "I'm a counselor-minister-ordained-maintained-right-brained-superChristian-got-more-than-you-got--"

"But you're not broken." I don't say it accusingly, or with any conviction. Most days, I have to try not to superglue myself back together to try and be outside-right.

"I--you--He--"

"There is a place where you cannot escape. He hedges You in. The more you fight, the worse it gets. There are times to be still. Like now. It's time to make dinner. I know you mean well. It's all good. I still love you."

No silence now. There are tears. "You make me sick, you know it? Talking like that. What are you trying to do, make a fool of me? You make things sound so simple when they aren't." A brave pause. "Sometimes I hate you."

A gold corner peeks at me from behind a mushy loaf of bread. Yellow rice. The good kind. I am giddy. "I know. Sometimes I hate you too. But He loves us, you know? Do you have any olives? Mine are bad."

"Yes, I'll bring them over."

I pause. "I'll swing by and get them."

"It's okay, I don't have to come inside. But I want to."

Jesus, can't I just make dinner? NO. "You can come in, but close your eyes."

"They're already closed. I need you to help me open them . . ." The voice trembles. "I need you to help me to get broken."

A noise strangles in my throat. Not laughing really, more like a rye chuckle, tinged with tomatoes. Did I really throw that feta away? STOP STALLING.

"I can't help you get broken. Only He can do it. Just get up there and lay down, stop sliding off the stone. Wait till it gets dark. Cold. Don't say anything. Not even to yourself. He will come then. Break you."

The knife slips from my hand. I sink to my knees. I'm crying now, wishing I'd scrubbed the floor. I would have if I'd known I'd be snotting on it. "He will come and smash it all, then pass through the pieces."

"How will I know when He's done?"

My stomach knots. Maybe we'll just eat cereal. . . The question stops me cold, makes me stretch out, palms down, heart open. My cheek is stuck to the floor, but I try to talk anyway. The baby is crying. "When you see your head across the room and feel all your good stuff running down your leg, He's getting started. When He's done. . .you'll hear a trumpet."

Precious Waste

Why is it so easy to give You the stained stuff with holes in it, the t-shirts with people's names I've never heard, the orange sundress no human would ever wear?

But my good stuff, the treasure--I feel greedy with that sometimes when the phone rings and I have no answers, when those lovely, God-people purse their lips and collect themselves lest they be stained by me and mine.

Sometimes I just want to run a hand down that vein where You sliced me and just get a drop of that sweet savour that cost everything. But how could I complain? You bought the box.

Still on low-down-don't-have-nothing days, I want to get a little of it on my finger, that spikenard that was me and dab it behind my ears and go to them on tiptoe, whispering,"Smell."

But that would just be silly. Foolish. They do not deserve even a whiff of this. To give it to them would be a precious waste.