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 plans 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.