Susan LaffertyLight. I don’t truly consider its absence. Until one memorable experience. During middle school.
Our family is in America on stateside assignment at the time. And touring historic sites or natural wonders across several states.
Then, one day, we’re standing in a large cave.
Lights all around.
Until someone turns them off.
Emptied.
Called to have the same attitude as Christ.
Yet this earthen vessel still reveals trace amounts. Vestiges of pride and selfish ambition. Clutter.
And I learn my emptied is not a one-time thing.
But daily.
Alabaster jar, broken. Pure nard poured out. On the head of Jesus.
The woman, unnamed, anoints Him with exquisite perfume.
Extravagant. Expensive.
And some in the room? Indignant. Scolding over such a waste.
But the anointed One surprises.
Confounds.
