Susan LaffertyAlabaster 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.
“So those who were scattered went on their way preaching the Word” (Acts 8:4).
Scattered. After Stephen’s death by stoning. After great persecution broke out against the church.
Scattered, they proclaimed.
Spreading the gospel.
Last year, I saw a random ad for a writers conference called HopeWords. In Bluefield, West Virginia.
Glancing at familiar and not-so-familiar names of presenters, I somehow knew—I’d be there in April 2024.
I recruited my friend and fellow writer to sign up. It’s not like other writers conferences, we were told. But then, having never been to one before—what did I know?
This past week, I’ve been reflecting on those 24 hours of HopeWords Writers Conference 2024. Remembering Bluefield’s generosity: homemade desserts, excellent musicians, rides on the trolley. Considering the words of Travis Lowe, Daniel Nayeri, Mitali Perkins, Jackie Hill Perry, Hannah Anderson, and more.
And feeling thankful for that not-so-random ad.
