finding my own alabaster jar
“How wasteful,” the other guests whispered among themselves. Yet even after hearing their muffled protest, still, she was undeterred. Yes, she knew that the jar contained no ordinary oil. But this she also knew: He was no ordinary man.
Now, the precious alabaster jar is empty. Yet her heart has never been so full.
Mary of Bethany stands on one side of the room, her long hair still damp. Her eyes, though puffy from weeping, sparkles with joy. The corners of her mouth upturned to reveal a smile. The oil from the jar she has just broken seemed to have seeped through her skin. Its fragrance, distinctive, yet not overpowering.
What could have prompted her to offer such a lavish sacrifice? It was, after all, worth more than a year's wages. What does she know about this itinerant Preacher who walked for days on end, with a ragtag group of men? Did she listen to Him speak or see Him heal? . . . marvel at His miracles or taste His compassion?
I walk towards her while considering which of these many questions to ask. Upon learning of my intent, she smiles and tells me I could ask just one. But what do I really want to know? Ah, not one of those questions but this.
“Where do I look for an alabaster jar filled with oil, like yours, to offer Him?”
“My oil was my most precious possession, for I am a woman of modest means. When I learned that Jesus was coming to Simon the leper’s house, I knew I had to look no place else to find what I can give Him. The oil in that alabaster jar was my treasure, it was my everything. And He deserved every single drop.
"You ask me where you could look for an alabaster jar like mine. But you have asked a question only you could answer. Look around your house. Or better yet, look inside your heart.”
She picks up a piece of the broken pottery and hands it to me. I walk away, feeling the hardened clay between my fingers. Wishing, that I could soon find the answer to my own question.
For my Savior deserves nothing less, nothing else, than my own alabaster jar of love.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - And I’ve come to pour my praise on Him like oil
From Mary’s alabaster box
Don’t be angry if I wash His feet with my tears
And I dry them with my hair
You weren’t there the night He found me
You did not feel what I felt
when He wrapped His loving arms around me
You don’t know the cost of the oil
In my alabaster box
-From the song of Cece Winans, “Alabaster box”
7 comments:
i believe the voice and the heart with which you had sung "Alabaster Box" last Thursday rose to the heavens like a fragrant aroma of praise :)
If I asked God for this song and He gave it to me, then yes, I'm hoping that it was indeed a fragrant aroma of praise to Him. Thanks again for your help, Aleks, with my singing it. :-)
tears brimmed in my eyes again when you sang, ate beng. your song didn't just reach out to God, but to other people as well. heartfelt, it was. =)
Thanks, Butch. It was what I prayed for really, that before any word comes out of my lips, it must pass through my heart. I imagined myself to be the woman with the alabaster box. And indeed, I am that woman--a sinner saved by His grace. :-)
another blog post from you that bulleted right through my heart. :)
i sooo love this song. it always brings tears to my eyes. i would have cried too if I was there when you sang it ate. :)
Hi Riz, I thank God for letting me sing such a beautiful song. When we get to heaven, I should look for Mary of Bethany and maybe ask her to sing this song for me.:-)
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