Then Mary took about a pint of pure nard, an expensive perfume; she poured it on Jesus’ feet and wiped his feet with her hair. And the house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume.
It never takes long… when I pull out my small, see through bag filled with nail polish, the hospital mamas all come running toward me for a manicure. I wish I was able to describe to you how much they love this small act of being pampered. These are mamas that have lived tough lives– having dropped out of school, raising several children by the age of 18, and carrying gallons of water on their heads for miles when they are home in their village. The moments that I am painting their small, dirty, hardworking hands are some of my most cherished moments in Guatemala. It gives me a moment to speak to just them and get to know them personally… rather than my usual sweep through to ask medical questions about their babies. Having their nails painted is more than just some frivolous act of vanity. Rather, it is an opportunity to speak into them of how important they are and that they are loved.
This day was particularly exciting because I had finally replaced some of my old nail polishes with new ones I had received from the students in Ms. Kleinert’s class at Freedom Middle School in Spotsy, VA. As we meticulously lined them all up on the table, the mamas and little girls were enamores by the new packaging and fun, glittery colors. One of the more clumsy mamas excitedly reached across to grab the popular color, and we all watched as the color slipped through her fingers and shattered onto the floor.
The table of mamas all gasped, and she immediately bent down to try to scoop up the glass shards covered in paint and somehow salvage what was left. While I knelt down beside her to convince her it was okay, she looked at me with tear soaked guilty eyes. She was frozen in fear from a history of being abused. “It’s only nail polish, it’s okay!” I attempted to reassure her, as I reached out my hand to help her back up. But the expression on her face was as though she had committed the world’s worst crime. My heart shattered that day just like the nail polish.
John 12:1-11 is a beautiful story of a girl named Mary who intentionally broke open an expensive perfume to wash Jesus’ feet. Using her hands and her hair, she anointed his feet out of an act of love and service. This perfume was a rare gift and incredibly expensive. The small bottle that she used cost a year’s wages!
Those who were present during this moment judged her and called her wasteful for pouring out all of her precious gift. “The expensive perfume was wasted!” “You could have sold the bottle and given the money to the poor!” Despite what critics would say, Mary’s gift wasn’t wasteful. It was worship.
How many times have I allowed a critic’s opinion to interfere with my worship? I can remember when I had shared my crazy dream of living in Guatemala with others, and they responded with confusion, eye rolls, and disappointment. I don’t know where I would be now had I listened, but I know my heart would still feel a restless longing to be here in Guatemala had I stayed. While there are fleeting moments of me being a heroic nurse and saving lives, the majority of my time spent here are the small moments of holding hands, wiping up broken nail polish, and wiping up tears. It’s allowing myself to be broken and poured out in an area of the world that is desperate to hear about the hope of a God who would die and rise again for each of us.
Happy Easter. You are loved.
-Whitney
