There were other people in the room when I arrived, though I did not notice them. All I could see was Him. Drawn toward Him, like the tide, I fell at His feet.
How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him that bringeth good tidings, that publisheth peace; that bringeth good tidings of good, that publisheth salvation; that saith unto Zion, Thy God reigneth! -Isaiah 52:7
They were rougher than I imagined they would be. More masculine, more tired, more raw, more dirty, more…human. Jesus’ feet…smelled. Looking at those beautiful feet, my tears began to flow.
I loosed my hair and it fell unbound across his feet in waves. There is freedom that comes with unbinding one’s hair: the tightened scalp is relaxed and the tension and pull caused by tying back the hair into socially acceptable knots is released.
It was then that the others forced their way into my consciousness: their eyes, cutting into me like knives into fresh meat. I could hear them snearing as they chewed, mouths open, drooling, their faces full of dead flesh and contempt. Their sweaty fingers tore at bread and pointed at me. Noticeably uncomfortable, they snickered, laughed outright and whispered loudly as they masticated. Their hot breath was an assault. There was one, the owner of the house, who yelled, “If He really was a prophet, he would know what kind of woman it is who touches him, for she is a sinner!”
The truth hurts. And then it sets you free.
I took the alabaster bottle and broke it with my bare hands, nicking my flesh. The scent erupted across the room, covering the vile scent of the men around me. The perfume and the tears and a few small drops of blood spilled over those precious uncovered feet that carried my Savior from house to house, from town to town, from seas to hillsides and back again.
But if a woman have long hair, it is a glory to her: for her hair is given her for a covering. -1 Corinthians 11:15
My gratitude, my reverence, and my love for Him, like my unbound hair, shielded me from the others. I washed His feet carefully, minding the cuts His steps and the roads had made, kissing his ankles and the tops of his feet. They say the other men in the room were scandalized by a woman behaving so brazenly, so intimately, and in such a public way. To let my hair down, as one in the throes of grief, or worse, intimacy! I was an offense. Honesty, I have found, usually is. But, their opinions did not interest me in the least. All I was concerned with was Him.
He was not ashamed of me. He looked at me easily, understanding and peace in His eyes. He knew me. He knew what drew me here: He had restored my soul. He had erased my shame, He had given me forgiveness and grace. I was whole, and I was free. I don’t know how one properly expresses gratitude for such a thing. How do you thank someone for the awakening of your soul? True gratitude is a terror; an unrepentant force of the will. I had to do more than just thank Him. I had to anoint Him.
And so I did the only thing I knew to do: I laid my crown at His feet.