I resisted Mom's death with every fiber of my being. Driving west on I-40 as if in a trance, turning the corner of the hospital corridor to see my dad and aunt crying, the gravity of the situation beginning to settle in my gut. Fear beckoned me to do a 180, but love made one foot step in front of the other, even against my will.
Holding her hand that no longer looked like hers, puffy with built-up fluid. The whirls and beeps of machines sustaining her body after a sudden heart attack, and sympathetic glances from hospital staff, as I stared, disbelieving.
The heel of my shoe caught in a vent on the sanctuary floor as I rose to make my way to speak at the funeral. I muttered, "Shit.", and immediately worried who may have heard me in the quiet of the moment. I walked the aisle, the same one that I would walk a year and a half later to marry the love of my life. I clung to the pulpit where I stood years prior to give my first sermon on Youth Sunday. "I'll keep this short and sweet, like my mom." —before reading a poem I didn't write.
I sat uncomfortably too long beside her casket once the graveside service concluded. I wasn't ready to step into a world that no longer held her. I resisted her death with every fiber of my being.
These memories flooded my mind as I recently read through an intimate encounter between Jesus and Mary of Bethany (John 12:1-11). Just a few days before His sacrificial death, He was honored with a dinner in the home of His friends Martha, Lazarus, and Mary. Suddenly, in the midst of a celebratory dinner, Mary "took a twelve-ounce jar of expensive perfume made from essence of nard, and she anointed Jesus' feet with it" (v.3).
I imagine myself as an eyewitness in this scene, watching in awe as this act of extravagant love unfolded. Mary, laser-focused on her task, ignoring the voices of ridicule around her, lowered to her knees and bowed to her King. I see the immense love that words cannot do justice fill her eyes, tears streaming as she looked up into the adoring face of Jesus. She bowed even lower as she wiped the perfume with her hair, and the room filled with the fragrance of her gift.
This tender, intimate act was loaded with purpose, and I am limited by my own humanity to understand all that transpired between them. Yet, Jesus explained to His disciples, "She did this in preparation for my burial" (v.7). In His day, it was customary to prepare a body for burial by applying perfumes, ointments, and spices.
Mary's act wasn't only a display of reverence and respect, it was also an acceptance of Jesus' imminent death.
While other disciples resisted it, denied it, and were confused by it, Mary accepted it. She leaned in with love and recognition of His purpose. In this monumental act, she exemplified the inevitability and necessity of His sacrifice. Mary anointed the feet of Jesus with burial oil, thereby partnering with Him in His purpose and God's plan. Her wisdom, strength, and devotion seem supernatural.
Contrasting this scene with my personal experience with grief simultaneously shatters and fills my heart. By no means am I comparing my mom's passing with The Cross. However, the intensity of my experience with grief accentuates my appreciation and understanding of Mary's act of devotion. I resisted Mom's death; Mary accepted Jesus' sacrifice. She modeled the heart of a disciple who understood that Jesus came for reconciliation, not revolution.
May Mary's tenderness, maturity, and devotion give us all a renewed appreciation for The Cross.
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