OVERflowing

Drop.

The ball of salty, colourless liquid left a set of balls that the owner had tried everything to keep it in. It was heavy, bearing the weight of the burden and brokenness that threatened to drown its carrier.  It trailed a coloured path, down an undulating surface, changing the landscape. It was the forerunner of many more like it, and by the time they were done, everything from foundation to primer would be ruined.

They travelled a long way before spattering on a limb. Though no longer pristine, whatever colours they'd gathered were insignificant as they cut tracks through layers of dust on the callused, journey-worn feet.  As more joined their predecessors, they made the feet they were landing on wet.

The one who had become overwhelmed and let loose the flood of tears lifted her face just enough to see the owner of the feet from beneath her lashes. The face was a mishmash of emotions: love struggled with gratitude, liberty was held in check by apprehension and weightlessness was held down by past mistakes. There was an unspoken inquiry mirrored there. It was like, 'forgive my impudence, but my heart desires to further express how it feels to be brought back from the brink...' The man said nothing.

It was at that moment that something tremendous happened. She pulled out a kerchief and using it as a sponge began to scrub the feet. Stop press! The people in the room gasped, as one. For an infinite minute, there was palpable silence. Eyes and focus trained on the receiver of the ministrations. What would he do?

He did nothing. It was almost as if he was not aware of the act or the building tension. Emboldened, the woman continued. And then she outdid herself. She brought out an alabaster jar of pure nard and broke it without a second thought, emptying its content on those feet. Another involuntary, and perhaps louder, gasp succeeded the act. What she just poured out was top of the line designer perfume, worth daily wages for a year. It was insane what she was doing. As the fragrance reached every nose and corner, she slipped off the shawl that reached her shoulders.

She had long, flowing, silky, dark hair that many women would give an arm and a leg for. She reached for it, and using its tendrils, began to wipe the feet. By this time, many were already shell-shocked into speechlessness. However, one man spoke.
"What waste is this? He queried. Indignation rising with each syllable ejected.
" This could have been sold for some good money and the proceeds given to the poor."

The protest broke the spell. That it was one of the twelve, lent validity to it. The place began to hum as people started murmuring. The grumbling dropped when the secondary object of the furor raised his head. He swept a glance through the lot before speaking.
"Why are you bothering her?” He asked in a voice that was both soft and piercing.
“She has done a beautiful thing to me by anointing my body now instead of in death. You will always have the poor with; you wont always have me.

And with that statement he endorsed a woman's unusual manifestation of overflowing love. Ensuring the episode a place in the annals of time. For, how love is expressed is an indicator of where one is coming from. Whoever is forgiven much, loves much.

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