A seat at the table

She walks in to the room Back hunched over so that her body seems to form an apology Her breathing: small and shallow. She draws nothing to herself, not even oxygen. She averts her eyes as if not seeing them would render her invisible. I want to tell her that they’re not looking anyway; too preoccupied with the cracks on the walls or watching the paint dry. They would let glory Himself walk by without a second glance. A broken vessel like her never stood a chance. Everything in her wants to turn and run out of that room But she is on mission. 

And so she pushes through the crowd. 

Silently making her way. 

Concealed in her hand is a jar of perfume. 

She is shaking from her core.

Her breathing rapid, her fist clenched: trying to control the tsunami of emotions that over come her as He comes in to view. 

Finally the sea parts and her path clears. 

Gazing down she kneels before Him and with the gentlest care she pours out her life onto His feet. 

Tears mixed with fragrant oils, she drapes her hair and soaks up her worship. 

The people stare, they’re finally looking. 

But not at her. 

Uncomfortable eyes darting back and forth, silent rebuke. (Is someone going to tell Him?) All the while, head bowed,she feels a warm glance on her: A knowing look. 

He lifts her chin. 

Smiling, He holds out His hands. 

For a second she thinks she sees a scar and then bringing her attention back to His eyes...

He says:

“Beloved, here, I’ve saved you a seat.”